Parkish Prose Poem by Hunter James

I had wrote a lovely description of the afternoon and appearance of a park but the stupid description of this park is not the point of this text. The point of this text is the people, thoughts and small events that happened in this park on this spring afternoon. And these people and small events may not seem relevant but it triggered the irrelevant brilliance that awakes your self absorbance after a social weekend.
And I suppose the description of the park is in fact relevant because at the time I found it overwhelmingly beautiful. It was pretty you couldn’t deny.
I sat in this park because my dad had told me to walk the dog. To my eleven o clock were three Lebanese boys destroying a tree (poor tree) . To my 9 o clock were two men in their late thirties drinking beer and chasing around a small boy. And passing me by was an old gentleman of an age I would guess to be around 65 in a red tee shirt, a shiny helmet wheeling a bicycle.
The thuggish looking Lebanese boys weren’t the issue (this isn't a fictionalised stereotype they were actually quite dangerous looking) , nor were the men drinking beer. Though this old man troubled me, for he seemed to be having tremendous trouble riding his bike. And the thought didn’t strike me that maybe this man is learning to ride a bike for the first time. Time passed of my arrogant intruding observing, I mean what the hell was wrong with this guy just get on the damn bike and ride it. But no it was obvious that just this afternoon he had thought to himself after years of contemplation and plan that this afternoon was the afternoon to learn how to ride a bike. And what an afternoon for it! Maybe this man had a fear of bikes. Maybe he could once ride a bike but crashed as a boy and didn’t take it back up. Maybe he never had parents to teach him and was to embarrassed to start as an adult. Maybe he always thought about it but never got around to it. Though it didn’t matter for Alas! On this spring afternoon this old man with the red shirt and the brand new bike helmet was going to ride a bike.
The man would mount his bike, ride a sketchy 3 metres than crash into the side of the pathway. And it was a narrow pathway too, certainly not the type of path that you learn to ride a bike on. Though he kept this up for quiet some time, every time he crashed he would pick up his bike and smile at me to see if I noticed. I had noticed. He kept this up for a good twenty minutes before he scratched his head a slumped in the grass in annoyance. I had had enough, I Hunter Auzins was going to have the pleasure of teaching this gentleman the way of the wheel. (the way of the wheel cool huh) I approached this gentleman choosing my words before boldly exclaiming that I could teach him how to ride a bike for I may not teach him anything he doesn’t know, but it’s the incentive of doing what another one tells you to do and impressing that will be the key to his success.
The man smiled his brilliant smile that he shone me before and agreed.
For hours I would take the man back, point the bike straight and tell him to give the pedals one big push and aim the bike forward and pedal. After he mastered this we practised braking, then turning, followed by a small hill. And before long this man was a mediocre bike rider. Then the man thanked me and agreed to meet me in the same park same time tomorrow.

Now for you, for you to guess which part of this story is true. Is it obvious? Because a lot of this did in fact actually happen. I did in fact go to the park on this spring afternoon. I did in fact witness a group of boys destroying a tree. I did in fact watch two men drinking beer and play with a child. And I did in fact watch this old man riding a bike. Did I say anything to this old man, no I did not. And though it was a lousy piece of literature that's what literature is to me. No sorry literature is two things. No actually literature is anything. But! A big part of literature (to me) is writing your desired ending. The things that our embarrassment or conscious's limit us from. The things we scorn at turned on its head. The oceans we swim in, a vicious sea voyage. The ending to our romance.

I wish I helped this poor old man. Of course. But I had not the guts to say anything to him. And maybe if we lived more like our stories. Maybe if we lived our life's an endless library. Maybe if we walked around building bridges from desire to desire to action to imagination to land. Only then would it be wrong to not be content. Because anything that did not fall into place, was not meant to be.