Benchwarmer

In 1958, Edward Albee wrote a one-act play called “The Zoo Story” about two strangers whose meeting in Central Park ends in tragedy.

I first came across the play some 20 years after its debut when I had to read it for one of my English classes at Hunter College.

I’ve never seen a performance of the play, but last week I came close to living my own version of it.

Ever since the coronavirus outbreak shut down all the health clubs, I’ve been doing YouTube workouts at home.

They’re nowhere near as satisfying as my boxing and cycling classes, of course, but my choices are severely limited.

Working out in my apartment can be challenging since space is limited and I don’t want to make noise.

I live five minutes away from Shore Road Park, yet I had been resistant to changing locales even though the weather is warm now and I have more freedom of movement.

I have this tendency to latch on to a routine and steadfastly refuse to change it and, to be brutally honest, this habit of cementing myself within the comfort zone has been a major stumbling block in my life

So, after much unnecessary hemming and hawing, I finally started working out in the park last week.

Following an exercise routine on the I-phone instead of my widescreen TV is a bit of an adjustment, and I get a lot traffic noise off the Belt Parkway. But I have so much more room and I don’t have to worry about scaring the neighbors.

And the park is empty and peaceful at that time of the morning. Or so I thought.

I recently downloaded a boxing workout app onto my phone and I was anxious to give it a try. I got up early, headed up to a park, and set up shop on a bench.

And I hit the button.

The warm-up was just ending when I heard a voice behind me. I turned to see a woman coming toward me and I assumed—incorrectly, as it turned out—that she was talking on a cell phone.

Fine, I thought, she’ll come by, keep walking, and that’ll be the end of it.

Wrong again. No, she got right to where I was working out and stopped in her tracks. I could feel her looming over me as I did my shadowboxing routine and I saw that having a running conversation with herself.

Great, I thought, the first morning I come out here and I meet a lunatic.

'Fight for Your Goddamn Bench'

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Do you want to use the bench?” I snapped.

“Yes, I need to sit down.”

“Fine.” I removed my gym bag and I-phone. “Here you go.”

She took a seat and I continued working out. She’ll get her rest, I thought, and then she’ll move on. No big deal.

And I was wrong yet again. She just sat there babbling incoherently to imaginary people while I sparred with non-existent opponents.

The workout was surprisingly good. It’s simple, with calisthenics mixed in with basic boxing combinations, but I had a pretty good sweat going on.

Meanwhile the woman’s voice was getting on my nerves.

Okay, so why didn’t I move?

There’s plenty of space in the park. I could’ve packed up my gear and relocated in under a minute.

I had convinced myself that messing around with the boxing app would somehow tank the entire workout—as if there’s no such as a pause button.

But more importantly, I want to know why I didn’t take pity on this poor soul and leave her some space instead of pathetically “standing my ground” when it wasn’t mine in the first place?

Clearly, she wasn’t right in the head, so it was up to me to behave rationally. And, hell, the way the economy is tanking, we could all be living on park benches soon.

But all I could think of was how my workout was being spoiled.

You can talk all you want about kindness and compassion; you can yammer out Hail Marys until you keel over, but if you don’t act on these words, if you don’t have any sympathy for people who are truly suffering, your words are nothing more than hot air.

What’s the point of trimming my waistline if I’m going to carry all this resentment in my heart?

We live in particularly heartless age, where cruelty is often mistaken for courage and meanness is equated with manliness. And I don't want to go down that path.

Her voice was getting louder and I was getting angrier, and I began making a bit more noise than usual as I threw my punches.

“Aw shut up,” she muttered.

I was tempted to tell her the same thing, but she finally got up and shuffled away.

“Thank God,” I muttered.

The woman turned as if she might have heard me and I was afraid we'd have a screaming match. But she eventually left for good and I finished the routine.

I took a big emotional step backwards that morning and all that drama about a park bench is still on my mind.

Maybe I should write a play about it.