A Man Called Stan

A Man Called Stan

Written by Jay A Man Called Stan 

Copyright © 2003 Jay.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-0-5952-7414-7 (sc) ISBN: 978-0-5957-4620-0 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 11/19/2020 To all those beautiful girls who make life so complicated and so good

Contents

Chapter 1: STAN’S WEEKEND ����������������������������������������������������1 Chapter 2: STAN SOCIALISES ���������������������������������������������������20 Chapter 3: STAN GOES ON A PICNIC �������������������������������������42 Chapter 4: STAN DOES IT ���������������������������������������������������������61 Chapter 5: IT HAPPENS TO STAN �������������������������������������������80 Chapter 6: STAN GETS ON WITH IT ������������������������������������103 Chapter 7: STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS �����������������������125 Chapter 8: STAN GOES AWAY �������������������������������������������������150

- vii -

Chapter 1

the beginning (of this)

STAN’S WEEKEND

Early Friday Morning Stan awoke with his eyes already open. Daylight was slowly percolating through the curtains and filling his bedroom with a pale glow. It was a pleasant enough morning, but it left Stan largely unmoved. This was also literally true in a physical sense, as he lay there, not yet able to get into motion. He looked at the empty half of his bed and wondered if that was part of the inspiration for the emptiness that he felt in himself this morning. He decided that whether it was or not, it had been empty for far too long. Seeing the time, he faced the harsh reality that there was no way that he could steal a few more minutes in here. Pity. It may be lonely, but it was still his bed. He began his day with a long, drawn-out sigh and threw his covers off with an expression of sincere disgust. He dragged himself out of bed and regarded it as quite an achievement. Probably his only one of the day. No, it was too early to be so cynical. He should give the day a chance. Later on, he would be entitled to be cynical, after the day had proved itself to him.

As always, he shuffled like a zombie to the shower, knowing that the only hope for full consciousness lay under its strong stream of water. On

- 1 - 2 A Man Called Stan desperate days he had performed experiments and proved that no-one, himself included, could stay sleepy when assaulted by icy cold jets of shock. This ultra-low temperature treatment was only for desperate days though. There was no point in risking a cardiac arrest on a daily basis. Today was desolate, but not desperate. Standing in the roomy cubicle, he started the water and lethargically went through the motions. He studied the label on the bottle of shower-gel and disagreed with it. Sure, the goo smelt rather nice and fresh, but he certainly did not feel “Exhilarated and Invigorated”. During some lazy soaping, he realised that he had omitted an essential part of his morning routine. Not wanting to sink again into a bad habit a previous girlfriend had trained him out of; he rapidly rinsed and ended his shower prematurely. He emerged dripping from behind the sliding glass door and hurried over to the toilet. Almost simultaneously he flicked the lid up and began to pee. After a while, interest flickered through his face for the first time that day. He picked up his watch and watched the hands sweep round. When the stream eventually faltered and then stopped, a triumphant half-smile played over his lips. A full two minutes!

After a weak attempt at drying himself he dressed with a slow determination, except for putting on a damned tie. That torture was left for last. As he entered the kitchen/living room area, he flicked the radio on. While munching some chocolate cereal and making his coffee he let the radio introduce him to the day. From the intensity of the idiotic babble of the DJ, he realised that it was Friday. He also realised that he could not be less excited by that fact. He thought about the last few weekends. He usually ended up in a bar, where what was around him always irritated him. The stupid conversations, the meaningless noise, the gross- ness of the interactions between people. He also got irritated with himself for being there again. Without fail, he would then get shamefacedly drunk. Not for him the slightly tooted party animal, he ignored the party and got completely pissed. He supposed that tomorrow night he would be crawling up the steps to his apartment’s front door again.

No wonder he was not excited about the approaching weekend.

He stirred five sugars into his strong and creamy coffee, burning his lips by sipping too soon, which was an entrenched part of his morning ritual. Every morning he promised himself that he would wait for it to cool the next the beginning (of this) STAN’S WEEKEND 3 day, but it always slipped his mind when the time came for that essential first sip. He blew on his coffee while he glanced at his watch to note the time. He also noted that he would be late for work. Fuck it, that was also part of every morning. He knew that he was good at what he did, so his job was safe. He did not mind annoying his boss, who was a grumpy prick anyway. Stan sniggered at the image of his boss’s round, red, bald head with the face wearing THAT expression which seemed to be reserved for Stan. Stan speculated that it might be the same expression which he wore when his daughter brought home her turd of a boyfriend, but had warned her daddy to be nice.

As he slowly sipped and savoured his coffee, he wondered as he very often did, how he would cope without coffee. As always, he concluded that he would not be able to cope without it. Grimacing when he got to the syrup of undissolved sugar at the bottom, he laid the mug in the cluttered sink and ambled back to his bathroom. He brushed his teeth thoroughly. Partly because he was conscientious about this process as he knew that his high sugar intake endangered his teeth, but more because it delayed his arrival at work. Before leaving the bathroom, he uttered a mildly filthy expletive as he remembered that he had forgotten to put deodorant on. It was a good thing that he put some on now, as today was going to be an absolute scorcher. Being at work would not be improved by stinking like an unwashed manual labourer. Especially as that new secretary seemed have a great pair of breasts lurking under her blouse.

He put his tie on and then presented his reflection for inspection in the mirror. He smiled at the face which grinned back mischievously. The reflection was not extremely good looking, but it was agreeable. What Stan liked about it, was that it looked like the man he was. Which was appropriate, considering that it was him. He ended the smile of greeting and watched his mood of this morning be displayed in the blank expression that returned as soon as his face was allowed to assume its natural expression of his emotions. With a shrug he excused the lack of sparkle. There was not much to be excited about this morning. He packed his bag for gym and threw in a large water bottle. He did not really feel like gym after work, but it would kill some time. Also, it had to be admitted that he was trying to get a head start on working off the guilt which he would surely accumulate over the weekend for treating his body poorly. He picked up his briefcase, shouldered his bag, and headed for the front door. When he got there, he placed it all on the floor with a resigned air and started searching for his keys. Six minutes later, he 4 A Man Called Stan was disconcerted. Suddenly inspiration struck and he rushed to the laundry hamper. He rooted around in its smelly contents and plucked out a crumpled pair of baggy short pants. He delved into the pockets, and with a victorious yell withdrew his keys.

He opened the door, picked up his bags and crossed the threshold into the fiercely bright day. Dropping the bags, he flipped his shades down to protect his eyes from the glare, and then suddenly stopped as if flash-frozen in mid- motion. He learned to one side, a frown of concentration furrowing his brow. A huge fart blasted out, the explosion almost lifting him off his feet. Smiling with satisfaction, he pocketed his keys, slammed the door shut, picked up his bags again and tried to remember where he had parked his car last night. After a minute of industrious thinking he had drudged the memory up. He sauntered to his car, threw his bags in the boot and got in. There, he was done. As he started his car, panic engulfed him briefly. Where was his laptop? He hoped it was at work. He could not be bothered to go back to his apartment to look. He pulled away, and then stopped. If his laptop was not at work, he would have to drive all the way home to fetch it. Furious, he went back to his apartment, colourfully cursing everything in existence, particularly the memory facilities that his brain offered. A short time later he returned to the car, empty-handed and with a savage look about him. He slammed the door shut, turned the music up too loud, and raced off. Not that he was overly concerned about being late for work. The dash was just a good release for his frustration, which was caused by both the obstacles of the morning and the obstacle that was his life. What a Friday so far. The worst part was that it was indistinguishable from any other Friday.

Later Friday Morning Stan cruised around until he could jostle his way into a parking space within easy walking distance of his work. Although he was too late to suffer the peak of rush hour, when all of the punctual population got themselves to work, he still banged his forehead against the steering wheel repeatedly as the stop-start traffic tortured him. Stan enjoyed driving but detested battling in traffic, and parking particularly was painful for him. Relieved to be at a standstill he got out, took his briefcase, and walked the rest of the way to work. What a stunning summer’s day it was! A real shame to waste it indoors. He watched the faces of the other pedestrians and was made happier by the the beginning (of this) STAN’S WEEKEND 5 observation that everyone looked miserable to be working today. He reached his offices, modern and efficient, and entered. As he passed the new blonde secretary, he saw that she looked happy to be here. Was she stupid? He also noticed that she was really great looking, and My God, she really did have grand tits. Look at them! As he was doing just this, he realised that she was speaking to him. With Herculean effort he raised his gaze to her face. She was probably greeting him, but he could not concentrate enough to hear her words. And why was she looking so happy? There was nothing to be happy about. He mumbled something and went past her, knowing that he probably looked like an aloof asshole, but he did not have the energy to try and relate to people today. He was too lost in his own jumble of thoughts to listen to or follow the thoughts of others.

He enjoyed the relief when he saw the laptop on his desk, where he must have left it. The briefcase was dropped at its destination and he went straight to the coffee machine. First things first. Seating himself in his chair, he rested his head on his desk and mentally steeled himself to do some work. He was convinced that his life should not include work, but a mistake had obviously been made because it unfortunately did. This was an issue that displeased Stan enormously. He raised his head and opened his briefcase with the expression of a man walking to the dentist’s chair. Once he had buried himself in the work it was not as bad. The ordeal passed by in a numb daze. Today this daze kept on being broken by flashes of that blonde. He thought of his empty bed, her friendly, pretty face, and most especially, her brilliant boobs. He should go and talk to her. He was not in the mood, but he motivated himself with a vision of cupping those breasts. So full, so ripe…He jumped out his chair and went to her desk.

He got there in time to observe his boss finish giving her the last of what had obviously been a complicated and finicky set of instructions. The bastard was throwing his petty authority about and she was positively simpering. He felt sick as he watched his portly, bald, married boss flirt with this vivacious woman. She should have been above such a worm. It was degrading for her to act like this just because of the position of authority. Stan lost interest in her, feeling that there was obviously not much beneath that gorgeous exterior. He was about to leave, when his boss did so before him. As boss-man turned around, Stan watched the girl’s face switch from softness and hardness and saw her distinctly mouth the words, “Stupid prick”. 6 A Man Called Stan

A warm glow of liking for this girl enveloped Stan as he watched her mouth a string of obscenities behind the back of their boss. He laughed silently until his boss left the room, and then let rip with a knee-slapper. She also started to giggle, and the ice had been broken. Stan walked up to begin the devastating charming of his innocent victim.

“Morning there…” Oh shit! He had forgotten her name. Great start. He stumbled, but resumed bravely, “…sorry about this morning. I was in a rotten mood and did not want it to touch you. To be honest, that goes for this whole week. We haven’t spoken properly yet, have we? I am Stan.”

“Hi Stan. I knew it was that, we have been introduced already. I guess you’ve just forgotten mine? It is Anne, Stan.” She spoke as if suppressing a giggle, which filled Stan with doubt. Our hero glanced at her breasts for motivation and soldiered on. Best stick with something safe, like some backstabbing. He spoke eloquently and derisively of their shared boss, noticing when he drew laughs. With his courage up, the conversation went well from then onwards. He inspected her as they spoke and put tick marks next to everything on his mental checklist. Well, it was a mental list as it was carried in his mind, but the attributes ticked were mostly physical. She was also easy to speak to and seemed like fun. Tomorrow was Saturday…he decided to take the plunge.

“So,” he ventured, “are you doing anyone tomorrow?” He was puzzled at her amused expression. Was she laughing at him again? It would be disconcerting if that became a habit. Then he realised what he had said, and blurted out, “Oh fuck! Fuck me! No, no, I don’t mean fuck me. And I didn’t mean are you fucking anyone, sorry, doing anyone, I meant anything. Oh shit.”

He shut up, flabbergasted at his incompetence. He was blushing too, like a kid. He was older than thirty, for crying out loud, and should be way above this kidlike behaviour. He desperately wished that he had something or someone to kick. How had he made such a mess in such a short time? Talk about a Freudian slip. He was about to beat a very hasty retreat when she threw back her head and laughed with great glee. He saw the funny side then and joined in, at his own expense. Eventually he got it out that he would the beginning (of this) STAN’S WEEKEND 7 like to take her on a picnic in the sunshine. She agreed and gave her number; he was to phone her tomorrow morning. He wanted to punch the air in celebration, but walked out for lunch, acting cool.

He would have invited her to lunch, but he did not have the power to try and create a good impression for the next hour. Better to rest now and go for it tomorrow when he was in better form. He got in his car and drove home for lunch. Town was too busy today, and he did not feel like fighting through traffic on this Friday. He needed some peace and could shelter in his apartment for an hour. His stomach growled angrily at him for neglecting it. He drooled at the thought of the toasted cheese sandwiches he would make with a dash of chilli oil. With a cup of coffee or two. Maybe even a nap, although that would make him late for work. So be it.

Friday lunch Stan guzzled his sandwiches at a frantic pace. He knew that he should be chewing more thoroughly, but now was not the time to try. He might die of malnutrition if he did not get some food inside him, and soon. It felt that way, even if it was not strictly true scientifically, and who trusts science above what their own body tells them? Stan interrupted licking his fingers for one majestic, resounding, belch, and then continued. He added the plate to the growing pile in the sink, inadequately splashed his hands with water and headed for the couch. He put on some chill music and dozed in the heat, sprawled out on his couch. There was one big jerk as he tripped over the line into dreamland, and then he was asleep. After too brief a period his conscience woke him up. Time to go to work. Again. Crap, crap, crap. Feeling deep pity for himself, Stan left his apartment and drove back to work. The in-town traffic was worse than it had been in the morning. He felt himself become frayed around the edges of his temper. Finally, he found a car pulling out, and waited politely for it to drive off. Before he could pull into the spot, a tiny European car came past him and stole the space. Stan switched his car off. Our man was not going to take this. He climbed out of his car and waited.

The door of the enemy car opened, and a woman climbed out. If you could go so far as to call her that. She was the fattest, grossest and just plain ugly thing that Stan had yet had the misfortune to see. He small car rocked 8 A Man Called Stan on its wheels as she hauled herself out of it. Ever the gentleman, he began the conversation in an amicable manner.

“What’s wrong with you, you stupid bitch? Didn’t you see that I was waiting? You stole that spot!” Stan introduced his point of view. Now it was her turn in the cerebral debate. The ogre slapped Stan. Hard, through the face. “Young man, how dare you treat a lady like that? What happened to real men, who would open a door for a lady? Or offer their parking spot”, she shrieked at Stan.

Unsurprisingly, Stan did not react well to this. In fact, he overreacted, and rather poorly. He gave in to his rage. “You fat twat”, he informed her, in case she did not know, “You aren’t a fucking lady! You are a hideous monster. Your ugliness comes from the inside. Your misery drives you to be a horrible bitch. Do you have children in that car? I bet they hate you like I do.”

Stan went to the car to enquire of the children if they hated their bitch of a mother. He looked in at a girl of four, and a boy about ten, who were looking back at him incredulously. The girl was crying, and the boy was laughing helplessly. Both were eating ice creams, piled up in a cone. The children were looking up at a wild-eyed man, of a peculiar deep red colour with veins standing out oddly. His mood changed as he looked at the laughing boy. Then Stan had what he believes to be one of the high points of his career as a man. He took both ice creams from the children and turned to face the still screaming slag. She was wearing a tent-like dress. With his free hand, Stan pulled the neckline down and towards him. The rotten cow was not even wearing a bra. Two nipples as big as saucers leered obscenely at the outside world. Overcoming his revulsion, Stan buried the two ice creams in her monstrous cleavage and snapped her top back.

This time the bitch did not slap Stan. She punched him. Really hard, through the face. Stan knew it was worth it for the expression on hers. He called her a fat twat one last time, just to finish off nicely, and climbed into his car. He drove off, laughing merrily. There was no way he could go the beginning (of this) STAN’S WEEKEND 9 back to work now; he was too agitated for that environment. He seriously and objectively considered whether he was having a breakdown. Cracking up. He judged that he was not but had handled that affair in the best way possible. So, what to do now? Suddenly, he had the gift of an afternoon free. Driving around a while, he looked at the mountains bordering the town. He had appropriate casual clothes in his gym bag and would go and spend the afternoon in some beautiful Nature. He had not done that for a long time. It would be good for him. Some peace and tranquillity, just what he needed. He drove there, humming happily to the music. Today was starting to be different.

Friday Afternoon Stan pulled over under the shade of some trees. This was as far as he could take his car down this rough road. He changed into shorts, trainers and a shirt. He contemplated watching sunset here in the mountains, so he tied a sweater around his waist for the evening chill. Taking his water bottle, he set off down the road. After a little distance he turned and followed a smaller path, which led up the mountain. What a perfect way to spend today, he thought to himself. Rambling through the forest, his trials of today seemed very far away. The soft twittering of the birds provided a pleasing soundtrack to this visual display of sedateness. The forest started thinning out, and he came to a clearing. There was a man sitting in it.

This annoyed Stan. He had had enough of humans for one day. He had not seen any other cars and had been hoping to have the mountain to himself. Oh well, at least the man was quiet. Stan approached him, his curiosity growing with each step. What was the man doing? Well, the answer to that one was easy. Nothing at all. The man was just sitting there, but people never just sit there and do nothing. Stan reached the man. He was old, with a face as craggy and weather-beaten as the mountain looming behind him. Stan was standing right by him, but he did not seem to have noticed Stan. Was he a drunken tramp? Stan doubted it. He seemed decent. More than that, an air of rightness seemed to hang over the old man. Stan studied the face, all the while feeling strange that he had not been noticed yet. He concluded that friendliness filled the man behind that face. He started to worry if the old man was OK. He was very old, after all. Stan cleared his throat, puzzled that he was slightly nervous. 10 A Man Called Stan

“Uh…good afternoon there.” No reaction at all. Try again. “Umm…hello?” Stan was about to start lightly slapping that leathery face when it turned and looked at him.

The eyes were soft and gentle, and Stan was riveted in their gaze. They were unlike any other eyes he had seen. What was that he saw, deep in them? They were unfathomable but there was a unique quality to them that intrigued Stan. The face cracked into a grin, and Stan understood where all those wrinkles came from. The face creased along its lines as it folded itself to grin, something that it must do very often. Now Stan began to wonder if what he had seen in the old eyes was a harmless craziness. Still grinning, and still not speaking, the man held something out to Stan.

They were in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by forest. Behind the old man the west-facing mountain was brilliantly lit by the afternoon sun. The object held out by the man sparkled in the sunbeams breaking through the trees at the bottom of the clearing. The sunbeams were slanted stripes of yellow light and seemed solid enough to wrap your arms around them. Dust motes danced with one another in the still air, the beams illuminating the dancers for the audience that was Stan. The sparkling object was the highlight necessary to complete the picture, so that its artistry as a composition struck Stan. He felt the image being burned into his memory and knew he would always be able to recall its every detail. He tried to discern what the jewel-like object was.

It was just an old glass bottle. He had seen similar items when one girlfriend with a cruel streak had dragged him to antique stores. They were of the kind that contained medicines that cured colic, smelly feet, period pain, bad breath or headaches, all with just one teaspoon. According to the label anyway. This bottle had no writing on it though. Inside was a thick, unfamiliar liquid that had never been sold over any counter. Tiny particles drifted lazily through the murkiness. Stan realised that the old man was offering him a sip. Stan had it figured out. This was some kind but batty old man. His grandchildren had brought him here and were now playing just out of earshot. Shortly they would return and take grandpappy back home. Maybe to an old age home. Stan did not want to taste that foul looking substance, but he did not want to offend the old man. He would force down a sip, thank the old nut, and carry on with the path behind the old man. the beginning (of this) STAN’S WEEKEND 11

Stan took the bottle, removed the cork stopper, and took a swig. He spluttered in horror. Yuck! That was terrible. A distinctly fungal flavour. Stan had been expecting cheap booze, but there was no alcohol in there. Just awful bitterness. Stan blabbered his insincere thanks and hurried on, trying not to retch.

Later Friday Afternoon The taste was finally leaving his mouth, like a guest after an hour of unsubtle hinting. The path had led Stan to a ledge that looked back down the mountain. Stan had been strolling for half an hour since the sip, so he sat down here to relax a bit. He slowly savoured the view. My God, it was awesome. The sun was still quite high in the sky. Stan looked over the town and surrounding farms. In front of him, the forest lay like a blanket over the legs of the mountain. It was such a vibrant, deep green. The sky was a glowing blue, quite unlike a normal sky. Stan realised he was looking at sheer perfection by looking at Nature. A tear was squeezed out of his soul by the awe gripping it. This tear ran down his face, tracing its contours like the finger of a lover. He felt a slight breeze caressing him and the Universe ruffling his hair.

