Not for leaves or birds. For the shadow. They timed how long it took the shadow to move from the bench’s left leg to the crack in the concrete two feet away. Bernard said fifty-three minutes. Arthur said forty-eight. Eugene said it didn’t matter because the sun was a liar and time was a human mistake. They argued for twenty minutes. That was the point.
Their evening entertainment: phone calls. old men gangbang
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At 11 AM, they paid their tabs—always exact change, counted twice—and walked to the park. They sat on a bench dedicated to a man named Harold who had died in 1992. No one knew Harold. They didn’t care. Bernard said fifty-three minutes
Bernard, a former librarian, had lost his wife, his hair, and most of his patience. His entertainment was silent rage. He read the newspaper not for news but for misspellings. He circled them with a red pen, wrote angry letters to editors he never mailed, and folded each page into a precise, sharp-edged rectangle. By the end of breakfast, he had a stack of paper bricks. Arthur used them to level the cuckoo clock’s base.
They did not discuss their health. They did not discuss their feelings. They discussed the cuckoo clock, the misspellings, the lost glove, the shadow of the oak tree, and the precise number of seconds it took for the Sunken Pearl’s waitress, Carla, to refill their coffee without being asked (eleven seconds—they timed her).
Then there was Eugene. Eugene had been a carpenter. Now he was a collector of lost things. Not valuables—lost things. A single glove on a park bench. A button from a stranger’s coat. A grocery list dropped in a parking lot. He kept them in labeled Ziploc bags. His entertainment was narrative. He would take a lost item and invent the tragedy or comedy that led to its abandonment. “Tuesday’s glove,” he’d say, holding up a stained workman’s glove, “belongs to a man named Frank. Frank is fleeing a second marriage. He threw the glove as a decoy so his new wife would think he went left. He went right.”