Dear Nice Man on the Park Bench,

It was just a pedestrian head-nod greeting last Friday morning, at Madison Beach in a thick silver world. The smoke was beginning to clear, the AQI was in the lower end of “Unhealthy”, the clouds were billowy and grey. But a mirror-flat lake was scattered with swimmers saying screw you to stay-indoor warnings, and I figure you’d had enough as well. You seemed comfortable here, like this was a familiar bench.

I nodded at you as I stepped out of the water, you nodded back; as I toweled off you sighed and said, “It’s nice to see across the lake,” and I sat at the edge of my bench and looked across the lake with you. “Yes, it is,” I agreed. Our interaction was pleasant, perfunctory, ordinary.

I toweled off and watched a trio of women swimmers breast stroke and talk, punctuating a quiet morning with random shrieks and laughter. “It’s nice to hear the ruckus,” you said, almost as if talking to yourself. It was a strange comment but I saw your point. “You’re right!” I gushed. I mean, how often do we overhear a group of people laughing and talking too loudly these days? I miss eavesdropping—at my co-working space, at coffee shops. I deflated my buoy and pulled out my keys, continuing to watch the joyful swimmers. I might have been slow to leave because I was enjoying our little citizen-to-citizen communion; it felt like a unique indulgence this week, to be outside in the dangerous air, talking to a stranger.

A mallard walked up to me as if he had something to say. “So whatcha got for me today?” I leaned up close so we were almost beak-to-face. I’ve always loved the demeanor of ducks, the way nothing bugs them; there’s nothing that they can’t shake off with a keystroke of quacks. Do you see that, too, Nice Man? When the mallard walked away from me, I saw a smile in your grey mustache. “Ah, coming for me now,” you said and we watched the duck waddling in circles at your feet, like parents admiring the antics of a child.

The shivers were setting in, and I had one last look over the lake. The wind was picking up; micro ripples crossed the surface. The trio of shrieking swimmers breaststroked in silence. I looked past the last condo building facing south, the direction three of my friends swam, without me, on this 174 AQI day that I decided to take easy, by myself. Otherwise I would be off with them and you and I, Nice Man, wouldn’t be here having our little bench time together..

“Have a nice day,” I said to you in nothing more than a polite, mannered way.

“You too, have a beautiful day,” you said. There was something about the way you said it—the way you looked at me—a spot of eye contact, the lilt of your voice like you meant it, like you really wanted me to experience beauty in a troubled world. Our good-bye lasted all of three seconds, but it stayed with me as I walked up the golden-grass hill to my car, and here’s what I saw:

I forgot people were nice

This surprised me, to see what was happening to my inner world. I knew my friends and family were nice, but the rest of you . . . 😤. With six months of carefully seeing and not-seeing people, and then after being locked in for seven forest-fire smokey days, reading and watching angry news, browsing social media, being with my end-of-days images, feeling the hot breath of an agitated world, I had forgotten something: most people are generally nice. Can I really say that?

Is that what happens to people who isolate and alienate themselves from others—a kind of paranoia and detachment resulting in a warped belief that humans are disagreeable, threatening beings?

Is this what’s happening to us during the pandemic, during these rollicking socio-political times?

I don’t know. What I really want to say is thank you for that sweet interchange. Thank you for reminding me that people are generally nice—and nice for no good reason other than sharing a lakeside view and saying good-bye. Days later, after more bad news and an outpour of public opinion and call-to-actions that stirs more fear, I’m still thinking of you. I’m still reminding myself:

People are good, people are nice. A radical pronouncement for the first day of fall.