Stan stood up. He had never felt like this before. He felt good. No, he felt absolutely marvellous! He felt as if he was seeing colours properly for the first time, as if filters had been taken off after thirty years of insipid sight. All of his sensations were enhanced. He gently touched his face to confirm that his sense of touch was incredibly fine. And he felt so damned alive! Taking in a huge breath of air, he let it go with a whoop of joy. He felt so in harmony with all around him. He started walking again, fascinated with everything. When he neared a splendid tree, he laid his palms and face against it. He sensed its awareness. Simple, stately and quiet. Stan had never encountered anything as dignified as this pure desire to live. Stan left the tree and was drawn to a flower. He was entranced by its blazing beauty, taken by how very alive it obviously was. It was humming like an electricity transformer. Another sound drew Stan’s attention. The splashing of water.

He found the stream and peeled off his clothes while still walking. Naked, he submerged himself in the water. The coolness on his skin after this hot, sweaty day was indescribably wonderful. Language did not provide the tools for describing such heightened sensations, and he had never before 12 A Man Called Stan experienced anything remotely like this, so he had no frame of reference. He closed his eyes and slipped completely under. Fireworks flashed behind his closed eyelids. He washed himself with sand, revelling in this sensuous miracle. Drying himself with his hands, he clearly remembered drying his coat in just this manner when he was a hairy pre-man.

What on earth was going on? He had assumed that he was in a good mood from being in the mountain, but this was weird. Of course! That murky gunk he had drunk. Stan thought about what was happening, and knew that he loved it, whatever was going on. Nothing in his life had matched this… this richness. With an uncharacteristic lack of dawdling, Stan made up his mind. He hurried back to the old man.

The old man was still sitting in the same place. This time it took even longer to attract his attention. If possible, the eventual grin was even wider. Stan noticed that the pupils in those old eyes had opened enormously. There was the tiniest ring of colour around them. He could not read those eyes. Stan made drinking motions. The grin miraculously opened wider, and the withered arm held out the bottle. Stan noticed that the level had fallen substantially since he had last seen the bottle a short while ago. Stan took a huge swig and held the bottle out. The old man gestured that Stan should drink again. Stan obeyed with a promptness that would have amazed any of his teachers, bosses or ex-girlfriends.

He gave the bottle back and this time his blabbering of thanks was deeply heartfelt. Stan trotted back to the path. He wanted to reach that west-facing ledge with the great view before sunset and was unsure if he would be able to if he delayed. Walking was already a highly complex procedure. This really was turning into an interesting day.

Friday Evening Stan reached the ledge and collapsed in a heap of bones and flesh, panting like an exhausted puppy. He had exerted himself so that he would reach here before…well, he did not know. He guessed that it would soon become difficult to concentrate on walking. His mind was turbulent, to put it mildly. Thoughts were not following one another in an orderly fashion like a column of well-behaved worker ants. Chaos is probably a fair description. Thoughts the beginning (of this) STAN’S WEEKEND 13 exploded out of nowhere, blinded him in their glare and then faded away while his senses assaulted him as if they were armed troops attacking under the flares. Stan tried to catch his breath and slow the storm inside him. With palpable relief, he became aware that it was working. He felt more in control, as if he had learned to drive the turbo-charged vehicle his mind had become. Now this, was a joyride.

Although his body felt leaden and lethargic, he remembered why he was here and with the effort of an elephant seal raising himself to roar a reminder of his dominance, Stan sat up. He turned, leaned back against a rock and watched the sunset. Within minutes he was lost in wonder as he gazed at the spectacle, entirely captivated by the splendour. The sun hung low in the sky, red and swollen. A continuous explosion on a scale that could not be comprehended. Stan watched as colours raced each other across the sky. The clouds seemed to be pulsing as they stretched over the horizon. They soaked up the sun’s fierce colours and glowed as if they themselves were on fire. Stan became entranced with the sight and his perspective shifted. It was no longer Stan watching the sunset. Stan became part of it. He felt how he was one note in this majestic symphony. He could physically hear it, an all-encompassing humming sound. He could feel what all around him was feeling, and he was part of it all. No longer aware of Stan, he was aware of everything. He watched as the glimmering giant slipped out of sight and sat motionless as darkness fell abruptly. Stars switched on and tumbled and spun through the heavens.

Stan lay down, with no choice in the matter. He curled into the foetal position and closed his eyes. His awareness, which had been swept wide open, narrowed until it was focussed only inside his body. He zoomed in further until he was conscious on a molecular level. Then, terribly, he felt as if each of those molecules was disconnecting. He knew that this was what death was. Fear filled him, but he was helpless. Soon there was nothing left, just his awareness. He realised it felt the same, whether filled by the whole universe or just the core of his being, without even his body. Stan, alone in his Self, heard the same humming noise until it consumed his entire consciousness.

Stan became unconscious. 14 A Man Called Stan

Friday Night He opened his eyes and slowly consciousness reasserted itself. Stan was looking into a fire, burning a few feet away from him. He basked in its warmth as he tackled the task of figuring out where he was and how he had got there. He silently snickered as he remembered the ice creams plunged between the tits of the fat slag. He then tried to make sense of what had happened since that event. He remembered the end of the sequence, which was him passing out. Where the hell had this fire come from? Stan sat up in surprise.

The old man looked up and clapped his hands softly in obvious delight. He came over to Stan and handed him the water bottle that had been intended for gym. Stan gulped some, as did the aged one. Then, a huge pipe was offered to him, with tendrils of fragrant smoke creeping out from the bowl of it. Stan became very wary. He started explaining how he could not repeat an experience like today. He stopped when he recalled his previous communications with the man, doubting whether the grandpa could speak at all, never mind English. Stan took the pipe. After all, the old man had supplied him with an unforgettable day and had built a fire to keep him warm. Stan wanted to show his gratitude. He cautiously took a pull, and after another passed the pipe back. Wow, that was what he had needed. He felt warmth creep along his body, relaxing the flesh as it passed through it. Stan waited impatiently for the pipe to return, while watching how the old man relished it. The joy the old man derived from this pursuit radiated out clearly from him. He gave the pipe back with smoke streaming out of his nostrils. As Stan was dragging deeply in imitation, the old man asked in clear and measured speech,

“How was your day?”

The surprise caused the rich, oily smoke to go down someplace it should not.

Recovering from a violent coughing fit, Stan was sure that the old man had timed his question with exactly this intention. The amused chuckling provided all the proof Stan needed. “Shit!” Stan began eloquently. “I did not know you could even speak! You have not said a word all day. Why didn’t you?” the beginning (of this) STAN’S WEEKEND 15

The old man answered, “I was busy thinking, too high for words. If I had spoken it would have meant climbing down levels of consciousness, which I was not willing to do. Could you have spoken when you were lying here?” Stan laughed at the impossibility of it. “You still have not answered my question”, the old man reminded our scatter- brained Stan. “What question?” Stan asked intelligently. “Oh, my day!” It came back to Stan. He continued. “It was incredible. It is the most amazing thing I have ever experienced. What was in that bottle?”

Wrapped in frequently made clouds of pipe smoke, Stan listened as the old man spoke. He spoke of an Ancient Race, of the previous Age. He spoke of how the remnants of these people had passed on what they could of their knowledge to the barbarian tribes who had begun civilisation again. It had been an incomplete process, as the Egyptians, Indians and South Americans were simply too undeveloped to understand much of the teachings. He told how while enough was passed on to rekindle the fire of culture, much precious knowledge was lost.

This juice was of that lost knowledge. Stan listened to tales of plants that were known as the foods of gods. Plants that were seen by the wise men as a great blessing. Plants that would show man the Divine if taken with a clean and open heart. He told of weak and evil men taking these plants, and how their diseased minds spoiled the experience. These blind fools then removed this grace from society because they were afraid in their confusion. He spoke of a New World, ruled by these senseless idiots who were unaware of the Divine nature of life, and therefore of life itself. This ignorance is what allowed society to harm the planet and systems that they themselves were a part of. Stan listened intently.

Soon a companionable silence shrouded them. Stan stood up, stretched (damn—that felt good!), and walked away a small distance. He stopped and took a leak. That felt even better than the stretch! As he watched the stream froth on the rocky path, he wondered what an analysis of it would disclose. Some pretty interesting substances, that was certain. He wondered if it was anything illegal and decided that he did not care. Whatever it was, it had been worth it. When he eventually finished, he regretted that he had not timed it 16 A Man Called Stan as it would have been one for the record books. He forgave himself though. It had been quite a day. When he returned to the fire, the ancient one was gone. Stan was not even surprised. It was late anyway, and the pipes had made him rather sleepy. Time to go home. If an EEG machine had been scanning Stan while he walked back to the car, it would have shown remarkably little brain wave activity except for a brief burst of sparking neurons when Stan noticed how little activity there was going on inside his brain. During the drive home he had to periodically stick his head out of the window to keep himself awake, looking much like a dog, but enjoying the experience far less than dogs seemed to. Then again, dogs are not famous for their intelligent choices of what is enjoyable. Like rolling in all kinds of revolting crap, including actual crap. What kind of creature enjoys doing that? When he eventually got home, he dragged himself to bed fully clothed, barely bothering to remove his shoes. Saturday had arrived a few hours ago.

Early Saturday Morning Stan slept. He was doing a decent impression of a corpse.

Later Saturday Morning Stan slept. His steady breathing became laboured and his movements indicated some kind of discomfort. He turned over and issued a fart so thunderous that if he had been awake, he would have looked for lightning. The din did not disturb him. Instead, he sank back into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Saturday Lunch Stan slept. Gradually the heat in his room became unbearable. Stan awoke, very slowly, being forced out of his slumber by the harsh conditions of his environment. After twenty minutes of this arduous process, he could no longer be classified as asleep. He checked his watch to see what time it was. Yeah! That had been some sleep. What a night that…

FUCK! Saturday lunch! The blonde–with the great tits. Oh shit, shit, super- shit! Stan leaped out of bed and tripped on his shoe, landing on his forehead. His cursing escalated into new intensity as he ran for the phone, chased by a despairing panic. He got to the phone but was faced by an the beginning (of this) STAN’S WEEKEND 17 obstacle. What was her number? Or even her fucking name? After a few painful minutes which will not be described, Stan had run to his car, brought his briefcase and bag back, and searched (emptied) both until he found a ragged piece of paper which said “Anne” and had a number scrawled across it. He congratulated himself for having had the foresight to write the name down as well as the number, as he could not really begin the conversation with, “Hello, is that the big-boobed blonde?”

He frantically dialled the number. After a few rings, a female voice answered. With a lump in his throat, he began his recovery attempt. “Hello, Anne. This is Stan.” He sensed the immediate iciness on the other side of the line and would have sworn that his hand became cold from grasping the phone. When she spoke again, each word was an icicle. “Stan. Good afternoon. Nice of you to finally phone me to tell me that you were not going to be picking me up. Why did you even bother to inform me?”

Crap. Stan gushed for a while, with little dignity. He explained how he had been unavoidably detained at a highly important task with no means of communicating with her. He hinted at a gravely serious and very demanding morning that would have finished a lesser man for the day. He begged her forgiveness for his absence and spoke at length of how badly he wanted to take her out. Finally, he asked if he could pick her up in an hour. She agreed. Stan hung up, and then phoned immediately to find out her address. She was still cool, but no longer frozen. A chance. He checked his fridge, which was empty except for wine. That was fine. He could get the food for the picnic in town, on his way to her house. Stan started the coffee brewing while he went to take a shower.

Saturday Afternoon The last hour had passed with unexpected ease. A full picnic hamper was on the back seat. More importantly, some fine wine was chilling in a carrier. Clean blankets had been remembered after the last moment, but were packed, the trip back home to fetch them only causing a few minutes delay. Stan was showered and shaved. He had attempted to go for the humorous look and had put on a T-shirt saying, “Ban Female Facial Hair”, but had changed his mind 18 A Man Called Stan and changed into something more prudent. You never knew with women. They were often over- sensitive. Anne could know a friend with a cosmetic problem or whatever. Ah, there it was. He parked his car after having been lost for a shorter time than he had allotted therefore. Today was going well.

He rang the doorbell and almost fainted when Anne opened it. She was a vision as spectacular as yesterday’s sunset. He started at the bottom and slowly worked his way up, knowing that he was being obvious but hoping that it was obvious that he was helpless. Slim ankles grew out of athletic shoes, swelling most tastefully indeed into slender calves. His mouth opened as his gaze travelled over tanned and firm thighs. Her skirt began just in time to stop him drooling. Her T-shirt began after baring a flat midsection and stretched across her boobs, clinging to their shape just enough to promise that they were wonderful. The graceful neck supported a head peering inquisitively at a man with an open mouth and wearing a tropical shirt with luminous colours. Stan realised that she was beautiful. He also realised that he had to say something. Soon.

“It is a pity you can’t come like that to the office, although I suppose I can see why not. You look incredible. I feel honoured and undeserving. Shall we go?”

He saw the ice melt from her features as he spoke. Yeah, nothing like a bit of sincere flattery to save the day. The drive to his intended spot was scenic, and the conversation was remarkably easy and enjoyable. He almost regretted reaching the field that was his destination. It was set at the bottom of the mountains, before the forest. Trees on one side provided space for them to sit, and cows roamed the field freely. He listened to her and watched the cows as the two of them walked to the trees. The cows seemed so damned content as they grazed or just stood and chewed, or even just stood. Stan started wondering why he was not a cow. And look at that…

“Stan, you are not listening to me, are you?”

Oops. He confessed that his attention had slipped but did not include that he had been fascinated by a cow taking a crap of the most incredible proportions. He resisted, but his eyes were drawn back there while he was still talking to the girl. the beginning (of this) STAN’S WEEKEND 19

“You are watching that cow shit, aren’t you? Do you do this often?” Stan was mortified and elucidated for her. “No, I do not often watch cows taking a crap. In fact, I have never seen it before. That is why it grabbed my attention. I mean, look at the size of that! I am sorry though. You have my attention again.”

She laughed and explained that she had asked if his attention wandered often, not about cows. Stan lied and said it never did, but he had been exhausted by the last few days. He told the story of the ice cream to explain why he had not been at work yesterday afternoon. She giggled in a way that raised Stan’s pulse. As she talked, he looked at that moist mouth with the luscious lips and wanted to press his lips against hers. Her tongue seemed to beckon as she spoke, signalling, “Come to me Stan”. He pictured running his hand up those smooth legs, touching those tender thighs…Stan abruptly changed position to hide the movement in his crotch.

It was not just the powerful imagery, but the knowledge of its possibility made such thoughts intensely erotic. But there was enough time for that. Stan lay on his back, enjoying the beautiful day and the beautiful girl. He listened to her, revelling in her chatter as if he was a child playing in the fountain of her speech. He liked her company, and already liked her. He started speculating whether he would fall in love.

This was becoming a pretty great weekend. Chapter 2

a few years before

STAN SOCIALISES

Friday Evening Stan slowly soaped himself as he washed off the last of the working week. It had been a trying and tiring week, but he had come out looking good in his role, which is what really mattered. At twenty-six he had done well to be in this new job, and it was working out nicely, with his technical capabilities giving him the tools which he needed to execute the job. The boss seemed to be a bit of a prick, but nothing is perfect, so he was not too perturbed about working for a wanker. One had to be philosophical about life’s little hardships.

He sedately scrubbed his body, more to irritate Jane than out of an obsession with his personal cleanliness. He was determined to make them late for the dinner party tonight. His little revenge in advance for the horror of the night which was to be. Her friends were despicable. Vacant, shallow- minded simpletons wearing expensive but uninspired clothes and sparkling smiles. It was going to be torture. Their whole relationship was becoming torture. He paused mid-rub. This was something he had never admitted to himself before. Being with Jane was no longer pleasurable. He carried on washing and reviewed matters. Beyond a doubt, the affair had fizzled. Why

- 20 - a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 21 had it taken him so long to notice that? Everything had seemed so right in the beginning, and later he had turned away from the truth. Now he turned to face the corner of the cubicle and purposefully started pissing in. Stan felt mildly ashamed of how he was enjoying being spiteful. This relationship was making him feel frustrated, and that made him want to piss her off. Or just piss in her shower. She always hated that.

He dried himself on her towel, cleaner and fluffier than any that would ever appear in his apartment, and reviewed their history. There had been something there between them right from when they had first met, a definite drawing towards the other. As things had progressed, he had felt as if they were being swept along on a tidal wave of something he could not quite describe. The wave had soon broken, and the sex had been incredible. From tender to furious, it had all been breathtaking. The excitement that sometimes makes it so special was always there, something that rarely happened for Stan. That was why he had pretended it was working when it had been broken for so long. Stan obviously liked having great and frequent sex and did not want his Paradise to be poisoned, but denying that it had dissipated had been would not save it. Slapping on some scent, he realised that all this thinking of sex had left him feeling quite frisky. He wondered how far Jane was in her dressing up. Hopefully, she was still in her dressing gown and fussing over her face. He wrapped the fluffy peach towel around his waist and hurried to the bedroom.

Ah, there she was, seated by the mirror, doing those mysterious female things to her face that consume much time with varying results. She was in her dressing gown – good. He stood behind her and looked at her reflection. “You can stop now, Jane. You look slick.”

He was not just trying to put her in an approachable mood so that he could act on his amorous inclinations. She really was a good-looking woman. Tallish, glossy hair, dark complexion with a svelte body and a small but saucy pair of breasts. Stan, on the other hand, was starting to get a beer belly, which was nothing but logical. Stan drank a lot. In his favour, it should be mentioned that he was planning on joining a gym soon. But back to the breasts, and his more immediate plans. He slipped his left hand under her robe and cupped a soft but firm boob. His fingers started gripping it very lightly, almost imperceptibly. “Stan, no! We are going to be late!” 22 A Man Called Stan

Like he cared. She would have to do better than that. “And I’ve just finished my make-up.” Now that really was lame. Stan dismissed it offhand, “It’s OK, I won’t kiss you.”

He felt no real need to express affection. He was simply horny. She was not moving. He squatted down until his head was level with hers in the mirror before them. Resting his head on her right shoulder he stretched his right hand out to her right knee. He pulled the gown apart and stroked her upper leg while they stared into the eyes of the other’s reflection. Her mouth opened slightly as his hand reached its target. His hand inquisitively wondered around that area for a while and when a brave finger summoned up the courage to try and enter, it got a warm reception. Her breathing became louder as his movements became more pronounced. Their eyes never broke their mirror gaze.

She arched her spine and groaned, which was Stan’s signal. He quickly stood up and dropped his towel. He then picked her up off the chair and kicked her chair away. One hand ripped her gown off while the other pushed her forward from the waist. He slipped into her from behind, sharply drawing a breath at the shock of the sensation. They immediately began moving in perfect counter-rhythm, his left hand on her shoulder and his right hand pushing her head forward. He watched her expression in the mirror as he rode her. There was not much there apart from sexual excitement. A glance at his face showed the same. This lack of feeling excited him in a strange way. He watched her as the pressure mounted in her and their pace quickened. She was about to peak; not that Stan especially wanted her to. In fact, he would prefer it if she did not. Should he pull out now? No, it was too late. She was off.

At least it made for a rollicking ride. Stan held onto her as she writhed in his hands. Oh boy, now it was his turn. He put his hands to her hips and pulled her to him as he came. He shuddered slightly and when he was done, he withdrew, cleaned his dick on her silk dressing gown, and started dressing. She was still bent over with her hands on the dressing table, shoulders rising and falling with the deep breaths, looking down at her hands while her breathing slowed down. Great body, Stan noted as he wondered when the affection had disappeared from this affair. It would have to end, but how? Stan did not really care. He would just wait and see. a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 23

Friday Night Not much was said in the car on the way to Bob and Brenda, her awful friends. It had not always been like this. He remembered how easily the conversation had flowed when they were still getting to know each other. He analysed those memories now as he drove, trying to decide if it really had been two personalities exploring and embracing each other. Or had there been no deep interest in the other being? Maybe they had just been surfing that wave. How well did he know Jane now? They had been together for a while and he did not know much of what was deep inside her. He knew her little habits and her likes and dislikes, but her inner thoughts were hidden from him.

