They started with the inanimate objects. Jace kicked over a plastic trash can, sending empty coffee cups and fast-food wrappers spilling across the concrete. Kyle laughed, a sharp barking sound. Brad filmed it, narrating with fake exaggerated hype. Next, they tested the living. A middle-aged woman walking a golden retriever hurried past them. Kyle stepped into her path, feigning a lunge. The woman flinched, pulling her dog tight against her legs, her face pale. Kyle smirked, sidestepping at the last second. “Watch where you’re going, lady,” Kyle sneered. She scurried away looking at the ground. The submission fed them. They grew taller, their voices louder. They owned the concrete path now. They had established dominance over the commuters and the dog walkers, but the high was fading. They needed a larger dose. They walked deeper into the park, scanning for the next hit of superiority. That was when Kyle spotted the third bench from the east entrance. He spotted the faded tweed coat, the leather cane resting against a knee, the quiet stillness of the old man beneath the oak tree.
Victor felt the shift in their attention like a change in barometric pressure. The loud aimless shouting stopped. The silence that followed was pointed, directed. “Yo,” Kyle said, his voice dropping into a register he thought sounded tough. “Check out Father Time.” Victor didn’t move. He kept his breathing steady—two count in, three count out. He stared straight ahead at a patch of dead grass. He hoped with a deep weary sincerity that they would just keep walking. He didn’t want this. He was too tired for this. Footsteps approached, the sound of rubber soles scuffing against the concrete. They didn’t walk past. They stopped in a semicircle around his bench. The smell of synthetic blue raspberry vape smoke drifted over Victor, cutting through the scent of damp earth. “Hey,” Kyle said. Victor remained perfectly still. He was a stone in a river. Let the water rush over him. “Hey, deaf old man. I’m talking to you.” Kyle stepped closer, his shadow falling across Victor’s lap. Brad giggled, shifting his phone to get a better angle. “He’s probably asleep, bro. Poke him.” “I ain’t touching him. He smells like mothballs and piss,” Jace grunted, crossing his thick arms.
Kyle leaned in. He was close enough now that Victor could hear the faint reedy wheeze in the kid’s lungs. “You sleeping, Grandpa? You paying rent on this bench?” Victor finally moved. He didn’t jerk or startle. He simply tilted his head up, pushing the brim of his flat cap back with his thumb. He looked at Kyle. He didn’t look at the kid’s eyes. Eyes lie. He looked at the kid’s collarbone, the center line of the chest. The core told you everything about balance. “I am just sitting,” Victor said. His voice was gravelly, quiet, like a car engine turning over on a freezing morning. Kyle grinned, looking back at the camera. “He speaks. He’s alive.” Kyle looked back at Victor. “Well, you’re taking up space. My boys and I want to sit down, so pack up your little cane and waddle away.” Victor looked at the empty expanse of the wooden bench. It was eight feet long. There was plenty of room. He looked at the other empty benches nearby. This wasn’t about seating. This was about power. It was always about power. “There are other benches,” Victor said calmly, looking back at the patch of dead grass. “I want this one,” Kyle insisted, taking another step forward. He kicked the tip of Victor’s leather cane. The cane wobbled, but Victor caught it smoothly with two fingers. “Walk away, son,” Victor said. He wasn’t pleading. It was a flat, emotionless instruction.