May 20, 2016
Working directly beside Franklin Square Park, in the heart of Olde City, Philadelphia, I often take advantage of the fresh air during lunch breaks to escape the pressures of daily deadlines. Along with my lunch, I bring my pad, computer, or book. I write or read myself out of my daily-deadlines mindset, utilizing the background sights and sounds of others enjoying the outdoors.
I am an observer. I like to watch as people interact, whether it is with their children, their coworkers, or people they meet around the fountain. I enjoyed watching and listening to the storytellers share the history of the city while the Once Upon a Time in America program still had enough funding to be an everyday event.
This backdrop, almost like a baseball game on the radio, acts as a perfect natural disruption to allow words to play their way into prose. Noise, movement, interesting goings-on give the eye and ear somewhere to go while the mind sorts. Some of my best-written character habits have come from watching people sitting in the park. Repetitive movements like hair flips, nose scratches, clothing adjustments all catch my eye while I open myself to the next line of my work in progress. Candid moments doing common tasks while conversing saved away for use another day. Most writers should relate to this statement.
This environment breeds creativity. As I enjoyed the park on a sunny May afternoon, I had an idea running through my head. I had partially captured interlinking analogies on the train ride into town. Parallel concepts from abnormal viewpoints.
The framework in place, my present task was pulling the correct words from the air to match the pace of the piece and create the proper imagery I sought to capture. The perfect word can be elusive; like catching a feather or dandelion seed as it blows and falls. The more you chase it the more it teases, just out of reach.
As I glanced around the park to entice the word to chase me, I noticed a man in period dress sitting on a bench around the fountain. He was tapping away on a keyboard, pausing to look around, and then tapping again. I watched as he changed position and faced my direction. Ben Franklin!
The juxtaposition of seeing a leading man from the pinnacle of Philadelphia’s history, one of the founding fathers of our nation and the Age of Reason, sitting on a park bench with a laptop, almost in visual line with the kite and lightning bolt statue at the entrance to the Ben Franklin Bridge, made me smile. It also gave me the opening for the needed word to reach me. I returned to writing, again on a flow, the new word bringing many friends.
Once the cork exits the bottleneck, the words demand their way onto paper. My flow, now plentiful and sparkling, much like the fountain in the center of the park splashed from my pen. My zone of consciousness as large as the sheet of notepaper before me. From this zone, I failed to notice the approach, only warned of the impending interruption by the shadow crossing my pad.
The man I had seen sitting on the bench by the fountain was now standing beside me. “Excuse me sir, would you mind if I join you?” I looked up into the face of one of my heroes of history. I knew he was not Ben Franklin, yet my mind acted as if the impersonator standing across from me wanting to join me was genuine.
As much as I wanted to curse and complain about him making me lose my line of thought, something about this moment seemed magical and out of the ordinary. Instead, I tried to stand, not an easy task while sitting at a park picnic table and invited this man in period dress to join me. He was about to take a seat and after glinting into the sun behind me, came around to my side and sat beside me, placing his laptop on the table in front.
“Can you spare a few minutes to converse? I apologize for interrupting your writing. I’ve seen you here previously; your habits are those of a writer. I have enjoyed watching thoughts flow through you as you capture them on your page. Have you been published?”
I sat slack-jawed, not certain why my reactions were slowed as if set in cooling wax or tar. The man’s laugh startled me into an answer. “No, not really. I have posted poems and short stories on websites, but nothing in print. I’m not new to writing, but it has always been for personal enjoyment. Only recently have I thought to share my “rantings and musings” as my friend Rob would say.”
I felt his mind probing me as I spoke. For the first time, I considered that this was not a normal interruption of my Friday lunch hour. Never had I interacted with a Ben Franklin impersonator, yet I had said hello to this man in normal dress while walking in Chestnut Hill. However, this meeting had an air of the unusual.
“Hi, I’m John. I’ve seen you a couple times in Chestnut Hill.”
The statement surprised him. “Please call me Ben. The name doesn’t go with the costume; it’s truly mine.”