Stan started getting depressed. His relationship had disintegrated, and now he was stuck in this horrible dinner party. He would have been able to stomach it for her sake, but now that was pointless. His sickly spirit perked somewhat when he remembered that Brenda was a fine cook and doubtless out to impress tonight. He even smiled behind the wheel when he thought of Bob’s wine collection. He was saved. He could drown his sorrows. He was good at that, with a combination of both natural talent and dedicated practice having lifted him to the highest levels of the pursuit. Jane sighed softly and rested her head on his shoulder. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw tears on her cheeks. So, she knew. Stan was moved. She was a good woman and had always treated him well. It was not her fault; it had just not worked out. He took his hand off the wheel and squeezed hers. He hoped that this could be ended without a lot of hurt. She did not deserve that; she was finer than that. His irritation towards her lately had been misdirected. It should have been aimed at the failed relationship, but he had only recognised it as such tonight for the first time, so until now he had unjustly nurtured annoyance for Jane. Well, no more of that.

They were here. He parked the car and opened her door, just like in the old days. He hugged her silently and sincerely, with more warmth and tenderness in those few seconds than had been present in their last month of “love-making”. Then he turned his back on her and walked to the front door. He pushed the buzzer and was annoyed when Brenda asked, “Who is it?” Who the fuck did she think it was? Daft cow! Oh-oh. He had better watch himself tonight. He was not in a charming mood. He answered and the door was soon opened. Both Bob and Brenda greeted Jane warmly; with 24 A Man Called Stan

Bob’s hug being a bit too groping for Stan’s liking. The greetings to him were much cooler. It did not bother him, especially as he would not be in this circle for much longer. Although it would have been nice to grab a handful of Brenda. He almost felt like insisting upon it. If Bob could give Jane a hug, then it was only fair.

He eyed her as they followed their hosts inside. Brenda and Bob could have been sister and brother. Blonde, tanned, fit, gleaming grin and slightly stupid. Stan’s mood improved when he saw that a vast array of snacks was laid out, and a rather well-appointed drinks tray was also in attendance. He went straight there and stuffed his face with a few delicacies. He poured himself a powerful drink and remembered to ask Jane what she wanted. His was finished before hers was made, so he made himself another, slightly stronger, and walked over to her. She was talking to the other couple present. Frank and Felicity. Frank was quite good humoured and Felicity was a terrible bitch. In her presence, Stan constantly had to fight an urge to slap her. He said hello and asked Frank if he wanted his drink refreshed while Stan refreshed his. Stan went a little easier on the mixer this time for this third drink in under ten minutes.

Dinner was proving to be delicious, but the company left much to be desired. Stan had to talk mostly to Frank. Everyone else, with Jane in the lead, was becoming irritated with him. They had stayed in the lounge for an hour before moving to the dining room. Bored by the conversation, Stan had poured his seventh drink and started going through the CD collection. He had found a CD of a favourite rock album from his youth. With delight the soft jazz had been removed and the rock CD had been put in and played very loudly. Stan had leaped about the room playing air guitar. Leaning backwards to execute a difficult solo break with the proper dramatic effect, he had knocked Frank’s drink all over Felicity. Ha-ha! But Jane was a clever woman and doubted that it was entirely an accident.

This had prompted Bob to return the sounds of soft jazz and Brenda to lead them through to the dining room. The soup had been outstanding. Stan had become carried away and had picked up his bowl to slurp out the last of it. Worse than the kick in the shins he received from Jane was that he now lacked soup to dip the bread into. A French loaf that was warm and slightly crispy, and just had to be eaten. After some sharp thinking he a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 25 started dunking his bread roll into Felicity’s bowl. She was seated next to him and had not yet finished her soup. She put her spoon down when she saw Stan bite a chunk off his bread and dip the remainder back into her soup. Embarrassed, Brenda and Bob cleared up and went to fetch the main course. Jane was furious, and Felicity was not far behind. Frank appeared to be fighting the giggles. Stan poured more wine for all. Tonight, it seemed, was not so bad after all. He really had to urinate but was lazy. He also did not want to delay his devouring of the main meal. He would keep it in for as long as possible. When the main course came, the spaghetti was fantastic. Cooked just right with a creamy sauce. He sucked up some long strands and the backlash sprayed sauce all over Felicity and Bob. Icily, Felicity asked, “Are you enjoying your meal, Stan? Would you mind altering your eating manner? You are making me lose my appetite.”

So, it was war. Fine. The horrid bitch. Stan ate slower and drank faster. When he raised his glass for another sip in the endless series, he leaned back to try and create an angle from which he could sneak a stare down Felicity’s ample cleavage. Leaning back a bit too far, his chair tipped over and he tumbled ass-over backwards. His half-full glass flew and smashed into pieces. He got up, cursed the damned chair, and assured his hosts that he was fine, oblivious to their lack of concern for his well-being. He drank straight from the bottle of fine 10-year-old wine and noticed that Bob opened another bottle rather quickly. OK then, so they did not want to share a bottle with him? No problem. More for him. He downed the rest of the bottle and opened another without bothering to fetch another glass. He sat down and asked Bob how work was, knowing already through Jane that Bob had recently been passed over for an expected promotion. Watching Bob squirm was very enjoyable, but he really did have to empty his bladder. Directions were given to the toilet, and he arrived only to find the door locked. No!

“Who’s there?” he demanded angrily. “Felicity.” That bitch! He was bursting. “Well, are you going to be long, or what?” “Do you mind? Give me some privacy please. I will be as quick as I can.”

The evil creature. Just like her malicious nature to put him into this position. He went into the lounge to pour a drink from the hard tack table while he waited. A questioning bang on the door after a (very) brief wait was answered by more yelling. So, he went back to the lounge and sipped his drink 26 A Man Called Stan while he watched Bob’s prize fish swim around. Then brilliance struck. He stood on the neighbouring chair and started pissing into the fish tank. Ah, the relief. Stan groaned in pleasure. “Stan!” The scream broke his reverie.

He turned around, still pissing, drawing a circle of yellow in the thick white carpet. His piss trickled to an end while he stared at a shocked Brenda, who had dropped her glass because of her already mentioned shock and was staring at him as goggle-eyed as one of the fish in the tank, in which the water quality had suddenly deteriorated. Just then he heard voices approaching. It was Bob speaking. “It’s OK Jane, don’t worry about Stan. You know how your friends care for you, regardless.” Yeah right. Cared for her ass. Stan hated Bob at that moment. The hated one continued. “Let me show you the new additions to my collection. Watching my fish always relaxes me.”

Bob and Jane entered the lounge, to see Stan standing on a chair, seemingly holding his dick out to Brenda, who was rooted to the spot. With a roar, Bob rushed over to Stan, pulled him off the chair and punched him in the eye. Stan stood up, put his dick in his pants, and made no attempt to muster his non-existent dignity. He looked at Jane, who shook her head. Thanking his hosts for a wonderful meal, Stan left. He stumbled to his car and drove away.

Later Friday Night Stan gently felt his eye while he drove. It hurt. A black eye was a certainty. Quite a catastrophic turn of events really. Stan was drunk and depressed. There was only one possible course of action. He had to get hideously drunk. He wanted oblivion and he knew where to find it. At the bar. Compelled by his base drives he drove there, drawn no less strongly than the tide is by the moon.

The bar was pleasantly full. Teeming with inebriated activity but not too crowded. Wasn’t that an empty stool at the counter? It was. A young lady was knocked to the floor in Stan’s rush for the stool, but the end justifies the means. The end in question was a prime position for getting pissed. While he waited for the bartender, he studied those who were flanking him on the front a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 27 line. On the right was a woman here with her ugly friend. The woman was pretty but too fat. Stan liked them lithe, but he could still appreciate a woman who was a lot of woman. This one however was about thirty kilograms overweight, which was beyond his boundaries. She saw Stan looking at her and smiled a smile that was meant to be alluring but was pathetic instead. Stan grimaced politely and turned around. Before he faced left, he faced forward, which meant that he was facing the bartender, which meant that he got a pint. Gulping it he looked to his left and saw a scrawny middle-aged man looking completely despondent. Stan introduced himself and asked what the fuck his glum face was for. The man stared at Stan. Stan explained that he had come here to drown his sorrows and if the old boy had the same plans then they could do it together. Teamwork makes for a job more thoroughly done. The morose man stuck out his hand to shake on the deal.

He was Winston and he too sought a state close to a coma. They took turns to buy drinks and swap tales of misery. Each drink was toasted with a fresh and profound shout… “To good men who get it bad” “To a perfect world where women wanted to please men” “To booze, man’s real best friend” etc.

Stan felt warm brotherly affection for this man. Their toasts became explosions of male bonding, with drink and spit and sentiment sprayed everywhere. They supported each other to the urinals and threatened the kids who took their seats in their absence until they scurried away in fright. And they got stupefyingly drunk. Stan listened to Winston’s tale unfold… A year ago, his life had been great. He had it all. Fine wife and family, a home to be proud of, and a prestigious job. Then a new employee had started working under him, a pretty blonde. He had slept with her in exchange for office advantages. He wistfully recalled the deal. She was young and firm and “hard-working”. He was forty-five and thought that his life was now perfect. One tragic day his wife had walked into an unexpected scene. He was leaning over his desk, his pants down. His young assistant was naked, masturbating him and slapping his skinny, hairy ass with a ruler. Stan groaned at the horror of it. For such a fun activity, the results had been disastrous.

His wife had left him. The courts had been unsympathetic. He could hardly see his children and had paid her all he had, including the house and 28 A Man Called Stan the good car. There was more. He had originally got his job because the director was a friend of his wife’s family. This friend now saw to it that both he and the girl were fired. The girl would no longer speak to him. At forty-five years old and unable to get a good reference, he could not get another decent job. He was currently a manager at a fast-food outlet, where his superior was twenty-seven. Winston started sobbing, and Stan sobbed with him. They wailed at how tragic life is and how women are the evil curse sent to plague all good men. They cursed women and downed their drinks. Stan turned around to get some more. While he waited, he ogled the porky woman again. Was she really that fat? At least she was young, about eighteen. No Stan, you are not that desperate. He turned back to Winston. Winston was asleep on the counter, snoring lightly. Stan looked stupidly ahead of him, slightly at a loss. A plump hand rested on his thigh and asked if he wanted a drink.

Stan turned and looked into the round, simpering face and saw someone longing to be taken advantage of. He was the man to do it, but not in quite the manner she was hoping for. He would drink her purse empty. He smiled and said, “Yes please.”

Stan could be charming if he tried and free booze was just the incentive needed. He oozed charm. Quick smiles, a brief touch of her knee or hand, or giving fake insights into him as a man. The butterball melted. He must be careful not to go too far. He did not want to touch her beyond a casual brush. He wanted to get rat-assed drunk, and he wanted her to pay for it.

It is an hour later. Winston is still asleep with his head on the bar counter. Stan is kissing the overlarge lady. He is worried that she is going to swallow his tongue; the woman is frantic. Stan is wondering why he is mashing a breast bigger than his head. No, this crap must stop. He was not having this. Neither was the bartender. “Hey you, you filthy bastard! Take your hand out of that girl’s top.” “If I can find it”, Stan answered honestly. “Don’t get smart with me, you asshole. I have had enough of you for one night. You are a fucking disgrace, even worse than you normally are. Get the fuck out. I can’t handle anymore tonight. Piss off. NOW!”

The bartender made no references to “Don’t come back”. Over the last year, Stan’s drinking had bought him a new wide-screen TV, which was his a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 29 pride and joy. But Stan still got on his tits. He could really be a nuisance. Many a customer had been outraged by Stan’s behaviour. From stealing their drinks to pinching their girlfriend’s butts. Stan got thrown out at least once a month. So, tonight was within the parameters of usual, except that Stan was unusually drunk. Considering he always tried his hardest, this was quite impressive. Less impressive was the fact that he was groping this tubby tart that the bartender knew was still at school.

Tubby helped Stan lurch to the door. Once outside he fell onto the pavement, face first with a bit of a bounce. A hefty hand picked him up and strong arms held him while he dimly heard a voice ask if he wanted a lift home. Stan would have driven back himself, but he could not keep his eyes open. More importantly, he could not find his car. He could not even remember what colour it was. He accepted the lift. This resulted in him being manhandled to a green pick-up, still shiny with newness. The door was opened, and he got pushed in like a suppository. The chubby chick started driving and asked his address. Stan slurred an answer. Fortunately, she knew where it was, as there was no way that he could have given directions. He would not have been able to find it himself. She spoke to him, but Stan was concentrating on keeping his insides inside of him. After a while she pulled up outside a building Stan vaguely recognised as the block his apartment was in. While he was trying to thank her, she started kissing him, or rather devouring him. No wonder she was overweight if this was how she used her mouth. He could picture her eating manner–a disgusting image.

She stopped probing and sucking the helplessly paralytic Stan and asked if she could come upstairs. While she asked, she licked his ear like a dog would and put her hand in his pants and started groping him. This must stop. Stan told her how it was, with all courtesy. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but you are wasting your time. I wouldn’t feel my dick if you hit it with a hammer. If you will please pardon me, I must get to bed, and you can not come along.”

Rather, that is what he tried to say. Being utterly pissed, he mumbled only a few words of the slurred sentence with enough clarity and volume to be heard. These words were, “…I…rude…feel…dick…please…me…bed…you…come along.” 30 A Man Called Stan

The plump girl giggled in anticipation and put his hand up her top. Then, shockingly, she bent down and started sucking his dick. Oh dammit, no! Stan lifted his free hand meaning to grab her frizzy hair and yank her big head off his prince, but he did not have the strength or the co-ordination. His hand just rested on her head, seemingly in encouragement. She reacted and her enthusiasm grew. This was making him sick. He was unable to move and this unacceptably large girl was nibbling his knob. He felt violated. He tried to yell “Rape” but all that came out was an “ah” which sounded erotic and encouraging to those fleshy ears. Then, for the second time that night, Stan reached heights of sheer brilliance. He turned his head and puked out of the window, loudly and convulsively.

She pulled her head away so fast that her teeth scratched his dick down the length of it. She opened his door and threw him out, luckily with enough force to travel further than the vomit, landing just beyond it. As she drove away Stan lifted his head and with strands of vomit dangling from his mouth called out, “What, no goodnight kiss?”

Stan laughed to himself for a while as he lay there on the floor, next to his puke. For the second time that night he stood up and put his dick back in. Or at least, he tried to. Tucking it away while trying to stand was too complex an effort to co-ordinate in his current condition, and he collapsed in failure. He crawled up the steps on his hands and knees, a bit bemused that he was doing this again after having promised himself that never again would he sink so low, this time with his penis swinging along as he crawled up the stairs. After missing thirteen times he got his key into the lock, opened the door, crawled in, and fell asleep on the floor, with his feet still sticking outside the open door, and his scratched dick curling out his pants and lying on the floor. At least he was home, and alone. And in a coma.

Saturday Early Afternoon Stan woke up and found himself in Hell. This was definitely what the hellish realms were like. The physical pain was so excruciating that every moment of existence was torture, and the soul was in panic as it wondered despairingly how it would cope. He lay there gathering determination and opened his eyes. a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 31

The floor greeted him together with the added pain behind his eyeballs. With barely discernible movement he looked around. Oh, thank God, he was home. He would not have been capable of making his way home from some gutter in this weak condition. He closed the door and noticed that his dick was out. As he put it away, he noticed the scratches. What?!?

He tried to piece together events until he recalled the event in the car. He started chuckling until blinding pain threatened to make him brain dead. Shit, this was going to be an awful few hours. Moving slower than a queue does when you are late, Stan headed for the bathroom. He knew what he had to do and knew clearly how terribly it would hurt. Groaning, he knelt in front of the toilet, held his head with one hand and stuck the other down his throat. He threw up until he could go no further for fear of ejecting his internal organs. He was crying in agony. He flushed the toilet and started running his bath while he rinsed his mouth and took five aspirins.

Dissolving in a hot bath he thought about Jane. So, it was over, in one night. She was probably furious. He would phone her in a week or so, give her a chance to cool down first. A lot of his stuff was at her apartment but he could not go to fetch it now. Sentimental in his hangover, he thought of all the good times they had shared and allowed himself to feel sad for a while. He reflectively soaped his balls. By the time he climbed carefully out of the bath, he had finished grieving. So, he was single again. It felt strange after such a long time. He got dressed and nursed a cup of coffee and took five more aspirins. The next cup of coffee left him feeling almost human again. His stomach growled its anger at him. That was what he needed to complete his hangover cure. Some greasy junk food. They say the oil in such food is good to settle a stomach reeling from overindulgence in alcohol. It is not often that one has an excuse to indulge in that kind of eating behaviour, and the opportunity should not go wasted.

After searching the entire neighbourhood twice, Stan had to admit that his car was not here. That fat bird must have driven him home. Oh well, it was not too far to town. The walk would do him good. He walked to town, thankful that it was a cool and overcast day. In town he found his car parked illegally near to his regular bar. No surprises there. Next item on the agenda, food. His stomach churned in the fast-food outlet. Those smells! While studying the menu, a bleary-eyed middle-aged man who looked like 32 A Man Called Stan a scarecrow with a hangover came up to him and pumped his hand in an excited greeting. “Stan, Stan, it is so good of you to drop in. You did mention that you would come visit me at work, but I did not expect you to keep your word so soon. What a night that was last night, hey? Have whatever you want, on the house.”

Stan had no idea who this old dude was, but he was not going to argue with booze-breath. His name tag said “Winston” which meant nothing to Stan. On the house hmm? He ordered a double cheeseburger, fried chicken, spare ribs, large fries, onion rings, large cola and a chocolate milkshake. The old boy was noticeably less friendly as Stan walked out with his huge bag of food. While driving with his precious passenger of a parcel of food, Stan was tormented by the smells. He was drooling so much that it was overflowing his mouth and dribbling down his chin. Not able to hold out for the whole journey home, he stopped at a park halfway to his house and headed for the nearest bench. He started with the burger. Oh yeah! It was fortunate that the park was empty because Stan made for a sickening sight as he guzzled his food. He would fill his mouth again when he had managed to chew or swallow it down to half full, interrupting the cycle only to swig cola or belch. A huge, reverberating roar is more descriptive and accurate than “belch”. Finished, he leaned back and sighed with satisfaction. With a face splattered with chicken fat and secret burger sauce, he sipped his milkshake in a reflective mood.

Now that he had eaten, his consciousness left his stomach and returned to his life. Stan became more melancholy with each heartbeat. He felt bleak. He looked around at the day. The sky was sullen and grey. No lively breezes were stirring. The clouds hung oppressively over him. The light did not have enough energy to unlock the colours in the plants around him, with even the most vibrant flower appearing drab. This weather was an expression of his mood, like a facial expression. As he thought this, it immediately began to rain. Heavily and with no warning. Stan sat in it without moving, wet, bedraggled and pathetic.

He thought about what he could do to improve his mood. He was free, after all. He did not feel like going out tonight, not after last night. His sister! She was always inviting him over, but he always had better things to do (often Jane). He would go visit his sister, get a free meal and a few beers. He would a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 33 have to tolerate her family, but he could manage that abhorrent task. Leaving his litter on the bench out of pure and inexcusable negligence rather than intent, he went home to phone his sister.

After a minutes ringing, “Hello, it is Suzi speaking.” “Hi Sis, it is Stan here.” “STAN! It is great to hear from you. We haven’t spoken for ages. How are you?” This was precisely the kind of warm family treatment he needed. “Sis, you know you always say I should come around? Well, I am free tonight. Can I come over for dinner?” “Gosh Stan, that is a bit of a short notice, don’t you think? How about next week?”

Stan knew his older sister. She was a good woman. He also knew how to work her – use emotion. “Well Sis,” he spoke in a purposefully faltering voice, “Jane and I ended things last night and I feel kind of sore. I don’t really want to be alone tonight, and there is no-one I would rather be around than my sister.” That did the job perfectly. He was definitely to come over for a barbecue that night. But there was more. “Stan, why don’t you bring Junior along? I haven’t seen him for ages either. I worry about him. Sometimes he just seems so strange. Will you fetch him? His phone was cut off, he didn’t pay it. I don’t know what he does with his allowance; he gets more than enough for him to be able to afford his phone bill. He is so irresponsible, that boy. What, you’ll get him? OK, that’s lovely, see you later.” Sis could be a bit much.

There was time for a quick nap. Stan used the opportunity wisely.

Later Saturday He woke up with his pillow full of drool. Why did that always happen if you slept in the afternoon? Using his sleeve to mop up his chin he pattered to the kitchen. He sipped some coffee while he slowly gathered his thoughts and reconstructed his thinking processes. Not that there was much activity at present. He felt better though. This would be a pleasant evening, just what the 34 A Man Called Stan doctor ordered. A quiet family barbecue. He finished his coffee and started preparing himself for public. In other words, he sprayed on deodorant.

