Wet paint

We see them everywhere, the silent soldiers of the public transportation system. They live on corners, on the side of the road, or in the middle of nowhere, they work for the park and ride or just the normal transport route; the more fortunate have shelters from the rain, but others must withstand the elements no matter what the circumstance may be. Everyone has seen them and knows what they are, but they are never really appreciated for all they do to make waiting more tolerable. Whether they are mesh metal monsters or two ordinary wooden boards with concrete feet they all stand and suffer in unspoken desolation.
These insignificant peons are never moving, they stare out into the same busy metropolis, day in and day out. They see different cars whiz by and different shapes and sizes of bottoms, but a day in the life of a bus stop bench never changes. The situation is always the same; year-by-year these mouse like icons rest alone. They feel so lonely buried under the winter%u2019s snow, and spring rain brings nothing but soggy sides and mold; even the sunshine cannot penetrate their dreary mood as they wonder and ponder the stretch of midnight asphalt they guard eternally. These sad servants are always waiting for a bus that is never theirs.
These poor misunderstood benches are often seen as sell-outs and posers for their constant change of face and color. If a monotonous life is not enough, their faces are prime real estate; or rather real estate for adds for real estate agents. They wait in horror as they give out the wrong number every day; %u201Cwhat if that cute bench across the street wants to ask me out but I am giving him the number for Tammy Camalick instead!%u201D the deprived chunk of dead wood screams in its head %u201C I will be alone forever.%u201D
Unfortunately these recreational statues have no free will and therefore have no choice in the matter of what they look like. They can wish all they want to let their true colors shine but their corporate fathers %u201Cknows what is best for them%u201D. Constantly their manufacturing mothers are nagging at them %u201Cyou could have been a park bench like your sister,%u201D not realizing that they didn%u2019t choose where they were to end up in the first place. Then there are the over achievers of the family. Bus stop benches are just trying to make a living and do something worth while; unfortunately their brothers went a became a church pew and the mothers and fathers couldn%u2019t be prouder, leaving the unnoticed bus stop benches in the shadows of their predecessors.
Miscreants and flatulent fannies are common annoyances for these uncomfortable, rock solid, sitting utensils. Scruffy skateboarders use them to pull off their next sick trick; sliding and scraping they make the once smooth edges rough and splintery or they wax the bench and make it too slippery to be sat on. The needy motor vehicle department%u2019s bench%u2019s only purpose taken from them! Delinquents deface the Remax agent%u2019s face and call it pop culture art with spray paint, there is nothing like saying I did it and I am so cool by coloring your name on public property. The now ruffled, graffiti covered wooden couch stands around with the smell of millions of unwashed vagrants and often is the bed of some poor unlucky soul with only a leftover newspaper for cover.
Some of the roughest, toughest benches sport tattoos they dared some young baby faced lover to carve and show their eternal first love. Sported by only the toughest because there is a big difference in having something drawn on your skin and having something carved in it. %u201CHey bus look at my newest tattoo %u2018HR JA forever%u2019 is that not the coolest thing ever or what?%u201D the awesome bench would taunt to the uniform, oversized Twinkie with wheels.
Social status matters even in the bench world, only the richest and most luxurious have shelters from the weather. The poorest benches live in the countryside and can count more tumbleweeds than people. The more fortunate ones receive dentistry and medical care, but only for those that have insurance and friendly beneficiaries.
The worst part of being a bus stop bench is that it doesn%u2019t ever know what the hands of fate will deal for it at its end. Sadly there are no natural deaths for these solid shadows that provide rest for weary travelers. They are always on the lookout for renegade buses and reckless automobiles, only to be obliterated by wayward children who need anger management or better discipline from home. Karate chopping a bench in half may make some buff guy popular with the ladies, but the meager benches really don%u2019t appreciate being whacked proportionately down the middle.
After their lives are over and these common new age Greek statues retire (or by some means die) they spend the rest of their days disintegrating in the bench graveyard. All that%u2019s left of these poor forgotten souls are the skeletons of muddy and broken splinters among coarse rocky rubble. It all makes me feel that I am fortunate to be made of mobile flesh and bones.