Journal Dispatch: Afternoon at the Park

Transcribed from my journal, March 10th, 2025

I had to get outside today. The weather was nice, so it felt like a perfect opportunity to escape the bog of negativity I've been in: bureaucratic bullshit at the MVA that has turned my attempt at registering my car in Maryland into a comedic litany of money spent and time wasted; my roommate’s totaled Honda getting delivered dilapidated to our street; my girlfriend's 32nd COVID scare; and mindless toiling at my corporate marketing gig. It all was catching up with me. I let my screen door open while reheating lunch and saw two fat pigeons perch on my patio railing. I was jealous they were basking in the sun and that they didn't have to worry about civilized society. So I decided to play hooky for the last few hours of work. I grabbed my book, threw on my chambray overshirt and headed for the park.

The park is sprawling, one of those late - 19th century American parks built either as a monument to our country's great cities or a subtle remembrance of the natural landscape we've ruined with our conquests. I sat by the small brick-lined pond in the direct rays of the treeless afternoon sun and read my book and observed my surroundings in equal measure. The ducks, enjoying the weather almost as much as me, quacked and floated about. The sidewalks in each direction were full of smiling dog-walkers and couples holding hands. Squirrels scurried in the brush and chased each other up bare lindens. A small toddler in sunglasses and blonde pigtails sat on the ground beside the pond with her mom, pointing out animals and foliage. For once, it felt like a respite from the modern world. 

At least a little bit. As always, there were some reminders of modernity. It's an inescapable reality. A man jogged by the mother and child, but with his AirPods on full blast didn't realize the level of his voice when he pointed out a turtle to the duo, frightening both of them before continuing on his mindless way. A police car with its lights inexplicably alight was parked near the old pagoda, disturbing the peaceful green tableau. One of the dogs I saw, proudly carrying a massive branch in its mouth, was an old french bulldog, inbred and wheezing for breath, a true affront to all God's creations; a hound with no known traits that service humanity or itself, a grotesque and formulaic creation of soulless and masochistic breeders. I had to periodically break from the present, too, and check my phone to ensure I wasn't being paged at work. I received no Teams messages, but had three notifications. One was a Draft Kings ad for NFL futures. Another was an Apple News alert: "Microplastics hinder plant photosynthesis, study finds, threatening millions with starvation". The third was an AI-transcribed voicemail offering me a debt consolidation loan that I'd surely never be able to pay back. I thought about all the pain in the world and wondered how all these people around me could ambulate about a city park without worry. Then I remembered they're just like me, retreating into a small urban enclave to find what joy remains. I put my phone away and tried to forget.

Thankfully, for now, nature and its revelers didn’t go anywhere. The aging Ecuadorian couple on the bench to the right of me locked hands and watched the lily pads in silence. Two students coming home from the private school at the edge of the park, still in their uniforms, tossed bread crumbs from their backpacks toward the ducks, who flocked toward them and happily pounced on the bits. When the remaining schoolchildren caught up in a group of a dozen or so, the ducks took flight across the pond all at once. The mother held her grinning and squealing toddler above her head as the fleeing ducks squawked and flapped their wings as they rose into the sky. The hoisted child looked like a beacon, a statue in the sunlight that all birds would circle and pass, day and night. “Quack, quack!" she screamed and pointed her little fat finger toward the ducks. I felt an overwhelming urge to cry. 

The sun now began to set and a cold spring wind swept across the grass. I buttoned up my chambray shirt and continued around the pond. A piece of paper with simple handwriting was taped to a tree. It said:

A Russian tortoise was found in the park pond, sadly deceased. It must have wandered toward the only water it could find. We tried to warm them with no luck. If you were missing a tortoise we are so sorry. They are buried in my garden now. Please text me for more info at 315-817-7714.

-Jesse

It was time for me to go home. 

When I got to my house, I looked back out into the twilight, and the pigeons were still there, cooing in tandem. I realized at once they had been returning to my patio for a week straight.