Stan knocked loudly on the door of his younger brother’s apartment. He heard hurried noises inside and then a nervous voice asked, “Who’s there?” “Relax Junior; it is just me, Stan. Open the damn door, huh?” The door opened and Junior hastily beckoned Stan in and closed the door. The pungent aroma engulfed Stan. “Dammit Junior, open some windows in here. It reeks.” “I can’t bro, the neighbours complain.” Junior spoke in a drawl that barely made it to the end of each sentence. “Junior! Look at you!” Stan was startled by his brother’s appearance. Junior was smaller and thinner than Stan was. His black hair was shoulder length and matted. He was pale beneath his tan with eyes that were swollen and bloodshot, and he seemed to sway on his feet slightly, although that could have been an illusion. Stan asked if he had done anything that day apart from smoking weed. Junior replied that he had not, yet he considered it a day well spent. It was Saturday, after all. Stan asked him to accompany him to the barbecue at Sis.

“A barbecue. Bro, don’t you know that meat is murder? You know like, the rainforests in South America, yeah? And like, how they are being chopped down, yeah? For cow farmers, for beef, for BAR-BE-CUES. It’s bad man. Bad. Yeah.” This would have been a passionate speech except that it was delivered so slowly and quietly that it almost put Stan to sleep. Junior continued at his leisurely pace, “And I’m way too toasted bro. She would freak. And her family piss me off, yeah? And besides bro, my buddies are coming over to try my new bong out. I spent all day on it bro, making it and testing it, and improving it, and testing it, and…. Hey, why don’t you hit it with me, yeah? Where did I put it now, when you knocked? Yeah bro, yeah!”

It had been a mere two minutes since the knock on the door and the hiding of the evidence, but it took five minutes to find the bong again. Obviously, someone’s memory was not working too well. Stan was impressed with it, once it was found. a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 35

Quite a contraption, all tubes and bottles. Junior puffed up with pride as he explained it. “You put it here, yeah? It goes from here, to here, through here, up here, down here, out here. Flavoured water bro. You’ll try it, yeah?” Stan had not smoked this herb for years. It would be kind of fun, especially with his brother. Sorry, his bro. He did not see much of him, and what could be more “quality time” than this? He told Junior to prepare it while he went to fetch some beers from the fridge.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake Junior!” Stan attracted his younger brother’s attention. It was obviously necessary that he gave a lecture regarding domestic issues, “Look at this fucking kitchen! Shit, the state of it. Fucking hell, you dirty asshole. When last did you do dishes? Look at the mould in this! For fuck’s sake!” Junior explained how he only washed his dishes when ALL of them were dirty, to save precious resources (Stan suspected that this was more to save the little energy that the lazy bastard had than to save water). He still had a clean soup-bowl, out of which he was planning to eat tonight’s dinner of fried eggs. Tomorrow he would do his dishes, and wash everything he owned in the nature of cutlery and crockery. Stan told him that was a crock of shit and that he was a filthy pig, but that Stan was starting to worry what his own kitchen would look like now that Jane was gone. Oh yeah, tell hippie here, “I left Jane.”

“Oh, that’s heavy man. Will you give me a light? I’ll go first.” Well, Junior was definitely not going to smother him with sympathy. Stan watched with fascination as the thick smoke found its way through the intricate maze to Junior’s eager lips. Stan was impressed again with the huge bellow of smoke that Junior expelled. This was fun. Stan did likewise, on a smaller scale. He felt like a student again. Another, bigger this time. Yeah! He and Junior smoked a few loads on the bong, and it was great. The performance of a ritual that was social because of the sharing involved and also contained other elements, deeper and less obvious. Stan saw the time and stood up quickly to leave. Woah! He held onto the wall while his head spun around on his neck. His vision dimmed and Junior laughed. His vision returned and Stan swore at his giggling brother as he left the apartment. 36 A Man Called Stan

Stan took the scenic route to Sis. What a nice time of day this was. The sun was near setting, and the scenery was gently lit as if the air itself was glowing. The afternoon rain had washed everything to a pristine prettiness. The day was positively sparkling and Stan was soaking it up. He switched the radio on, and the bass caught him in the stomach while his head started bobbing to the groove. He was utter contentment as he drove along. This weekend was recovering after a shitty start. He was in a mellow mood, which was perfect for a family barbecue. Stan burst out into song as the sun broke from behind a cloud and filled his car with light while a woman’s voice soared sublimely through the chorus of the funky song that was playing. Not that his singing improved the song at all, but it did make for a cheery atmosphere in the car. He drove slower and slower as he neared his sister’s house and felt a pang of disappointment when he reached his destination and had to park his car. His growling stomach then reminded him that he was pleased that he had arrived, and why. Food. Lots of food. And beer. Lots of beer.

While Stan struggled with the gate to their house, his sister and her five- year-old son came out to meet him. Stan got through the gate after a brief argument with it that ended in violence and greeted Sis. She was looking good, although a bit tired. He felt wet mucous against his leg and presumed it was the abominably ugly bulldog, unimaginatively but appropriately named Butch. To his horror he looked down to see his nephew hugging his leg and rubbing his running nose against it. “You snotty bastard!” Stan yelled in outrage as he smacked him across the ear. Predictably the little goblin ran crying to his annoyed mother. “Stan, don’t you lay a hand on Cecil. Or use that language”, she rebuked him. “Sis”, Stan explained carefully, “That boy is a little shit. He needs to be disciplined and you obviously do not. He deserved punishment there. And in case you had not noticed, the creature definitely qualifies for being called snotty.” Affectionately patting Butch, his favourite member of his sister’s family, they headed for the house.

Her husband Max was a bear of a man, who crushed Stan’s hand in his handshake, as he always did. Stan interrupted his polite greeting to ask for a beer. A cloud seemed to pass over the host’s face before he smiled and went to fetch it. When Stan was alone with Sis, she asked where Junior was; at the same time the expression on her face grew distraught as she recognised the smell on Stan. Was Junior on drugs? Why did Stan also smell? What was a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 37 going on? Stan told her how he had arrived to find Junior’s apartment full of longhaired druggies. He had chased them all out, warning them never to return. Then he had given Junior a scolding and a few belts for good measure. Junior was now in bed sleeping it off, after tearfully promising to never again fall into such filth. Stan concluded, “Discipline, Sis. Discipline. I’ll eat his food, by the way. So as not to waste.”

Max brought his beer and took him to greet Max’s mother, Nana. Stan despised Nana. The wrinkled old prune seemed to think that Sis was barely good enough for her son, and Stan did not appreciate the disrespect this showed for his sister. Even worse, she doted on the atrocious Cecil. It was Stan’s theory that it was mostly her fault that Cecil was such a bastard. “Hello Stan, you don’t look very well, do you?” she croaked.

Stan bit back the mob of answers that sprung to his lips and greeted her civilly. He asked Max for another beer, and then suggested that it would be easier and quicker if he just fetched them himself from now on. As he got up, Nana started berating him, “You really should not drink so much. Look at Max, how flat his belly still is, and he is a decade older than you are. And it is not even your beer. Where are your manners? I have never seen such a demanding guest.”

Stan imagined himself smashing his beer bottle and stabbing her viciously with the broken neck. With that vivid picture in his mind he was able to smile sweetly at her on his way to the beer. When he returned, he chatted to Sis and caught up on her life. More of the repetitive wife and mother nonsense. Suddenly Nana started gagging and cursing Butch. At first Stan thought that he had the delightful honour of watching Nana have some serious fit, but then he realised that Butch had farted. It was also evident that Nana disliked Butch. Stan’s heart swelled with love as he looked at the mutt. His jowls hung low and his drool hung even lower. He seemed to be beaming with pride and joy. Stan leaned closer to congratulate him but almost retched all over him instead. That smell was truly awful! Stan looked at Butch with disbelief now. Butch held Stan’s gaze while a soft sighing came from behind his stocky rear. He wagged his stump of a tail frantically to herald the new arrival. Watching Nana go pale, Stan pinched his nose closed, leaned over and patted Butch. Good work deserves praise. 38 A Man Called Stan

Stan stood outside with Max while he barbecued. Max was not too bad, but Stan could not quite forgive him for coming out of the body of that hideous hag, and for having spawned that despicable creature called Cecil. Maybe the hatefulness was recessive and had resurfaced again in Cecil. They talked about sport and watched the meat cook. One thing about Max, he was skilled at this particular endeavour, as previous feasts had shown Stan. Stan mentioned this and Max swelled visibly. That had gone down well, but the next beer would undoubtedly go down better. Stan went to fetch them each a fresh one. On the way to the kitchen he came across Cecil twisting Butch’s ear. Stan could not accept his friend being treated in this manner, especially after his fine work of this evening. He sneaked up and harshly twisted Cecil’s ear while he snarled into the other one, “Doesn’t feel so good, does it? You nasty little brat.”

The brat’s screams brought his mother running into the room. Once there, the wails described how Stan had hurt the little boy. Stan denied even touching the bastard. He swore that he would never touch Cecil out of his own free will, as the condition might be contagious. He blamed the screams on Cecil’s manipulative plans to get attention and suggested a child psychologist.

He stayed in the kitchen with Sis and Nana while Sis made the salad. Nana’s criticism of Sis and her methods was endless: “Don’t add onions, because then Cecil honey won’t like it.” “Didn’t your mother teach you how to do this properly?” “I know that Max doesn’t like it that way.” “How many times have I explained to you how to do it the right way?” Listening to this, Stan grew furious at her. He downed his beer, took another and went to join Max before he acted out his stabbing fantasy. Poor, poor, Sis.

“So, Max, what are you going to do about Cecil?” Max was confused, “What do you mean, ‘…do about Cecil’? Do you mean what are our plans for his future? We have considered what school he should start at, and the local school has a good reputation. Otherwise, he is still a bit too young to be making plans about his…” Stan interrupted this foolishness. In an exasperated tone he corrected the man, a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 39

“No, don’t be stupid, I meant how are you going to fix him? You can’t have him going through life like a little troll, can you?”

This, unsurprisingly, began a rather heated argument. Wisely, Stan hid his view that Cecil and Nina were the embodiment of a malignant strain of DNA. How could Max believe that Cecil was a feisty, loveable boy? He was a rotten monster.

Seated later at the table, the monster asked where Stan had received a black eye. Stan spun a gripping tale where he had been at a bar last night and had seen some drunkard be rude to a woman. Stan had taken exception to this and a fight had ensued. The other man was in hospital, and he was lucky that his friends had saved him from worse. Stan explained that a real man always defended a woman’s honour. He could feel Sis smiling at him. The dinner was magnificent, marred by Cecil asking his mother why she was not shouting at Stan for eating so messily, while if he ate like that he would get shouted at. Nana, never one to miss an opportunity, answered with venom, “Your Uncle Stan is disgusting, you are right Cecil dear. Your mommy does not shout at him because it is too late to change him, but that is why she tries to train you to eat nicely, so that you don’t end up like this pig. I am not only talking about his eating habits, either.”

Stan put down his knife in case he could not resist the very powerful urge, which was threatening to overwhelm him. The release…

They all went outside for a breath of fresh air before dessert. It was a fine night, mild and clear. The conversation did not exactly stir Stan, especially when it revolved around Cecil’s endearing qualities. When Max went to the bathroom Stan wanted to fetch himself a beer, but Cecil insisted on fetching it for his Uncle Stan. There was hope for the kid yet. Stan thanked him genuinely when he handed Stan a full bottle of beer, before downing half. Cecil burst into giggles, announcing, “I poured some out and wee-weed and spat in the bottle.”

Stan slapped him across the ear. As Cecil scampered off laughing gleefully, Stan lost his temper and hurled his half-full bottle of beer (and other less appetising liquids) at the speeding figure. This action was taken primarily as a symbol of frustration and anger, and the ensuing damage had not been 40 A Man Called Stan intended by Stan, as the pinpoint accuracy was a surprise. The spinning and half-full bottle hit Cecil on the back of the head, dropping him in his tracks and turning the laughter into anguished howls. Cecil ran to his mother and clutched at her dress for comfort. There was blood. Oops.

Before he could start apologising to Sis, Nana started screeching at him. That was it. Stan turned towards the witch and let her have it. “I’ve fucking had it with you, you old bag,” he began, enjoying himself already. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t know how Sis can stand you, you dry wrinkled bitch. Why don’t you give her a break and go to an old age home where you belong, with all the other wrecks? How dare you poison them with your presence! You are a putrid pestilence.” That pretty much summed up his thoughts. A tap on his shoulder made him turn around. The huge Max was standing there. His immense fist crashed into Stan’s face, sending him down hard.

Stan got up and turned to Sis. With extreme politeness he informed her, “Sis, I love you, but your whole family are a bunch of fucking asswipes. Except for the dog.”

Stan left.

In the car on his way to town, he felt his eye. Much worse than last night’s punch. Great. Now he had matching black eyes. He would look like an idiot all week. He thought about the last two nights. Such different circumstances, such similar outcomes. He had not even lasted until dessert either night. That was also a pity. At least he had not needed to put his dick back in when he had got up off the ground tonight. This was a definite step upwards, that was something positive. Stan admitted to himself that his behaviour must have been slightly jarring. Most people do not get punched every night. His two shiners had not been picked up in the street. Both of them had been obtained at a private residence when he had been an invited guest. But no one should have to endure what he had the last two nights. What was wrong with people?

As he went through town, he recognised a new green pick-up parked across the road from his regular bar. It was the one he had been thrown out of last night. He slowed down as he drove past the shiny vehicle, and then a few years before STAN SOCIALISES 41 looked for a parking spot. Not finding one, he parked on the yellow line and walked towards the bar, slightly sick about what he was going to do tonight. Or, more accurately, who he was going to do tonight.

Fuck it.

When you are in the gutter, you may as well wallow. Chapter 3

much later

STAN GOES ON A PICNIC

Morning There was no use denying it to himself. Stan was now awake. This was heralded by the various aches and pains scattered around his body that promptly said “Good morning” to him. He could not complain too bitterly about them, as at eighty-three he was lucky to be waking up at all. He could still complain a bit though, and he did so poetically as he gently prised his weary body from bed. He stood up and took some deep breaths and did a few stretches, in the way his wife had once taught him. Stan looked at his little bed with a forlorn expression, remembering the days when he had easily slept through a full revolution of a clock’s hour hand. These days he was lucky to sneak in a few decent hours. It was one of the many curses of old age. Oh well, he philosophised to himself, he should be glad that he was awake to see any of what must surely be his last days. Shrugging on his bathrobe, he was thankful, as he was every morning, that he could still bathe himself. He was a very private man and hoped that he would never suffer the indignity of someone else soaping his testicles. Not at this age, when there was no possibility of extenuating circumstances.

- 42 - much later STAN GOES ON A PICNIC 43

Shuffling down the hall of the old age home to the bathrooms, a smile lifted one side of his mouth as he looked down at the ridiculous pink bunny- slippers his grandchildren had given him for Christmas. Even at the slow pace with which he was making his way to the bathroom this morning, the ears flopped with each step. Every morning as he walked down this institutional corridor, he would look down at his bright pink feet, and his spirits would lift at the reminder they provided of his family. At this very late stage of his life, his family was all that he cared about. They had always been important, but as he had grown older his career and other matters had faded away until they no longer meant anything. Both his son and his daughter had married well and borne him grandchildren who gave him the greatest pleasure of his great age. He loved and was proud of his children and their children. He saw both families fairly regularly, and today he was going to spend the day with the whole lot of them together. This was not by chance. They knew what today was, and what it meant to him.

He was relieved to open the bathroom door and find the room empty. Stan liked his peace. Also, naked old men were not the very prettiest of sights to wake up to. Droopy balls before breakfast and coffee was a lot to handle. He draped his robe and towel on a chair and went into one of the specially built showers, padded with rubber and ringed with a support bar. It was for the specialist facilities of this sort that he lived in an institution for the aged. He still preferred showers to baths and had not hurt himself yet. He had fallen a few times but had not told anyone. They would have wanted him to stop showering, and he did not want to. He was a stubborn old man, and he knew it. He stood under the stream, gathering himself. He would need all that was left inside this worn out old soul until nightfall ended this day.

When he carefully got out of the shower, he saw a friend of his being bathed, and shouted out a friendly greeting. “For God’s sake Harvey, put that disgusting old body away. I haven’t had my breakfast yet, you nasty old bastard. At this time of the morning, my constitution is still too delicate to deal with what is in front of me now.” “Shut up Stan, you senile fuck.” Harvey was extraordinarily foul mouthed for his age, and was Stan’s best friend in the home. He was chubby and cantankerous, cheated at cards, and was good company while waiting to die. He called Stan over to talk to him, and as Stan got near, an explosive fart rebounded off the enamel bottom of 44 A Man Called Stan the bath, sounding like cannon fire and then boiling to the surface. The poor attendant drew back in annoyance and horror. Stan asked the man,

“Please stand aside dear sir; I am going to piss into this oxygen thief’s bathwater.”

Stan aimed his wrinkled dick between Harvey’s feet and laughed at the startled reaction. Harvey flailed around in the bath desperately trying to get out of the soon-to-be contaminated water, splashing everywhere and looking very much like a harpooned whale. Stan did not unleash his vengeance but went to his towel and robe, warning, “You are lucky Harv. It was not that I felt mercy for you, but at my worthy age it takes a while to piss, kiddo.”

Harvey was seventy-five, and Stan often treated him as an ignorant youngster, just for the sheer fun of it. While drying himself Stan listened to the attendant cursing them as being worse than children are. Harvey was calmly explaining to the young man how at their age they were allowed to regress, as it was natural, and a privilege accorded to them by society. Harvey went on, suggesting that if the attendant ever reached such a venerable age, he would probably be involuntarily shitting his pants every few hours, and as such should be filled for respect for them and their prowess at this advanced age. Stan walked to his room chuckling over Harvey and grateful for the distraction.

In his room, Stan dropped his robe and looked at himself in the mirror. Damn, he was old! His skin was shrivelled, and his body had shrunken in upon itself. He was slightly stooped over and just plain frail. He looked like you could easily snap him with one hefty blow with a club, which was true. At least he still had a lot of his hair. None of his teeth though. He smiled a sunken, gummy smile and laughed at his reflection. What else could you expect at eighty-three? After dressing in his smartest clothes he combed his hair and put his false teeth in after washing them in the basin. He looked at his reflection again and winked at it. Pretty darn sharp for an octogenarian.

Stan hurried to the eating hall. As he had planned, he was early and there were only a few people already there. He was not in the mood for conversation. He helped himself to some orange juice, cereal and yoghurt and sat at a corner table, alone. A few diners were surprised that he did not join them, but they did not press him. Stan ate his breakfast quickly and silently. Unlike Gabby, much later STAN GOES ON A PICNIC 45 who was partially paralysed from her stroke a year ago. An attendant was feeding her lukewarm porridge and she was noisily slurping it up with half of her mouth. She had always been a woman with grace and dignity, and now she sat with food leaking all over the lower half of her face. Stan included in his prayers every night that he would die rather than end up like that. He wondered what Gabby’s feelings about the matter were. It is right to fight for life, but sometimes a life is finished, and everyone should accept that and move on, rather than prolonging it until the last physically possible breath. The person may be alive, but the life is finished. Like Stan’s breakfast was now, so he went back to his room.

He brushed his dentures with them in his mouth, as if they were his real teeth. He much preferred doing it that way. Preserving a semblance of the normality of life. He dried his hands thoroughly before opening the bottom drawer of his cupboard. Gently he took out a small hardcover book. It was covered with blue velvet and he rubbed the fabric with his thumbs as he stared at the closed book. This day was the only day of the year upon which he allowed himself to look at it. Only once a year, but its contents never left him.

As he passed its entrance Harvey called out to him from the dining hall. Stan popped his head back around the door and saw Harvey, who had scrambled egg pasted all over his chin. This mess, however, was due to an urgent appetite rather than any physical disability. “Want to meet in the games room for some cards Stan? Maybe you can win back some of your money.” Stan shook his head in answer. “Why the fuck not?” Harvey was curious to know. “Have you got something planned that is better than basking in my sunny company?”

Still silent, Stan held up the book. Harvey’s face instantly became more serious, as did his voice, “Shit Stan, I didn’t know it was today. Come to me later if you need to talk, OK?” Harvey was a good friend. He understood. Stan nodded and walked on. He did not trust him- self to talk right now. He was feeling too emotional.