I am not sure if the distaste at the remark registered on my face, but he continued. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, John. I don’t mean to be untactful or impertinent, but I need to ask a favor.”
This made me lean back with surprise and annoyance before lifting my leg over the bench seat and turning to face the man now holding the focus of my resentment. Not only for the interruption, but also expecting me to grant a favor when he wouldn’t even share his name with me.
“To begin, no matter how much I try to tell you about my request, you will never believe me. Nevertheless, I need the help of a writer. I wrote a story that needs to be told but lack the time to complete the project.” As he spoke, he turned toward me, also straddling the wood seat. The honesty and intensity of his body language as he looked at me fought through my defenses.
“I thought this task of requesting your help would be easier. I underestimated the social barriers involved and recognize my imposition. Please forgive my manners.”
His sincerity moved me. It must have shown in my body language. I watched as he relaxed, prepared to continue.
“Okay. Let me get to the point. As you know from history, my character is a writer as am I. My story needs telling. It’s all here.” He tapped his laptop with both hands as he made this statement.
“I need a writer; I hope it is you, to get this manuscript file published. I am sure you will need to adjust and update my terminology in places, but the story, as unbelievable as I know it will seem, is true. All I ask is that you read it, edit it, and publish it. I don’t care if it’s published under an assumed name or as your own. Once I hand you the laptop, I relinquish ownership of everything it contains.”
I sat back, playing over what he said. It took a moment for the impact of his words to wallop me.
“Wait, a second! You want to give me a laptop with a story file on it and want me to get it published? Why don’t you do it? Why don’t you copy it onto a flash drive? I have too many questions. How will I get the laptop back to you?”
“I have no further use for the computer. It will not work where I am going. My days in this time are ending. Please honor this old man’s request. Please!”
“Are you dying? I don’t understand!”
“Please, John. We could talk for hours, and you would not comprehend. Believe me, I was once in a similar situation. Please take a leap of faith and honor an old man. Once you read my story, you will understand and hold answers to most of your questions. Secrets carry power and can rob a person of their ability to live. The events written here, although minute compared to the bigger picture, had a larger personal impact on my life than most histories recorded in books.”
“I hope you will recognize the need to drop my facade and allow everyone to know the lesser-known side of someone time has made into a historic icon.”
“Wait! Are you speaking of Ben Franklin or you?”
“John, I must leave. I have a train to catch and preparations to make before journeying to the other side. Please take on this project. My life will soon be over. I cannot allow these vital parts of me to die as well.”
“Maybe I can help. You look too healthy to be dying any time soon. Unless…? You aren’t planning on taking your own life, are you?” My face must have voiced my concerns.
“For God’s sake, no. Nothing so dramatic. Please! Just read my story. Take my word for it, by the end, you will understand!” As if I agreed, he rose. “Wait! You can’t leave! How am I to know what to do with this?”
“John, you as a writer know how mysterious life is. You never question where creative thoughts come from, do you? Some spark of thought catches us, spins us, and we open ourselves to the process of shaping words into art.”
I began telling him that I always question where creative thoughts come from, but he continued in all seriousness.
“John, I have given you the framework here. I grant you creative license to follow the process to completion. Time no longer matters. Feel free to cover any tracks I left uncovered with similar landscapes you know well. My stories need telling. So much of who I am needs sharing. Promises we make bind us to others for eternity and some secrets require a veil of shadows. I feel as if I now exist beyond the veil. You will know of which I speak once you read.”
He reached down and lifted the laptop, emphatically placing it in my hands. “A tremendous weight is leaving me knowing my story is safely in your hands!” I witnessed a rising reset of his shoulders as the weight this man carried transferred to me.
Two taps of his cane, an adjustment to his vest, and a brushing of particles only he could see settled the matter.
His project was now my project.
He honored me with a bow and without further hesitation, made his way up the brick pathway toward Seventh Street. All I could do was sit and watch, my mind still trying to wrap itself around the encounter that just occurred.
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Words into Reactions 