I was in the park, minding my own business, which is rare, because my business usually minds me first. A turtle passed me. I sped up to restore my dignity, but somehow he kept the lead. It wasn’t until I tripped over a park bench—which I swear moved—that I realized the turtle had probably paid the bench to do it.
Naturally, I confronted the bench. It refused to answer, possibly out of guilt, possibly because it was wood. While lying there, I began thinking about benches in general. They sit all day, but no one accuses them of laziness. I sit for two hours and suddenly I’m “unproductive.”
A man walked by, saw me on the ground, and asked if I was injured. I said, “Only philosophically.” He nodded, as if that made perfect sense, which troubled me more than the fall.
Then the turtle reappeared. He had sunglasses on now, which is never a good sign. He was followed by three pigeons wearing matching vests, clearly his “team.” The turtle stopped, tapped my shoe with one claw, and slowly walked away. I’m convinced it was a threat, but I can’t be sure because I don’t speak turtle, and Google Translate refuses to add the language.
By the time I stood up, the bench was gone. That’s right—gone. No one else seemed surprised. Either the bench was imaginary, or city furniture has learned to walk when it feels underappreciated. I left the park that day slower than I entered it, not because of my scraped knee, but because of the growing realization that the world was run by a coalition of reptiles and furniture.
And the moral remains the same: never race turtles—they’re connected in ways you can’t understand. And never trust public furniture. Especially the kind with “Donated by the Parks Department” engraved on it. Those ones have pensions.