He exited the building and stood in the mild morning sun, letting it warm up those tired and brittle bones. Holding his face to it and closing his 46 A Man Called Stan eyes, he felt the breeze on his dry cheeks. He sighed and walked along the path, the crunching of the gravel underfoot incongruously loud in this still morning. The dew lay on the grass, sparkling in the sun like diamonds, but as fleeting as a diamond is lasting. The grass was so brightly green it was almost in bad taste, and the sky was a pale, washed-out blue, as if it had not yet woken up properly. Soon Stan reached the bench by the pond and sat down. Big, fat, lazy goldfish swam around in it, with no worries and no memories. Maybe there was a connection between those two characteristics.

Stan looked down at the book in his lap. The moment weighed heavily on him. He was exceptionally aware of his surroundings, and even more so of what was inside his mind. It was as if time had paused, and he was experiencing to the full this moment of eternity.

He opened the book, and there she was. His wife. God, how he had loved her. He still did, the passage of time had not diminished the emotion in his heart. The page showed a photo taken shortly after they had started seeing each other, but Stan had already fallen madly in love. He paged slowly through the album, savouring every photo. She had been so beautiful, especially through his eyes. He stared into her eyes on the pages now, and his chest and throat went tight. The next page was filled with wedding photos. He had been so excited that day! A momentous occasion in his life, and he had recognised it as such. He looked at his young and beaming face and brushed away a tear from this old and seamed face. But this old man had known a deeper love than that young man had yet conceived of. Stan’s love for her had transformed him. It had been the highest and purest thing in him. His love had driven him to better himself. She had deserved the very best, and while Stan could never be worthy of her, the very least he could do was become his best. Over the decades he had improved, a little every day. His life had been based around being a companion for her, providing whatever she wanted or needed from him. She had filled his empty life with herself, simply by being the wonderful woman that she was.

Stan looked at photo after photo, noting when the wrinkles had begun but remembering how his love for her had increased with every day that they were together. He paged back to a photo of her in a skimpy bikini. She was wet from the sea, one hand on her hip, and wearing a smile both seductive and sweet. Stan remembered that holiday, when their daughter had been conceived much later STAN GOES ON A PICNIC 47 on that island break. Not too surprising, considering how they had spent their nights. He had even stopped looking at other women after they had been married a while. If he had her, he did not need anything else. He paged on, and the memories came to him easily. The fight they had wildly had that one night, and the joy when each of their children had been born. By the time he came to the last page, his cheeks were wet with tears. It was the last photo of her. The two of them were standing with a grandchild whose birthday it was. She never saw the later grandchildren. This was one of the multiple nuances to the pain of his loss.

By the end of the course of their relationship his love for her formed the substance of his days. It was mature and developed, yet still as fierce as when he had first fallen for her. One day they had been sitting in the living room, listening to music and talking. He had gone to the kitchen to make herbal tea and had returned with two cups full and some cake. He clearly recalled putting the tray on the table and turning to face her, and then trying to process what he was seeing. The moment when he had finally realised that she was dead had been the most awfully painful of his whole life. People say that at first there is shock and the real pain only sets in later, but he had felt it in its entirety in that first moment. He had fallen to his knees and hugged her legs, crying from the depths of his soul. It had taken an hour before he had phoned anyone, an hour where Stan had drowned in the grief flooding his being. That had been ten years ago, today. She was only sixty-five then. Stan had been profoundly devastated; shell-shocked like a man who has returned from a war that he had entered as an innocent. Not long after her death, he had sold the house and moved to the “Sunny Days” old age home. It was a decent enough home, and he had just lost the will to lead a life for himself anymore. It was all he could manage to just exist and go through the motions every day, with all his basic needs cared for. At first, he had sunk into bitter gloom, until after the passing of many dreary months he had realised that she would be unhappy with his despair. As always, he found the strength to be how he should, if it was for her. Now he just missed her. Terribly. So, he waited his last days out in patience, looking to the day when he would be reunited with his love.

Stan sat on the bench for a while, oblivious of the sun shining on him or the day around him. He gave up a short and heartfelt prayer for his wife. Sitting by the pond until he was sure that his eyes were dry, he then stood 48 A Man Called Stan up, with much cracking of dried out joints accompanying a long, drawn out sigh. He returned the book to the drawer for another year, and then he went to look for Harvey.

Midmorning Harvey was in his room, clipping his nose hair. This was a task more essential than it sounded. When you looked at Harvey, you understood that gorillas really were the cousins of men. The mat on his shoulders was more luxurious than that on his head. But the gruff exterior hid a gentle soul. “Look who’s here. The sentimental old twat. Are you OK Stan?” he enquired with all sincerity.

Stan said that he was, and that the kids were coming to fetch him for the day. He went on to say that his kids had arranged with the home that another resident of “Sunny Days” could join him for the day with his family. It was the normal policy of the home to only allow residents out with their own family, but everybody liked Stan. That might not seem like a logical explanation, but it meant that he could get away with a bit extra.

“That’s great!” Harvey enthused, “Where are we going to eat? Wow, real food, not the shit we get here. I can’t wait. How should I dress? Where is my church shirt?” Stan broke it to him gently, “I am not inviting you, you idiot.”

Harvey was somewhat put out. “What! Why not? I suppose you think that I am going to call one of your grandchildren a little shit. Well, I won’t, unless of course they are. In which case they would deserve it.” Stan explained the reason, which nearly pacified Harvey. Harvey’s children came for him from time to time, while there where many oldies here who had not left the premises for years. Some of them had no-one left, but, more often than not their families preferred to leave them forgotten in ‘Sunny Days’. Stark reminders of mortality are uncomfortable to be around. Especially when they need your time and attention.

“So, who are you taking instead of your EX best friend?” “I have arranged with Wanda.” much later STAN GOES ON A PICNIC 49

“Aaah, I see. Fuck friendship if you can get a piece, huh? She’s not bad though. You tiger you.” “Shut up you imbecile.” Stan answered, and then elaborated, “Unlike you Harv, you sick pervert, I cannot find any woman over 70 attractive. The physical body is just no longer a thing of beauty, and I cannot imagine any intimate interaction with it being pleasurable. Maybe if my eyesight was as bad as yours, things would be different. I simply feel sorry for her. She is a nice old biddy, and she hasn’t heard from her family in three years. They only live an hour away. Anyway, I just popped in to say bye. I’ll see you at suppertime. And every other dammed day. For the rest of our lives.”

“Oh Stan, you hypercritical cretin. You pass it off as if your aesthetic sensibilities are offended, but really this just demonstrates how superficial you are. Beauty comes from within.”

Stan glowered at him, wondered whether to debate it further, then decided he did not have the appetite for deep intellectual discourse today, turned around, and left.

“Give her one for me!” Harvey called down the corridor behind Stan’s stooped over back.

Later Morning Now here was a woman he would have loved to give one to, if he could be a few decades younger and she could be tricked into it. The delicious nurse Bella. He was here for his check-up, standard procedure before day release. They made pleasant small talk about his trip and family while she listened to his heart, took his blood pressure and looked in his eyes and ears. He surreptitiously admired her constantly. She was of Italian extraction and exquisite. Tall and graceful, but awesomely voluptuous. Dark, glowing hair that glowed with an inner fire. Big brown eyes that were limpid pools, shaded by long lashes. A proud nose and a beautiful, sensuous mouth. He could just imagine it pouting after a lovers’ squabble.

He was going to chance it. Why not? He cleared his throat, “Miss Bella?” “Yes Stan?” Such quivering attention. 50 A Man Called Stan

“I was wondering if you would do a small favour for a very old man?” He ventured, trying to adjust to perfection the timidity in his voice. “What is it, Stan?” She was curious.

“Well, I was wondering if you would show me your breasts.” There was astonishment but definitely also amusement on her face. He hurried on, “The thing is, I’ve always loved breasts, but it has been decades since I saw a real live pair in good condition. I am sure that yours are terrific, and it would warm my heart so much if I could see yours in all their glory. I am feeling rather down, and need a reminder of how beautiful life can be. You know it is not because I am a lecherous old…”

“Oh really?” she interrupted, “I am not so sure about that. Every female member of staff here has had their ass pinched numerous times by you.” “Miss Bella,” he pleaded, “That is just for fun. To put a smile on your faces. It must get dreary working with all of these dinosaurs all day long.” “I notice that it puts a smile onto your face too. I have also seen that all the ladies here are fond of you. I don’t believe that you are missing so much.” “They are too old. I want boobs in their prime.”

She got up abruptly and went to the door. He was going to be kicked out. At least he had tried. No, wait, she was locking the door. YES! His heart rate rose higher than it had in years. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit….

“Turn your chair to face me, Stan.” Stan obeyed, instantly. The fastest he had moved for years.

She slowly unzipped the front of her uniform up to her navel and pulled her arms out of the sleeves. Without ceremony or embellishments, but at a pace that built suspense, she undid her bra and looped it off with one hand. She placed it on the desk and stood with an arm over her breasts. Slowly she dropped the arm and stood in front of Stan with her hands at her sides and her shoulders back.

She took a step forward and took his shaking hands, drawing them towards her and placing them on her chest. With utmost reverence he felt their tantalising weight. Nurse Bella took his head and drew it to her bosom. much later STAN GOES ON A PICNIC 51

Stan was near tears. One breast was squashed against his face, the other was held up by his hand. For a minute she stroked his head, and then released him. Like a schoolboy pecking his aunt on the cheek, Stan kissed a nipple before drawing his head away and leaning back into his seat. She laughed and got dressed. For once, Stan was lost for words.

Five Minutes Later… Stan walked on legs that were threatening to buckle underneath him at any second. He supported himself by reaching out to the wall of the corridor, and leaning against it when he wobbled. As he passed the Sitting Room, the gap in the wall formed by the door caused him to stumble into the room, only just managing to not fall on his face. He stood upright with great care, trying to resume normal breathing, as he had not had a proper breath since Nurse Bella had locked the door, and saw Wanda sitting on a chair in front of him.

“Oh Stanley, “she proceeded to gush, “There you are! I have been looking all over for you. Oh, I am so very excited. Have you seen what a gorgeous day it is? The weather is just marvellous! The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and we are going out into it. Oh, have I told you how excited I am? I am so very excited. How do you like my dress? It is nice, isn’t it? I haven’t worn this dress for seven years Stanley, but I put it on for today because today is such a special day, and I am so very excited. Will I be warm enough, do you think? Or should I maybe take a jersey? I suppose I should take one. Well, as a matter of fact, I do have one with me. It is always better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it? Especially at our age, our blood is so thin we get cold very easily, and it is not good for our health to get cold. Our health is so fragile at this age; we really do have to protect it as well as we can. We aren’t young anymore Stanley. What time are they coming to pick us up Stanley? I am ready now, but I can wait. I have been ready for ages! Stanley, is there something wrong? You look very pale Stanley, as if you had seen a ghost or something shocking. Are you all right? You had better sit down, Stanley.”

Stan felt as if he was drowning in this torrent of chatter. It was too much. In a weak croak he answered, “Hello Wanda. I am fine, really. I just need to lie down a bit and get some rest before they come to fetch us. They will be here in an hour. I will come and meet you here. Is that OK?” 52 A Man Called Stan

He braced himself as she opened her mouth, “Oh yes Stanley, that is quite alright. I will play solitaire here and wait. Please do get some rest. You look simply dreadful. Have you had your check-up? Did the Nurse say that you are fit to go out for the day? To tell the truth, you don’t look up to it. I am very excited about going, but I wouldn’t want to if I thought it was going to endanger your health. Do you want some camphor rub or some smelling salts? Or how about some castor oil? The old ways have stood the test of time Stanley. I am not always sure about these new methods. And that Nurse Bella, she seems too young to have much of an idea what is going on. What do you think of her Stanley, do you like her? I see that you are nodding, I suppose you are right, and we should give her the benefit if the doubt. You are so kind Stanley, always giving people a chance. I have just had an idea Stanley. Maybe I should wear a shawl instead of a jersey. But shawls are so “old”. Then again, I am old. Ha, ha, that is funny.”

It was going to be a long fucking day. In her defence, it had to be said that Wanda was not normally so excruciatingly chatty but as she had said, over and over for weeks, she was really excited about today’s excursion. Stan turned his back on her and walked out of the room, battling through the incessant chatter as if he was wading against a strong current. He finally broke clear and escaped into the private calm of his room. Ah, that was better. He closed the olive-green curtains with the orange paisley pattern splashed all over it and lay back on his olive-green bed. He drew a few deep breaths and closed his eyes and saw images of his parched and wrinkled face being held close to soft, smooth, luscious breasts. He was going to bask in this vision for the next hour.

Lunch “Hello dad.” His son Paul was waiting for him at the reception desk. Very fortunately for Stan’s children, they had inherited their mother’s looks. Paul was a striking man, tall, with well-knit limbs and a shock of thick blonde hair. His eyes were a piercing blue in a face composed of clean and graceful lines. Stan still felt mild disbelief that his lumpy features had fathered such a fine specimen of a son, but his temperament had clearly carried over in the temperament of both Paul and Paul’s son, Stan Jnr. Stan did not like to play favourites but his namesake was secretly the grandchild that he was the most taken by. A loveable imp. Paul’s older child, a startlingly pretty child named Nicolette, much later STAN GOES ON A PICNIC 53 took more after Paul’s wife, Stacey. All in all, they were a gem of a family in the age of the dysfunctional family unit, and Stan felt the pride welling up in him as he looked at his first-born son, “Hello, son.”

He introduced Wanda to Paul and watched Paul charm her completely in a few seconds. That’s my boy! Paul explained to them that all the rest were going straight to the picnic site, and that he alone had come to fetch them. He signed the register and they left through the front door of “Sunny Days”. Stan watched Wanda as they walked towards the car park. She had not been outside of these grounds for years, and she looked as if she was about to burst. Stan caught her eye and was flashed such an exuberant smile that he felt really pleased with himself for having invited her to join him on this day. It would have been a blast with Harvey, but this was the right thing to have done. Besides, he was too old to have a hangover. They reached Paul’s luxury sedan and seated themselves in air-conditioned, leather-upholstered comfort. Paul put the radio on quietly and they drove away from the institution. Even though “Sunny Days” was run by caring people and real effort was made to look after the needs of the residents, both old passengers felt as if they had just been released from prison.

“So, Paul, fill me in on the family news. How are you all doing? I must say you do look fit and well. Drinking less?” Drinking had been one of the genetic traits in Paul that had assured Stan of his paternity. “Dad, things are going really well. I am starting to make my presence felt at work and am taking better care of myself. Stacey pretty much forced me too, but she was right to do it, because I feel much better being healthier. She is doing great in her course and will be giving classes as of next year. Nicolette is starting to blossom, you will see today. The boys are going to start noticing soon. I am already worried Dad. You are going to have to give me some tips on how to deal with it. My sister was a looker, so you know what I am about to go through. As for little Stan…”

“What?” Stan jumped in, “What about him?”

“Dad, I know that you two have a great relationship, and I love that, but I wish that you wouldn’t encourage him with some aspects of his behaviour. 54 A Man Called Stan

Remember when you told him about how you used to put drawing pins on the girls’ chairs, and they would sit on it and get jabbed in the butt and jump up shrieking? Well, he followed your example. Except that he did it to his teacher. I am glad you think it is funny, Dad. Mrs. Downer certainly did not, and neither did Stacey when she was called in for a parent-teacher meeting.” Stan failed in forcing the necessary toughness into his expression. After a short and thoroughly pleasant drive, they arrived at the picnic site, and went to meet the family.

“Daddy!!!” shrieked his daughter Jamie as she raced towards him and gripped him in a fierce bear hug. What a precious thing she was. He knew that an objective onlooker would describe her as delightful in appearance. A blonde waif. Light as a feather but an ongoing nuclear explosion. He hugged her with tears brimming and then greeted both families in a joyful and frantic five minutes. He shook hands with her husband Sebastian, who looked like a professional wrestler but worked in insurance, gave Stacey a kiss and then swooped on the horde of five grandchildren. Paul had been truthful; his kids were looking fine. Jamie’s were also glowing with health. She had two older boys and a younger girl named Gavin, Greg and Gloria. They were sweet kids, and noticeably more subdued than Paul’s. Stan supposed it had something to do with being raised in the house of a man who worked in insurance. Stan introduced Wanda to everyone. Jamie’s middle kid, Greg, asked immediately, “Is this your girlfriend, Grandpa?”

Stan was about to deny it emphatically when he saw Wanda giggle with delight. Well, in a way she probably was. So, he just told Greg that she was a very good friend who he liked a lot and dived into the sea of children. He sat on the grass and let them climb all over him. This was living. Stan Jnr. pulled Gloria off Stan’s lap by her ponytail and sat in her place, beaming up at him with a gap-toothed grin. “Grampa!” Ah, the abject adoration. Nothing quite like it. Stan played with the kids for a while and then went to join the adults, wheezing for breath. The children started tossing a Frisbee about, or at least they tried to. Stan watched it wobble into the air with Gavin running after it, and then sat down contentedly with the others.

Wanda and Stacey were already engaged in deep conversation. Women were amazing like that. Stan mopped his brow and then asked Paul the sacred question, revering the words as they slowly rolled out of his mouth. much later STAN GOES ON A PICNIC 55

“Could I have a cold beer please?” He held the cool bottle in his hand and held it to his sweaty brow. Even on the outside, it was refreshing. Now for the real thing. With a slow, measured motion, he brought the bottle to his lips. In perfect synchronisation, he leaned his head back and tipped the bottom of the bottle skywards. The amber liquid rushed through the neck of the bottle as if it was eager to pour down his throat. Although maybe not quite as eager as the throat waiting to receive it. Which it presently did. Dammit, that was fantastic. Due to the non- availability of alcoholic drinks in “Sunny Day’s”, it had been months since he had last indulged. Quite marvellous really. Feeling strengthened, he turned to his daughter and caught up with her about her family. Sitting in the sun, surrounded by people who meant a lot to him, he felt very much at peace. As he was thinking this, Jamie stopped her chatter and asked, “Dad, how are you doing? Are you coping with today?” Stan could honestly answer that he was, and that he was going to enjoy this afternoon. He did not tell her that every smile would have pain behind it, as did every day.

By the time they settled down to eat, both Stan and Wanda were a trifle tipsy. Wanda was giggling and Stan was slurring, and both were the better off for it. The food was abundant. Cold meats and chicken, sandwiches, salads and fresh rolls. Apart from minor incidents, like Stan Jnr. hitting his cousins over the head with his chicken leg, it was a jovial affair. Wanda choked on a piece of potato and spluttered impressively for a while, but a stupendous whack on the back from Sebastian soon cleared her airways. Stan was surprised that it did not snap her spine in the process, but it did not seem to have done her any harm.

Dessert was dished out, and all the children buried their heads in bowls of ice-cream. Stan Jnr. got a quick smack for flicking choc-chip ice cream at the other children and the adults finished off with a glass of whiskey. Then the children clamoured for a story from their grandfather, and clamoured is definitely the correct word to describe their persistent pleading. Stan relented and sat himself on a picnic chair in the afternoon sun. The children gathered expectantly at his feet and the adults rearranged themselves onto the seats nearest to him. Stan wiggled his butt to get comfortable, and then began his story. 56 A Man Called Stan

“It was morning in the forest. It was well into Spring, when all the flowers are blooming, and all of the animals are having babies. In this forest was a clearing, with a great big tree in it. The sun was streaming into this clearing and the whole forest was waking up. On a branch of this tree, a little bird was chirruping happily to herself. The leafy branches were hanging down, wet with dew, and this little bird was bathing herself by running through the wet branches and then vigorously shaking herself. When she was clean, she stood on a twig in the sun and preened herself, still warbling merrily.

This little bird had been waiting years for a mate. Her family had disappeared, and she had been alone for a long time. She was desperate to have children, and still more so to have some company. Even birds get lonely. She had watched the squirrels playing together in the clearing, taking such extravagant delight in each other’s presence, and her little heart had ached. She was a pretty little bird and wanted a husband to look at her with an appreciative eye. She wanted a strong bird to fly in the sky with, and to whom she could snuggle up at night. All this time, she had been alone.

This morning she had woken up, and suddenly realised that her loneliness was over. The bird she had been waiting for was going to arrive today. They were always meant to be together, and today he was finally going to arrive. She knew this as well as she knew that she was a bird. Animals know these things. As she was singing to the sun of her happiness, the greatest happiness of her life, the stone hit her. It crushed her delicate little head, and she fell off her branch onto the floor.

The boy came running out with a whoop of joy. He ran to where she had fallen and picked up her still warm body. She was only a handful. The boy headed for his home. He was dressed in rags and very dirty. His bones stuck out, and he was obviously not very well fed. He got home to their hut and gave the bird to his mother, very proud of himself. She said that it was a bit small, but she would put it in the soup for tonight. She ruffled his head and told him that he was a good boy. He asked if he should tell his father, but his mother said no. He was in a bad mood again and should not be bothered.

It had not always been so hard in their house. They had been a happy, comfortable family. Then one day his father had suffered an accident and could no longer work. Now he sat and drank most days, and had become a much later STAN GOES ON A PICNIC 57 bitter and sour man. He sometimes hit the little boy for no reason and hit his mother too. They boy hated it when he did that. The boy knew that the father used most of what little money they had for drink, so there was none for food. Even though he was nasty, the boy still loved him. He was his father, and he had not always been like this.

Evening came, and a bird flew into the clearing. He landed on a branch in the big tree and triumphantly announced his arrival. He sang his story to the sunset and the trees. He had a strong and lovely voice, and the whole forest listened to his song. He sang of all the years he had been searching for a mate, until he had covered the whole land. He had found no -ne and had started to think that he was the last bird of his kind. Then, a few days ago, he had felt the call he had always been waiting for. Since then he had flown continuously until he had arrived here, not stopping for food or rest. Now he was here, to finally meet his beloved.

Night fell, and the bird was still alone in the clearing. He called out for the little bird who was to be his wife, but she did not appear. Slowly, he began to realise that she was not going to come. He sang of his sadness to the night. He told of how he was the last bird of his kind in the land and could find no mate. He sang of a lifetime of loneliness, longing to share it with someone, and how cruel Fate was that he had never found her. His song was so beautiful that the Moon sank lower so that she could hear more clearly, and the Moon cried as it listened to the sad song of the little bird, thankful that he always had Mother Earth to sail through space with. The squirrels in the big tree listened to the song, brushing each other’s tails as they listened, grateful that they had a partner.

The little bird sang on and on. He sang of how he no longer had any wish to live a life of loneliness, and he could not go on. He came quiet, then filled his tiny lungs and sang out, “Farewell…” He held the last note with all of his energy, and it rang through the forest until his heart burst and he fell from the branch. It was suddenly very silent in the forest.

In his wooden bed the little boy was lying awake. His ear was aching where his father had hit him alongside the head. This had happened because the father had liked the soup with the little bird in it and had taken the boy’s 58 A Man Called Stan soup from him. The boy was hungry, and had been lying and listening to the lonely and beautiful song of the little bird. It had touched him, and he was sad when it stopped. He felt alone in the silence.”

Stan looked around him. His grandchildren were very quiet. Some were crying. The story had definitely put a damper on the proceedings. Paul spoke, “Yeesh Dad, couldn’t you have been a bit more cheerful? Anyway, it is time to go.” They packed up, Stan managing to slip something unnoticed into the pocket of his jacket. Paul drove Stan and Wanda back, with Stan Jnr. and Gloria accompanying them. Stan looked into the rear-view mirror from the front passenger seat and saw Gloria holding Wanda’s hand. That was sweet. When they got to the home they got out and the two Stan’s hugged each other fiercely, with not a dry eye between them. Gloria went to Wanda and gave her a clinging hug too, whispering, “I like you, Auntie Wanda.”

Paul signed them in, said goodbye, and was gone. It was just the two oldies and the receptionist in the foyer. Stan walked Wanda back to her room. Fortunately she was no longer gushing, but back to her more sedate self. “Thank you, Stan. I had a fabulous day. I think you know how much it meant to me. I am really grateful to you. Some colour back in life, you know? You have a wonderful family. Goodnight Stanley.” She gave him an affectionate embrace and a swift peck on the cheek, and then turned around and went into her room.

“Open the door now, you geriatric geek.” Stan was knocking at Harvey’s door. A sleep-befuddled version of Harvey opened the door with a jerk. “Are you fucking mad? You leave me here all day, and then you come and wake me up! What, do you want to gloat or something? Fuck off.” “I brought you something Harvey.” “Leftovers? At this time of night? I have already had dinner, shit as it was. No thanks, asshole. Like I said a few seconds ago, fuck off.” Stan entered the room, closed the door and took out the small bottle of whiskey he had pocketed at lunch. You were never too old for a hangover. Harvey apparently felt the same way. “Wahoo! Stan, forgive me. You are the truest friend a man ever had. Sit down please. Let me get some cups.” much later STAN GOES ON A PICNIC 59

Harvey was under strict doctor’s orders to absolutely avoid alcohol, but Stan knew it was ridiculous to try and dodge Death at this age. Also, Stan did not want to lie awake tossing and turning tonight. After rummaging through his room, Harvey put his dentures in and rinsed the plastic cup they had lain in. Stan refused to use that cup, but fortunately Harvey had a second cup hidden in the room, against regulations. They filled the orange plastic cups with whiskey and sat down to drink. The result was pretty predictable. There is no need to describe in detail the noisy and sentimental road to drunkenness that these two old codgers travelled down fairly swiftly. Stan fell asleep on Harvey’s bed, and Harvey fell asleep on the floor. They woke up hating each other and life itself.

A Few Days Later It had been a melancholy few days since the “anniversary”. Stan had been distinctly lacking in a zest for life. He did not feel like being in this paltry institutional existence. Each day came and went and when he evaluated it at its end, it was as if it had never been. Waking up every morning to a day that you knew was going to pass you by without fulfilling you in any way was hard. He had needs, like every other human, and having them go constantly unanswered was very wearisome for the soul. Sometimes he had to use all his energy and concentration just to prevent himself from breaking down. A breakdown that would have seemed to be for no apparent reason; but was in fact something that he had to fight against every minute. He felt pretty dull and did not see a way out of it. These thoughts circled around Stan’s head as he shuffled down the corridor towards the Nursing area. From the outside he looked blank, but within was an entity experiencing a profound state of being. This entity reached a door, knocked, and entered when summoned.

He entered the Nurse’s office for his monthly check-up. It was a different nurse, which was good as he was not yet ready to face Nurse Bella again. He sat dejectedly while Nurse Simmons looked him over and answered her questions with a voice flatter than a runway model’s chest. She asked him with concern, “Are you feeling OK, Stan?”

He looked at her with an appraising eye. She was very different to Nurse Bella, but also very pretty in a severe kind of way. Red hair drawn tightly back, bright blue eyes and flawless, pale skin. The mouth was a rather bright 60 A Man Called Stan pink. Her body was slender, saved from boyishness by a few feminine curves. Quite attractive really. Stan smiled for the first time in a while, and asked her with a sparkle in his eye, “Miss Simmons, I was wondering if you would do a favour for a very old man.” Chapter 4

a long time ago

STAN DOES IT

Friday Morning Stan woke up with a hard-on. This was not surprising, as it had happened fairly regularly (always) since his thirteenth birthday. Which meant that for the last four hundred days he had woken up every morning with a raging boner. He lay in bed; groggy with sleep and unaware of anything except the monster bursting out of his pyjama pants. As consciousness eventually claimed him as a victim he stretched and yawned, his willy standing straight up like a totem pole when he stretched. Now awake, he pulled down the covers and peered at the tent in his pants. He then flicked his pants down and looked with some pride at his exposed member. Compared to a year ago, it had grown substantially. In all honesty, it looked impressive enough. He would have been less pleased with his situation if he had known that the phenomenal growth of the last year was the last growth he would ever experience down there. When fixed to a fully-grown adult body as opposed to a little boy, the reduced ratio would make it appear far less striking. But Stan was blissful in his ignorance as he grabbed his buddy by the base and wriggled it so that its head went around in circles. Totally engrossed in this absorbing pastime, he was blasted out of his reverie when his mother opened the door. Ripping the covers back up, he stared at his mom, stunned.

- 61 - 62 A Man Called Stan

“Good morning Stan. I must say, it is a pleasant surprise to see you awake already. Normally I have to drag you out of bed twenty minutes after you were supposed to be up. Stan, are you all right? You look a bit pale and strange.” “No mom, I am OK. I just had a nightmare.” A nightmare it definitely was, to be caught by your mom with your erect dick in your hand. Fortunately, it appeared to be that she had not seen anything amiss. Even more fortunate that she had not come into his room five minutes later, as Stan would very likely have been too busy to notice his mother, and his activities too busy to not be noticed. The thing was, when you were a kid with all these drives running rampant through you, you had to do something to not explode. Which Stan sometimes felt perilously close to doing, especially when Mary Jane was around. Mary Jane was the sister of his best friend, Fred, and she was much of the reason that Stan spent such a great deal of time at Fred’s house. It was not just to hang out with Fred, but also to be in her scintillating presence. But now Stan had to get ready for school. Fucking great. So, he got up and got dressed in a couple of minutes.

On his way to the kitchen he had an ever-lasting pee, after which he splashed some water onto his face to wake himself up and onto his head to try and calm down his hair. A spray from the deodorant can, and his toiletries were done in two minutes and he was back on track for breakfast. If you can call a bowl of chocolate-coated puffed rice “breakfast”. Stan did. He sat down at the table, still trying to gain control of his senses. As he sat there in a slump of sleepiness, his little brother took a handful of porridge and rubbed the cold mess into Stan’s ear. With predictable results, which is probably exactly why he did it.

“Oh, fuck Junior! It is too early for this shit.” Stan was understandably upset. “Stanley! What kind of language is that? I did not raise you to speak that kind of trash. You never heard that from me. Do you really think I want to hear that first thing in the morning?” Stan’s mother was not impressed. “Oh mom, don’t you think that maybe Junior is the one you should be speaking to? Did you see that he put porridge in my ear? I was just sitting here, eating my breakfast, and he started on me. Do you think that I feel like that first thing in the morning?” Stan felt hard done by. “Well Stan, no wonder he does that kind of thing if this is the kind of example you set for him, swearing at the breakfast table. You know how Junior a long time ago STAN DOES IT 63 looks up to you. You should behave in a way that will be a good influence on him. You aren’t helping me you know. Raising three children and working is very difficult. Sometimes I think no one appreciates how difficult. Certainly, none of you try to make it any easier.”

Not even chocolate-coated cereal tastes good when your ear is being chewed off like that. Stan’s chewing slowed as he listened to the outpour until his jaws ground to a halt and he swallowed what was in his mouth, regardless of how far it was in the chewing process. He dropped his spoon with a purposeful clatter, pushed back his chair briskly as he stood up, and walked out of the room, his breakfast hardly touched, mumbling, “What a crock of shit.” “Stanley! What did I hear? Are you being cheeky to me? Come here Stanley, I am talking to you.”

Stan walked back into the kitchen and stood in the middle of the floor. His shoulders drooped and his head half hung, although he was looking up at his mom. With an expression that carefully said that he was resigned to all of the injustice in the world, Stan said in a monotone drone, “Mom, I don’t feel like having any more breakfast. Circumstances have made me lose my appetite. Please don’t delay me with conversation; I am going to be late for school. I am going to go into the bathroom, brush my teeth and then go to school. See you this afternoon, Mom.” As he turned, he gave his little brother a stare that implied that physical pain was imminent. With his nose in the air, Stan stalked out of the room like a cat whose pride has been damaged by being sat on.

Perfect calm was maintained until he closed the bathroom door. The instant it shut he started hammering the wall with his fists, cursing horrifically yet quietly as he fought with his frustrations. After a brief bout, he stood away from the wall and drew a deep breath. While he brushed his teeth, he tried to relax himself until venom was no longer dominating his gaze. He tried to give his reflection a friendly smile. It looked warped instead. He practised until he was satisfied that his mood was under control and the mask was safely back on. Grinning insincerely at his reflection, he left the bathroom and went to wait for the school bus. 64 A Man Called Stan

Friday Mid-Morning “Will you boys keep quiet?!” Stan looked at the cantankerous middle-aged man who was glaring at them with utmost annoyance. Fuzzy eyebrows came together over bleary eyes, and a handlebar moustache hung down from a pouting mouth. Stan looked at this monstrosity and then back down at his desk. In later life there is no feeling quite like getting a scolding at school, a fact that would have cheered Stan up if the thought had then crossed his mind. It did not. But Fred did poke him in the ribs.

“Hey booger-boy, you haven’t heard the rest of what happened in the movie yet. Then this huge dude comes in and says…” “Shut up Fred! I don’t want to get into trouble with Mr. Seagal again.” Fred was a chubby redheaded lout called, inevitably, Red Fred. He was also Stan’s best friend. And of course, the brother of the delicious Mary Jane. “Aw, what’s the matter? Is little Stanley afraid of the big scary teacher?” Fred could take condescension to the level of an art form, and frequently did. “I am not listening to you Fred, you shit.”

“Stan! I can see that you are talking. I have just asked you not to speak in my class, but you ignored me completely. Come here, immediately.” This was bel- lowed out at Stan, the effort raising the whiskey veins on the teacher’s nose until they stood out like an embossed design on silver. Stan started to protest but quickly realised the futility of it. With that awful sinking feeling, he stood up and walked to the front of the class. Being caned in front of the whole class is something that is definitely not experienced in later life, but again this thought gave Stan no solace as he walked down the row of desks to the front of the class, mainly because again the thought never crossed his mind. His mind was at the moment preoccupied with the beating he was about to receive, and some very dark thoughts regarding the nature of life and humanity. He stood before the blackboard and looked at the miserable fuck in front of him.

“Yes sir, what is that you require?” Stan’s face was set with an expression of stoical suffering that had already been worn today, even though it was not yet ten in the morning. Life as a teenager can be hard. a long time ago STAN DOES IT 65

“How dare you continue to be cheeky to me boy? Have you absolutely no respect for your elders and betters? I will teach you a lesson, by God I will. Bend over and touch your toes.”

Stan stared at the teacher without moving a muscle in his face and after an intentionally uncomfortable period he slowly turned around and bent over. At least he was showing his asshole to the asshole holding a big stick. He chuckled at that thought as the first blow landed. Mr Seagal asked,

“Ah, is the big boy crying already, after one little tap? Well, there’s five more to go, you baby.” Stan laughed out loud as the stick landed for the second time. The situation was just too ludicrous, he could not help himself. This had an interesting effect. “Good God boy, are you actually laughing at me? I will teach you to be afraid of me.” As the teacher hit Stan harder and harder, Stan laughed harder with him. The more painful it was, the more he had to laugh. This stirred Mr Seagal into a blind fury until he was beating Stan with no regard to the situation. After the thirteenth shot, Stan turned around and declared, “Well Mr Seagal, I do believe that six lashes are the legal limit for a caning. Seeing as we have reached thirteen, I suggest that we cease now. The next time you feel the urge to hit me we can both remember that I got six in advance today. The thirteenth one you can keep for free, just as a bonus because I know how much you like it. Even though you are not supposed to and pretend that you do not.”

With that Stan walked through the desks to the back of the class, brushing the tears of laughter out of his eyes. The dumbfounded faces of his classmates followed him as he made his way through them. He opened the door at the back of the class and left without even a glance behind him. The door was gently shut as he strode to the bathroom with a measured pace. He pushed this door open and walked to one of the cubicles.

“FUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!” he screamed as he kicked the cubicle door. Over and over again, he screamed the word as he kicked at the door, smashing through the thin wood. Eventually he tired and stood with his hands up against the doorframe, leaning on it, panting slightly and muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” 66 A Man Called Stan

After a few minutes he had caught both his breath and his temper. He returned to the class and sat down quietly, totally ignoring the teacher but looking blankly ahead of him with a polite smile plastered on his face.

Friday Afternoon “Stan bra, you are a legend. I have never seen anything like that before. That prick couldn’t believe his ears. You were laughing at him as he gave you your lashes. You showed him what you fucking thought of him! Top shit man.”

Red Fred was overjoyed by his buddy’s performance. The reputation of their little gang had just received a much-needed splash of coolness. And he had also enjoyed it just for what it was. “Fred, how many times must I tell you? I didn’t fucking do it on purpose. I just couldn’t help it.” “Listen Stan, no one laughs by accident. But don’t worry man, I am proud of you. Well done. Anyway, shut up, we are here.” Fred pushed open the gate to his house, where Stan spent most afternoons. They could get up to a lot of shit here. Fred’s mom was not always in, and even when she was, she was not as strict as most parents. She was in today, and greeted them as they entered the house. Fred’s mom was not yet forty and made every effort to look younger. She wanted to get remarried while she could still hook a big catch with her looks. Fred’s dad had left when the children were still babies. He had not wanted the responsibility of raising a family so had left her to do it alone. Although he sent a hefty alimony payment every month so that she could give the kids what they needed (they were spoiled), she still wanted a father figure for them. Stan thought that she probably wanted some company too. She told them that lunch was ready and then said that she was going to her room to have a sleep. She took a lot of tranquillisers and anti-depressants. They were also informed that Mary Jane was getting ready to go out with her boy-friend, and they were not to disturb her. Fourteen-year old boys tended to irritate seventeen-year old girls.

The boys sat down to lunch, something rare in this house. At least, rare that it was prepared by an adult. Peanut butter sandwiches prepared by Fred tended to form the fare, but this was a tasty deviation. After lunch Fred announced that he was going to also go and have a nap. After calling him a lazy fuck (some a long time ago STAN DOES IT 67 youngsters are very foul-mouthed), Stan said that he was going to take a swim and lie outside in the sun. Soon he was floating around in the pool, mulling over his day. The swim refreshed his spirit as much as his body and he was happy as he stood on the paving and dried himself. The irritations of the day had been washed away. Something caught his attention and he paused. What was that splashing sound? The pool water had settled down, and wasn’t that singing? With a jolt he recognised the voice as Mary Jane’s and realised that he was listening to her bathing. His heart leapt into his throat as he looked at the bathroom window. The blinds were angled open. Silently, not quite sure what he was doing, he crept to the window. The top half was open. Holding his breath, he peered inside. There, lying naked in all her glory, was the gorgeous Mary Jane.

Stan’s heart was trying to hammer its way through his ribcage. This was unbelievable. Oh, look at that! She had just finished working up a nice lather, and now was running soapy hands all over her smooth body. Stan hyperventilated as he watched her wash her fine breasts. Then she started washing her crotch and although it was in a businesslike manner, the effect on Stan was stupendous. Ah, now she was lying back with her eyes closed, softly splashing water all over her body to rinse off the soap. This was his chance to get a perfect look, with her eyes closed. He put his head through the window and soaked up the vision. At this moment there was a tap on his shoulder. In absolute shock Stan pulled his head through the window, banging the frame loudly with his skull in the process. From inside the bathroom came a splashing sound and a sharp “Whose there?” Oh shit.

“It is just me honey. I am going to pull your window a bit shut, OK?” Fred’s mother closed the window and looked at Stan. Stan looked down until the sight of the bulge in his swimming briefs made him decide it might be less embarrassing to look up. Oh shit. This was an utter fuck up.

He held his hands uncomfortably in front of his costume and looked at Fred’s mom. What could he possibly say to her now that would help? If only he could think of a valid excuse for sticking his head through the bathroom window and watching her daughter bathe. He did not chastise himself for a lack of creativity though. Some challenges are more like inescapable defeat. Better get it over with then. “Uh, hello Carolina.” 68 A Man Called Stan

“Hello, Stan.” The expression on her face was as set in stone as those worn by ancient statues found on remote islands. Making him squirm was the intention, and it worked. Stan decided that there was no point in denying what was blatantly obvious.

“Look, I am really sorry; I don’t know why I did it. I didn’t plan it or anything. I was just getting out of the pool, and heard her, and couldn’t help myself. I have never seen anything like that before. I know that’s no excuse but…” “We can’t discuss this here Stan. You don’t want Mary Jane to hear, do you?” Stan definitely did not want his infatuation to hear of his disgrace, so he followed Fred’s mom with his head bowed. Damn. Now he was going to get told off again, as had happened all day. He could not take much more of this. But it had to be admitted that on this occasion he did really deserve it. Time to be apologetic.

“I don’t normally do things like this. I know it is an invasion of her privacy, and I respect your daughter more than that. It is just…” He could not think of a way in which to describe the effect that just the thought of Mary Jane’s naked body had on him, an effect that made it almost impossible to resist the urge. So, he just stood there with the forlorn expression of the accused. None of the arrogance of this morning’s encounters was apparent now.

“It is OK Stan, I do understand.” Stan looked at her in surprise. Her mood had definitely softened. “I just wanted to give you a fright by appearing to be angry, to teach you a bit of a lesson. You must not do things like that Stan; I hope you remember that. It is not respectful.” She had to interrupt herself to smile because Stan was nodding so vigorously. “But I do know what it feels like to be a teenager. I was also young once. It might not seem like it, but I can relate to you more than you think. You have just started getting these urges in your body and they are driving you crazy. Well, I have these drives too, and since Charlie left me, they tend to drive me crazy sometimes. I know what it feels like to be frustrated. Hmmm…”

She looked at Stan for a minute with a thoughtful expression on her hand- some face, and then dropped her bathrobe. She was naked underneath. Naked a long time ago STAN DOES IT 69 and statuesque. The natural dark tan colour of her body permeated every inch of her skin. She was smiling and her white teeth flashed in a dashing smile. Her breasts were ripe and full, with a perfect areola the colour of a dark pink rose petal, which offset her dark skin tone perfectly. A neat thatch of black hair rose up from between her legs. It was an ideal image of a mature and attractive woman, and that sight burnt itself deeply into Stan’s brain. For the rest of his life, he would be able to recall that image with absolute clarity and revel in the wonder of it.

Now this was absolutely fucking unbelievable. Stan had never seen a naked woman in real life before, and today he had seen two within five minutes, both of them of high aesthetic quality. To make it more incredible, the second one was standing naked in front of him and even knew that he was there. He looked at her, stunned.

“Stan, please breathe, you look like you need air. I did not mean to shock you so badly. I just acted on a decision. We can help each other Stan. We both want the same thing, and we can provide it to each other. I know I am older, but I also know I am an attractive woman. When will you ever get a chance like this again Stan? And I can teach you a lot, believe me. When you start getting the girls at school into bed, they will think that you are amazing. Don’t you want that, Stan?”

Stan needed no convincing whatsoever. He was just too stunned to move or even speak. He tried to explain this but barely managed a croak. Fortunately, she interpreted the situation correctly and walked over to Stan and pulled down his costume. She put her arms around Stan, at first just hugging him and then drawing him tightly against her. He had never imagined that a woman would feel this fantastic. He grabbed a boob with one hand and her bum with the other and squeezed both quite hard. Oh wow. Only having to bend over a little bit, he nestled his head between her bountiful breasts. Heaven. As he started kissing them, she reached down and grabbed him. Just a few delicate strokes later he erupted into her hand. She looked at her hand with puzzlement quickly followed by disappointment and stood back.

“OK Stan, the first thing you are going to have to learn is to wait longer than that. Much longer! I wonder if this was such a good idea. Maybe you are not ready yet. I think we had better forget this.” 70 A Man Called Stan

She picked up her gown to put it on. Please God, no, she must not. “Carolina, wait! I was just excited. You should take it as a compliment. Besides, you forget what young boys are like. That doesn’t mean its over for today. I promise you, if you give me another five minutes, I will be ready again, and this time not so trigger-happy. Please. I beg you. From the bottom of my heart.” She dropped her gown again. Yes! That is always a good thing, a female becoming less clothed. “OK Stan, come lie with me on the bed. I want to teach you something while we wait.” She led him by the hand to her bed.

An hour later Stan walked out of her room and jumped into the pool. He would never be the same again. Now life had purpose. This was a day he would not forget. Life huh? The day had started off as a demonstration of how unjust and frustrating life can be and yet had ended up with a lesson about some of the greatest fun it has to offer.

(Very) Early Saturday Morning “Wake up, big bruva. Come watch cartoons with me. Come!” Stan tried to ignore his brother and continue sleeping while being tugged, shaken and yelled at. It was not feasible, so after fifteen minutes he sat up and greeted Junior, “You can be such an irritating little shit.”

“Yay! You are up. Come, let’s go watch TV.” Stan fell out of bed and lurched behind his prancing brother on the way to the TV room. He sat on the couch trying to find himself while his brother laughed with glee at the comical adventures of various cartoon characters. Stan chuckled too when a mouse took off a cat’s skin with a chainsaw, smeared gravy on the inside and then gave it to a pack of dogs to eat while the cat wailed in anguish as the mouse’s friend threw salt and vinegar over his bare flesh and then cooked him over a fire. The resulting roast was thrown to the dogs that devoured it while the two mice gave each other a high five. Stan looked at his kid brother watching the show with the absorption into the TV world that only children are capable of. Every movement on the screen was reflected on his face with a subtle a long time ago STAN DOES IT 71 change of expression and attention, until eventually the stream of giggles would overflow into a laugh. Stan tousled his head fondly and asked, “Hey dipshit, do you want some breakfast?” The frantic nodding signalled ‘Yes’ so Stan slowly raised himself and walked to the kitchen.

In the kitchen he put the kettle on and poured two bowls of chocolate cereal and added sugar. He also made a seriously strong and sweet cup of coffee. This was something he had started drinking recently and had found that it did make him feel substantially better. Once he had a cup, he could keep his eyes open and barely manage all those little trials) As he took a sip of it and burned his mouth, something he did every time and every time promised himself it was for the last time, his dad came in. “Morning son, how are you doing?” “OK dad, how was your week?”

Stan’s dad was a travelling salesman and was only home in the weekends. However, he was more of a father to them in the weekends than most fathers were all week, and at least he still lived with them unlike Fred’s dad, so Stan counted himself lucky. They made some small talk about the week and then Stan’s dad told him that they were all going to go to lunch at the family of Sis’ fiancé that afternoon. Stan tried to get out of it, but his father held firm. As consolation, he was allowed to take a friend with him, which should help him to survive the ordeal. He went to phone Fred and tell him the arrangements.

“Huh, hullo?” A very sleep-befuddled voice answered the phone.

“Wake up Fred you foggy fuck. It is Stan the Man here. Listen slob, you must come with me today to lunch at Max’s folks’ place. I can’t go there alone.” “Morning to you too, you fragrant asshole. Do you know how fucking early it is? How can you phone people at this time of the morning? Jesus, some people just have no damned culture. Hold on, let me ask my mom.” A loud sound ripped through Stan’s head as Fred crashed the phone down on the table. A few minutes later he picked it up again. “My mom says it is alright, I can go with you. She also said that she wants to speak to you quickly. Fuck knows why she or anyone would want to do that. So, I will see you later, but I am going back to bed now.” Fred’s mom whispered a suggestion that Stan come a bit early when he 72 A Man Called Stan came to fetch Fred, to which Stan hastily agreed. Weird. After one day his life was substantially different, featuring events completely unexpected but which would probably become routine. Not that Stan was complaining. He was going to watch cartoons with his kid brother and then go bonk an attractive lady. Nice way to start a weekend. Pity about the lunch afterwards. He got on well with his sister and did not mind seeing her, but the family of her husband-to-be drove him crazy. Especially the mother. Old bitch. Stan took the cereal and the coffee into the lounge and settled down beside his brother.

Saturday Afternoon Stan sat on the back seat between his little brother and Fred. As they drove to Max’s house, he played back in his mind some of the scenes from an hour ago when he had gone to pick up Fred. Before letting Fred know that he was there, he had gone through to his mom’s bedroom with her. Wow. That woman really knew some interesting things. Stan’s fevered imagination had never cooked up such dishes as those she was serving to him. Wow. He was jerked out of his reverie when a podgy elbow jabbed him in the ribs. ‘What the fuck did you do that for, you freckled fuck?” Stan yelled at Fred. “STANLEY!” his parents shouted in unison. “Sorry mom and dad, I didn’t mean it. It just burst out. This fat asshole jabbed me in the ribs, for no reason. Do you want to fight or something?” “Idiot” Fred began his explanation. “I have been talking to you for a minute and you are not even noticing me. Hullo, hullo, is there anyone there? Daydream when you are alone, OK? You asked me to come with you for my indispensable company, and now you are ignoring me. What were you thinking about? Probably dreaming of the day when you finally get laid. Ha, ha, as if that will ever happen.” Stan looked at Fred, and then looked in front again. “Shut up you fat fuck.” “STANLEY!” Stan stayed completely quiet for the rest of the trip.

Stan was not looking forward to the social occasion much, but he was damn hungry. Fred was certainly also hungry. The kid ate a lot, which was evident in his size. They arrived at the house and all spurted out of the car, relieved to be free from the irritation of being cooped up next to each other. The family came out to greet them. Sis gave everyone a hug while Max warmly greeted everyone. He was not too bad and was good to Sis. Not a long time ago STAN DOES IT 73 extremely fascinating though. Max’s dad was old, thin and harmless, nice enough but the kind of man who could be pushed around like a pram. He politely shook hands with everyone and then withdrew as the matriarch of the family emerged. She greeted Stan as coldly as usual and then greeted Stan’s parents with the air of subdued superiority that irritated the shit out of Stan. Her attitude was definitely not founded on reality, but she fully believed in her supposed high position in life. When she got to Fred, she halted and asked, “Who are you?”

“I am Fred, a friend of Stan.” “You are quite an odd-looking child, aren’t you? And did you say a friend of Stan’s? I wouldn’t have thought that Stan had any friends. But I suppose you do not have much choice, being in your situation.” “What?” Fred looked at Stan with bewilderment scribbled across his face. “Don’t mind her Fred. She is just a horrible old bitch.” “STANLEY!” The chorus had now swelled to a few very irate voices. It was going to be a lovely lunch. The procession made its way into the house and the festivities began.

“So, could I get anyone a drink?” The nondescript father of Max was making himself useful and standing behind his bar, which apart from being his pride and joy was also his daily escape route from his bitch of a wife. After pouring drinks, he told the boys that they could help themselves to soft drinks in the bar fridge. Stan got a gleam in his eye as he listened to the old fool. When the old geezer left his bar to serve his guests their drinks, Stan shot behind the counter and gestured frantically for Fred to follow him. Crouching down behind the counter, he whispered excitedly to Fred, “Hey Fred, have you ever drunk any booze?” “Not really, I am only fourteen, for fucks sake.” Fred explained why he had not yet done this thing. “Me neither, but here is our chance. Are you up for it?” “What do you think? Of course I am! Pour me a shot, bartender.” Fred enthusiastically grabbed a glass in his chubby fist. Stan poured in some vodka and then some cola. He did the same for himself and they emerged triumphant from behind the bar.

The boys stood in a corner and tentatively sipped their drinks. Fred grimaced and expressed his distaste. Stan smiled as he swallowed his first mouthful of 74 A Man Called Stan alcohol with no notion of the long and sordid relationship that was initiated with that action. He liked the taste and how it burned its way down his throat. When Fred said he wanted plain cola in his next glass, Stan told him to not be a pussy and poured two drinks, stronger than the first. Fred gagged a little bit on his but kept it in his hand as they walked outside to get some fresh air and join the company. The afternoon was not so bad, standing around in the mild sun and talking to the family. He spoke a bit to Sis, feeling, as always, the disbelief that he was related to a schoolteacher. She was one down to the core; her whole nature was that of a matron. Stan smiled vacantly at her last comment and went inside to replenish their glasses. Fred shook his head violently when he saw Stan coming and guessed his intent, but Stan ignored him and ripped Fred’s glass from his hand and filled it along with his. The alcohol was definitely starting to have an effect. Stan could feel everything warming up. Very interesting.

Presently the gathering sat down to feed themselves on a wide array of appetising foodstuffs. Less appetising was the spectacle that Stan and Fred made as they devoured their food like particularly ill-mannered animals that had just under- gone a prolonged period of starvation. Gravy flew all over the table as they stuffed roast meat and potatoes into their bulging mouths. They chewed loudly and openly, and the volume of their chatter increased along with their alcohol levels. After the feast Stan refilled their glasses as they waited for dessert. Dessert was delicious but very rich. The afternoon heat became oppressive, baking down as if they were in an over. Stan was starting to feel a bit giddy. The alcohol combined with the overheating made him suddenly claustrophobic. He looked up at Fred to suggest that they go outside for a breath of air. Before he spoke, he noticed that Fred was a shade of green. Very interesting. He called Fred to mention this and Fred turned his head to face him. As Stan started to tell Fred that he looked peculiar, Fred opened his mouth and vomited. What made it even more dramatic was that in facing Stan he was also facing the person seated between them. This meant that he was throwing up his lunch and vodka into the lap of Max’s mother. Stan had never seen such a beautiful sight.

As can easily be guessed, the table burst immediately into an uproar. The old lady was screaming her disgust, Fred was moaning pitifully, the concern of the adults was being muttered and above it all there was Stan’s laughter ringing merrily. Stan suggested that Fred might have food poisoning as a result of the unhygienic preparation of the lunch, in which case it was only just that this a long time ago STAN DOES IT 75 particular lap had been drenched with the result. Fred calmed the situation by asserting that he had felt a bit sickly since this morning but would be fine. Eventually Max volunteered to go and drop Stan and Fred off at Stan’s house. After Fred had mopped his face up a bit, they left the party, Stan still giggling.

Later Saturday Afternoon Stan waved goodbye to Max as he drove away and then turned to Fred. “What the fuck was all that about?” Stan was rather curious. “Fuck you, asshole.” Fred started carefully explaining matters. “I told you that I didn’t want anymore booze, but you wanted to be all hard-core. So, feeling the peer pressure, I drank until I puked. Quite cool actually, now that I think about it. Into that nasty hag’s lap as well. That was a bonus, huh? Did you see how she screamed?” Stan started laughing again at the mention of the incident, “Yeah, you are right. It is like yesterday with me and the teacher. We both caused a classic the last few days. We are hot. Tell me ass-wipe, are you feeling OK now?” Stan’s concern was genuine and touching. “I feel alright, it was just too much, inside there with all the food. Surprisingly, I feel quite good. What should we do?”

“Well, a good start would be to go inside.” They walked down the driveway on rather wobbly legs. As they passed Stan’s mom’s car, Stan looked at it thoughtfully. When they entered the house, he scrabbled through the clutter in the hallway until he found what he had been seeking. With a smile of the utmost wickedness he approached the chubby one. Red Fred read the smile correctly and became worried. “Oh shit, what have you got in mind? I know that smile, you are up to shit. I already know that this is going to be a fuck-up and I don’t even know what is happening yet.” Frederick sighed and looked at Stanley for a response. In answer Stan held up a bunch of keys, dangling them in front of his wicked smile. Calmly he announced, “These are my mother’s car keys.”

Fred took a step back in shock. This was looking for shit on a very serious level. Fred spoke his agitated mind, “You are a crazy son of a bitch, Stan. Are you thinking what I think you are thinking? Do you want to take your mom’s car for a spin, is that it? Does your mind work at all? Have you ever driven a car before? Do you feel like going for a swim in the shit you are going to 76 A Man Called Stan find yourself in? Even if you don’t damage the car, can you imagine what will happen when your parents find out? They always do about that kind of thing, you know that. Am I getting through to you at all? Is there anyone there?” “Fred, think how much fun it would be.” “You are absolutely right Stan, lets go.”

As they walked to the car Stan explained that it was an automatic and how difficult could that be to drive? Certainly, no more difficult than the driving simulations that they had played on computers so often. Fred in turn explained that he had never really had any misgivings, but he had just felt that it was his duty as a friend to warn Stan about any potential dangers. With that done, his conscience was cleared, and he was eager to go for the ride. The jolliness that surrounded them as they climbed into the car was due to young high spirits and spirits mixed with cola. Stan started the car and enthusiastically pulled away.

To be fair, the boys did proceed with some caution, at least at first. Stan got the feel of the car by driving at minimum speed while Fred encouraged him and chose some suitable music for their journey. However, momentum gathered, and Fred started singing along to the heavy metal song that was playing while Stan drove faster and faster. Gradually the excitement levels increased and soon they were rocketing along, pumping their fists to the powerful music. The man on the stereo screamed out, “AAAAARGH!” and the boys screamed with as they drove down the road. This was the kind of dangerous excitement teenage boys thrive on. The stupid kind. Then Fred had an idea, “Say Stan, I have an idea. Why don’t we go to the mall, and see if there is anyone there that we know? Think how fucking cool we will look, cruising around in this car by ourselves. Maybe we can even give some babes a lift home. What do you say?” Stan looked at Fred with mock surprise lifting his eyebrows,

“Fred, I can’t believe that someone as fat and stupid as you could come up with such a good idea. Let’s race there.” Stan took a corner at speed and they skidded around, tyres screaming. As they came out of it the boys yelled a yahoo and gave each other a high five. Stan put his eyes on the road again just in time to see a puppy run out in front of him. As he was still processing what he had seen, there was a sickening a long time ago STAN DOES IT 77 crunch that Stan heard with his stomach more than his ears. He slammed on the brakes and looked at Fred, white in the face and stricken with shock. “Oh no Fred, oh no. Not this. Please God, not this.” Clenching his jaw, he opened the car door and stepped out into the road.

Stan walked to the back of the car and looked down the road. Lying a few metres away was a bundle of furry flesh. His stomach churning, Stan forced him- self to walk up to the dog and sit down beside it. The dog was a young Golden Labrador, his coat still more fuzz than hair. Stan touched its face to see if it was still alive, and the dog licked his hand. Whimpering, the puppy started nuzzling Stan’s palm and looking at him with pleading eyes. Stan checked the young dog’s body and saw that it was completely ruined. There was no chance of this dog surviving. Stan felt so terrible it seemed impossible that he would survive either. He heard footsteps behind him and then Fred, “The car has a little dent, not too bad. How is the dog?” “Fuck the car Fred.” Fred did not take Stan’s remark to heart; he understood the situation. Stan asked Fred to please get back into the car, as there was some-thing he had to do, and he needed to be alone to do it.

Stan sat down in the road with his legs out and rested the dog’s head on his thigh. He gently stroked the dog’s head and with tears in his eyes told him, “Oh, shit boy, I am sorry. God, I didn’t want this to happen, but it is my fault. My fault, but I am fine, and you are finished. It is so unfair. I love dogs, and you look like a great little fellow. Goodbye boy.” Stan steeled himself for a few horrid moments and then softly closed his hands around the puppy’s neck. Starting to sob quietly, he tightened his grip and squeezed the dog until there was nothing left. When the dog stopped moving, Stan let his head drop into Stan’s lap and hugged him. After rocking the puppy for a few minutes in his lap, he stopped crying and put the body in the boot of the car. Stan drove home and buried the body in his own yard, placing a mound of stones over the spot. After washing the car and himself, he walked to Fred’s house with him. He did not want to be alone here, nor be here when his parents got back. He did not have the strength for that right now.

Life had never seemed so black. 78 A Man Called Stan

Saturday Evening The boys moped around the house until it grew dark. They were quiet; their normal cheerful banter and unceasing exchange of insults would have been too out-of-place on this disturbing day. At nightfall Fred made them some peanut butter sandwiches and started trying to cheer his friend up. Stan was not ready yet and the conversation did not flow freely. Eventually Fred announced that he was going to shoot the shit out of some aliens and went to play computer games. Stan said that he was not in the mood and stayed in the living room to watch TV. Well, he was sitting in front of the TV and staring at the screen, but he was not taking anything in. After about half an hour of this slack-jawed immobility, Mary Jane entered the room.

“Oh, you are here. Great.” The last word was uttered with a tone dripping of sarcasm. “Where is my troll of a brother? I was hoping that you kids would not be here tonight.” “Listen Mary, not tonight OK? I am not up to squabbling with you at the moment.” “Hey Stan, are you OK? You look strained. Tell me about it.”

Mary Jane sat next to Stan, something she normally avoided, and asked him what was wrong. Stan told her about what he had experienced, and how he had felt about it. He felt better as he told her. Maybe it was the discussing of it and getting it out of him, but he also felt uplifted by her presence. Her shining beauty lit up the dark shadows in his soul. He looked at her as she spoke, wishing that he could stroke her hair.

“Oh Stan, that is so hard. You know, I always had you wrong. I thought you were a crass little monster. I didn’t know that you had a sensitive side, that you would get so upset by something like that. Shame, look at your expression. Come; let me give you a hug. That will make you feel better.”

With that, Mary Jane leaned over and embraced him. While she held him, Stan started thinking. He thought that life was not black, it was just fucked up. But so was he, which left him no cause for complaint. He curled his arms around her and started touching her in a way he had learnt just that morning, in this very house. As he felt her start to melt, he thought that all you could really do was accept the nature of life and try to enjoy it anyway. Or enjoy it because of that very nature, which would be the a long time ago STAN DOES IT 79 ideal. Then his mind was occupied with other thoughts. Thoughts about the girl who was still in his arms and starting to rub his back in a gentle manner. He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck, then curled his legs up onto the couch and lay there with his head nestled on her shoulder, drawing in comfort.

What a day. What a life. Chapter 5

back again

IT HAPPENS TO STAN

Tuesday Morning Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne. Anne. Anne. This is what had been going through Stan’s head since their picnic on Saturday. This is what filled his head now as he lay on the bed, his heart racing. The frantic beat had not been drummed up by thoughts about the lady, but by an alarm clock going off a few seconds earlier. Stan had discovered and started using an alarm that was excruciatingly loud and annoying. He hated it thoroughly, but it was necessary if he wanted to wake up at this awful hour. As his heart rate slowed and his breath returned to a less frantic tempo, his first thought was of Anne. He sighed as he lay in bed, watching the visions of her playing on the screen behind his eyelids. He watched her throw back her head and laugh, the sunlight dancing in her golden hair. With that inspiring sight he opened his eyes and sprung out of bed. His legs did not hold him, and he fell to the floor.

Cursing bitterly, he stood up and stretched. Stan was up nearly two hours earlier than he had been getting up every morning for years, until this week.

- 80 - back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 81

And it was not as if he had risen easily in the past, even at a later hour. He stumbled to the kitchen, bouncing off the walls because he was not yet ready to open his eyes properly. In the kitchen he cautiously opened them and then turned on the fluorescent lighting and covered his eyes with his hand and a curse as the bright light shattered the gloom. Switching the kettle on before he had even uncovered his eyes, he went to the fridge and took out the bottle of milk. A newly opened box of health cereal was retrieved from the cupboard. Stan added milk and grimaced as he took his first mouthful. Ugh. He had never enjoyed such food, but it was part of his new approach, so he munched his way through it without any enjoyment due to the lack of sweetness and the artificial overstated tastes to which he had become accustomed. He smiled as he stirred his coffee. This was better! The first sip spread heat down his throat, depositing sugar wherever it passed through. He forced his way through a bowl of cereal and gulped two mugs of coffee (imposing the new limit of two at breakfast). That done he stood up and then just stood on the cold kitchen floor for a while, his brain slowly starting to come to life. Why was he up at this miserable hour again? Oh yeah, to go to gym. Great. He went back to his room and packed a bag with running shorts and a neon vest. In went clothes for work and a tracksuit was thrown over his pyjamas. That done he scurried out of the house, fifteen minutes after the alarm had yanked him out of dream-world. It used to take him at least an hour before he was ready to leave the house.

The drive to the gym took only a few minutes, as there was little traffic on the roads at this godforsaken hour. Stan nearly nodded off a couple of times, awaking on each occasion with a jerk which went through the steering wheel and caused the car to swerve drastically across the road. It was for the better that the roads were so empty because if there had been any cars at all in the vicinity, Stan would definitely have hit them. He arrived at the gym and pulled into a parking lot near the entrance. The engine was switched off and Stan sat with his head on the steering wheel, bracing himself for the unaccustomed exertion. After a few minutes he took a deep breath and got out of the car. At reception he showed his membership card to the bottle- blonde with the bouncy breasts. He sometimes wondered if she exaggerated the rhythm of her movements such as walking to make her breasts bounce even more. They sure did jiggle around in there. She flashed him a smile and made some comment about seeing him there a lot recently while she opened the gate to let him into the gym. He grunted and walked past her to the 82 A Man Called Stan change-rooms. It was not that he did not like her or wanted to avoid her, in fact she looked quite cute, but Stan just was not a morning person. Inside the changing room he changed out of his pyjamas into his gym kit, shoved his bag into a locker and went to start his workout.

On his way to the floor he passed a procession of rather attractive women who had just completed the morning aerobic class. This pleasant scenery was one feature of these gruel- ling early excursions that made them more bearable. Some days the classes were an hour later and Stan would periodically take a break from the machines and stand by the glass wall, watching all those firm bodies prancing around. Undoubtedly it was a great sight, especially with that light sheen of sweat covering all the ladies and making them glisten, the contrasts of light and shadow highlighting the definition in their muscles. It took all his willpower to not press his forehead against the wall and start panting. He appreciated such sights.

Stan started on the treadmill to warm up. Until today he had always used the stationary bicycles, but he felt like a change this morning. He started jogging and trying to program it at the same time but failed. He stopped jogging because the belt just would not move. After trying to get it going for a few minutes, he gave the machine’s console a fat smack. The huge hairy gorilla who worked on the floor appeared instantly at Stan’s side and asked him if he had a problem. Stan explained that he could not get the equipment going and the gym should stock better apparatus. The gorilla smiled and pushed the big, red button that said “On”. Asking if Stan had any further problems, he left when Stan replied that he did not. “Apart from you, you hulking twat.”

This addition was mumbled very quietly and when the gorilla turned around and stared at Stan, Stan huffed and puffed as if he had been breathing deeply, trying to look more innocent than an angel. The gorilla scowled and walked away. Mumbling under his breath about how some people seem to be closer to Neanderthals than to modern humans, Stan started walking on the treadmill and pushing buttons on the console.

How were you supposed to work with this thing? Not very user-friendly. The little arrow pointing up must be how you increased the speed. Stan pushed it until the number displayed on the digital readout increased from 1 till 4, but the speed did not really change. It must be graded till about 50, back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 83 he decided, if going up 3 steps made so little change. Based on this sound logic, he pushed the button until it showed 10, and then the number stopped rising. Now why would it not go any further? He wanted to set it at about 25, which should be medium pace. This could not be the maximum speed, it was still far too slow. As he was busy puzzling it out, he noticed the speed increasing. Why was it increasing now, when he was not pushing any buttons? He looked at the display in confusion and saw a flashing 2 next to the 10. As he watched, it changed into a 3 and the speed picked up noticeably. Oh, now he understood. The machine picked up speed gradually. The steady 10 was the target number and the flashing number next to it was the current number. Now the flashing number was up to 5 and the belt was moving at the kind of speed he had wanted. Why would it pick up speed gradually? His early morning brain realised, “So you don’t fall when it suddenly changes speed.”

He smiled in pleasure at having worked out what was going on. As he smiled, the machine moved to 6, which was quite fast. Stan was battling to keep up with it. Better turn it down before he was in a bad situation. While he was looking for the down arrow, the machine went up to 7 and he had to grab for the sides to avoid falling. Shit. He already was in a bad situation. He watched helplessly as the flashing number went up ruthlessly through 8 and 9. When it reached 10 there was a loud ping and the flashing number stopped flashing and remained a constant 10, next to the first 10. The machine was now at maximum speed. He was keeping himself up more with his arms than with his legs which were almost a blur now. Spotting the down arrow, he quickly lifted one hand to push it. Without that extra support, his next foot- step resulted in his foot being carried away at a rapid pace by the conveyor belt. Of course, where Stan’s foot went, Stan had to go too. He followed his foot, which by now had reached the floor. As it did this, Stan fell violently and smacked his head at the base of the machine before the belt dragged his face backwards and spat it out onto the floor, bleeding.

Fuck.

As he was trying to comprehend what happened, the bottle-blonde and the gorilla came running up to him. “Oh shame, look at you, you poor thing! Are you alright?” “Idiot. I asked him if he needed help with the machine.” “Hello, can you hear me? Are you conscious?” 84 A Man Called Stan

“How would you tell the difference?” Unsurprisingly, the compassionate one was the blonde. The gorilla had always fancied her, and disliked this weed receiving attention from her. “Wait, I will check.” He used this golden opportunity to briskly slap Stan through the face a couple of times. “Hello, hello sir, wake up!” The blonde screamed at him to stop this and Stan yelled at the impropriety of being slapped when already down. Staggering to his feet, he held his hand to his bleeding forehead and went to the changing room to rinse his face.

With his head down and his hand up, Stan walked into the changing room. Being preoccupied with explosive pain and not having considered looking at signs, it was the ladies changing room that he walked into. The surprised shrieks made Stan look up and a few confused seconds later he realised what he had done. He wanted to explain immediately that he had come in here accidentally and not with any base intentions, but he was too overwhelmed by all the fine, naked flesh to utter a single word. All of these nude women! Who could imagine such a sight? Fortunately, one of the nudes saw his injury and calmed the crowd. They seemed to quickly understand what had happened and their reaction was amazing. Two of them came to his assistance, blissfully unaware of their nakedness, and the rest promptly ignored his presence and resumed chatting and dressing.

Still dazed, Stan stood there as a lovely mature lady came up to him and took his hand away from his head to look at the wound. She exclaimed at the amount of blood but assured him that it was nothing to worry about as scalp wounds bleed freely without being serious. Apparently, she had sufficient first-aid knowledge to be able to deal with this situation. Proclaiming the need to wash it out, she led him to the shower. The other woman who had come to his aid was instructed to lift his stained shirt over his head without hurting him. She was young, very slim, and completely naked where the other woman was wearing panties. She removed his shirt and then held his head while the mature woman gently regulated the water on his face until the blood was gone, her boobs swinging with a heavy pendulous motion as she worked, occasionally brushing against him and setting his skin tingling. With his head held down, Stan had no choice but to stare at the completely nude body of the young woman directly in front of him. What a terrific sight. Eventually the water was stopped, and the more mature woman held Stan’s shirt to his head and led him back to the changing room. back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 85

The blonde from reception was waiting there with a first aid kit. The older woman started dressing the cut in Stan’s head. He felt bad staring right into her superbly bountiful breasts from five centimetres away and looked up. She scolded him and forced his head back down so that she was working from the right angle. Having no option but to stand there while his head was attended to, Stan stared to his content at the treasures swaying right in front of him, and then looked around as much as he could by rolling his eyes and tilting his head slightly. There in the corner was a woman rubbing body lotion all over her sleek body, and over there a young teenager was bending over to pull on her panties. His head was pulled closer, almost touching those beauties, and his helper from Heaven gently breathed into the wound to soothe the sting from the antiseptic. Eventually Stan was proclaimed sound again and with a slap on the rump was dismissed. With a last, sweeping look around, he left the room.

Quite unable to exercise further, he grabbed his bag and drove home. He sat on his couch, stunned. Stunned by both the violent blow to the front of his head, and by the experience that had followed shortly thereafter. Maybe it had something to do with mild concussion, but Stan found himself wandering around on some of the highest levels of philosophical thought he had yet reached as he sat there on his couch, his head throbbing. He pondered the accident, and what his initial reaction to that had been. Very angry and resentful, that was without doubt. He would have felt victimised by a cruel Life, but as a direct result of this same accident, he had experienced one of the most wonderful experiences of his life. Not just seeing a whole troop of well-built women completely naked from up close, although that in itself was awe-inspiring and unforgettable. The nature of the women that had been displayed in their actions was just as beautiful and had touched him. Probably because Stan had not often dwelled over the precious beauty inside a human being. To put it mildly.

Stan often felt bitter regarding the nature of Life. The twists it took were too often of a nasty and vicious nature. There was too much bleakness, too much despair. Now he started to realise that not all that seemed bad when it happened, was truly that bad. Hitting their head open would be classified by anyone as unpleasant, but it had been a necessary component of a rich and rewarding experience. He told himself that from now on he would look more deeply at what happened to him and try to discern its true effect on him and 86 A Man Called Stan his life. He started wondering whether the apparent awfulness surrounding other parts of existence was also of such an illusory character. Maybe a lot of what humanity regarded as painful and tragic was in reality of a completely different nature. Then he remembered that he had to go to work and thought that maybe life was not different but was indeed as grim as it seemed. Well, whatever the true substance of existence was, he still had to get dressed in a suit and go to the office, so he stood up and went to go do just that.

Later Tuesday Morning Stan walked into the office, much the same as he had been doing for years, but with a nervousness that had only started a day or so ago. Very little in life intimidated Stan, as he generally could not care less. That probably explained his nerves now, because for the first time he cared about the outcome of something. Breathing deeply to relax, he pulled himself up to his full height and entered the reception area.

There she was. What a glorious goddess. Stan paused and gathered his concentration until it was at his highest levels and he was observing every nuance of his environment. Walking as slowly as he could without looking too odd, he went past her desk. With his senses turned up to their maximum levels, he nonchalantly glanced at her as he walked past, his awareness sucking in the sensory input like a black hole and storing it perfectly. He smiled hello and looked away again, walking through to his office. In his office he sat down and slowly savoured the vision of Anne imprinted in his mind during that moment. He looked at her moist lips, and her gently luminous eyes, and her smooth skin. He sat there in awareness of her inherent softness, of the woman that she was. If only he could hold her. He imagined going over to her and just climbing into her lap and nestling against that awesome bosom. With a sigh that came from the depths of his soul, he stood up and went to the coffee machine. And so, began another day.

Friday Morning Stan was at gym again, but this time he was on the bicycle. It was unlikely that he would be trying the treadmill again soon. Although if he was guaranteed an eyeful again, he would gladly smack his head right open at regular intervals. But for now, caution ruled the day, and he sat safely on the saddle back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 87 of the bicycle and pedalled up a sweat. He was not concentrating much on the exercise though. Unsurprisingly, he was thinking about Anne. He was thinking about how much he had thought about her since their picnic last Saturday. This was something to which Stan was completely unaccustomed. He normally had problems concentrating even on the thing he was still currently busy doing, so for something to be occupying his mind so often was very much a new experience. Stan decided that he should not ignore this phenomenon but rather should act upon it. Although it was probably a form of infatuation and was likely to pass sooner or later, the cause of it should not be neglected, it had to be investigated. And that cause was definitely Anne.

The way forward was obvious. He had to go out with Anne again, and try to make the best impression possible. He did not want to scare her off, and he was willing to invest lots of time in this, so he would be deliberately slow with the whole thing. He would not even try to get her into bed immediately. And for a surprising and almost unbelievable change, this is not what he wanted most anyway. That was out of the ordinary in itself. Although it must be added that he felt dizzy if he even contemplated it for a second. An unimaginable pleasure is probably the best way to describe it. This was something he did not think a lot about, it somehow seemed incorrect, a viewpoint he did not normally have about imagining a woman being naked and Stan playing with her. But he did have this over- powering urge just to touch Anne, even if it was only an elbow.

Climbing off the bicycle, he decided that he would go into the office today and simply ask Anne to go out with him again this weekend. That could not be too hard. After all, he had done exactly that last week and it had not been impossibly difficult. It had to be added, he knew that he was fooling himself if he believed that it meant it would be easy to do it this time. Last week she had been a beautifully breasted blonde, a category of humanity that Stan had no kind of problems with at all. Now she was Anne. Although the situation seemed to be the same on the surface, it was fundamentally different underneath. Stan showered, changed, and drove to work, never once taking note of what he was doing and thinking of a certain secretary the entire time.

At work he stood outside the entrance and tried to build up his courage and establish a cool, relaxed expression on his face. He walked in, walked to her desk and said, “Hi Anne.” 88 A Man Called Stan

Well, it was a start. “Hello Stan. This is the first time that you have spoken to me this week. I was wondering what was going on.” “Really!” the surprise was genuine. “Is this the first time I have spoken to you since last weekend? Sorry, I have just been wrapped up in my thoughts.” He omitted the detail that those thoughts had mostly been of her. “How are you?” he added. “Well thank you. Yourself?” “Fine, fine.” Stan stood there for a minute, silent. Unable to think of anything interesting to say and not enjoying looking like an idiot, he turned and walked to his office, cursing quietly as he walked. Someone walking past his office a minute later would have seen Stan slumped in his chair, his forehead on his desk and his hands hanging down by sides. Someone walking past fifteen minutes later would have seen exactly the same sight. Six minutes after that, they would have seen him sit up, shake his head, and go to the coffee machine. What an observer would have been witnessing was Stan reviewing the interaction with Anne and then dwelling on its inadequacies, and finally deciding that it was not too bad, at least he had made contact, and that at lunch he would ask her to see him over the weekend. First, he needed a cup of coffee though.

Work crawled by that morning. He trudged his way through it, sighing every few minutes and often doodling abstractly when he thought he was still busy working. Eventually lunchtime came around and he sprang out of his seat. But he did not want to appear too eager, so he restrained himself and sat down again. After chafing at the bit for a few minutes he jumped up and went to reception. She was not there. Damn! He had missed her by forcing himself to wait. Looking frantically around him, he rushed outside. Nowhere to be seen. Wait, wasn’t that shapely ankle going around the corner hers? He ran along the pavement and turned the corner just in time to see Anne run and jump into the embrace of another man. Stan staggered as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Holding himself up against the wall with one hand, he watched her squirm with delight inside her bear hug. The giggles rang loudly down the road. Soon they walked off, hand in hand, the golden couple. He was big, blonde, and far better looking than Stan. back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 89

Stan stayed leaning against the wall after they had walked off. A few minutes later he slid down the wall and sat on the pavement, in his suit with his head in his hands. A sad sight indeed. A kid walking past asked, “Hey mister, are you all right? Having a bad day?” Stan’s reply to those young ears was brisk and informative, “Piss off, immediately.”

He was in no mood for conversation, and it felt as if he never would be again. He sat there, trying to gauge the depth of the blackness within him. It appeared to extend all the way from the outer surface of his consciousness to the very core of his spirit. The centre from which his life emanated was blackened and therefore his whole existence was charred. Stan was not used to dealing with emotional problems. Caffeine withdrawal symptoms had probably been the thing that had upset him the most since a day when he was a teenager and had watched a dog die by his own hand. Now he sat on the pavement, sifting through the ashes of the fire that had barely begun to burn inside him.

After an hour on the pavement, he stood up and walked to the office with a set look on his face. When he passed through reception Anne called out brightly, “Hey Stan! Aren’t you glad it is almost weekend?”

He sneered at her venomously and walked past to his office. Things had not gone according to plan. Not at fucking all.

Friday Night Stan weaved his way into the bar. He was drunk, and determined to get extremely drunk. This adjective is not used in the sense that he wanted to get “very” drunk, but in the sense that he wanted to take the state of being drunk to the extreme. Once this concept was understood, it was apparent that he was doing well in his quest. It was nine pm, and he had come to this establishment because he had been kicked out of his favourite bar for being unruly and causing a disturbance. So now he was here. He pushed his way through the people to the bar and ordered a drink. In fact, he ordered a few drinks, all at once. A good number of shooters and a bottle of beer. While 90 A Man Called Stan paying, he asked the barman to bring him the same order again in about fifteen minutes. A couple of shooters were shot in a couple of seconds and he sipped the beer while he looked around him. He did not much like what he saw. Of course, there were not many visions that would have brought Stan great pleasure in his current state of mind. There in the corner was an alright-looking girl. Stan caught her eye and smiled at her. She frowned and turned away. His mood sinking even lower than it had been, Stan growled at the barman to hurry with his order. The barman gestured at the drinks still on the counter. Stan downed them rapidly and told the barman to hurry up before Stan started shouting.

Stan heard giggling and searched for the source. There, right next to him but unnoticed until now was a very attractive brunette, apparently laughing at him. After he remarked how offended he was by that, they engaged in light-hearted banter for a few pleasant minutes. Shortly, Stan felt a presence. Looking around, he saw a huge man put his hand over the girl’s shoulder and turn rudely to Stan, “Can I help you?” After a seconds’ thought Stan replied, “No, I doubt it, but she definitely could.”

Now the giant scowled at Stan, “What do you mean with that?”

Once again, Stan paused for thought. This man really was large and powerful, and seemed to be bordering on angry. Best to be diplomatic then. “Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking idiot you would understand. Do you want me to explain it to you, or would you prefer it if I demonstrated? Come here girl, I have to show this dimwit something.”

While the hulking stranger’s arm was still around her, Stan leaned forward and planted a deep kiss full on her mouth, to which he received a bit of a response from her. It tasted sweet.

Stan enjoyed the stranger’s reaction to the fullest because he knew he was about to pay for it. He was still laughing when he was punched harder than he had been hit yet in his life. His drunken body hit the bar and fell like a tree that had just been sawed. He lay on the ground, motionless. The man responsible watched to see if he would retaliate, and then turned around, back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 91 pleased with himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Stan watched his enemy start gloating to those around him about how he had sorted out the drunken bastard. Rising as stealthily as possible, Stan pulled himself up by the bar counter. The barman saw first his hands appear and then his head rose over the horizon of the counter like a bruised sun. Stan stood upright and shook his head to clear it. He picked up the fuller of his beers on the counter and took a deep swig. Licking his lips in satisfaction, he tapped his assailant on the shoulder. The moment the big man turned around; Stan smashed the half-full bottle of beer across his forehead as hard as he could.

As the guy fell to the ground Stan started kicking him. He got in a few deep digs and then crouched over the wailing man and landed some cracking punches before many hands ripped him off. With a few slaps around the head from the bouncers that he did not even notice, Stan was kicked out into the street, the second time that night he had been ejected forcibly from a bar. It was ten minutes past nine o’ clock. He stood on the pavement, calming down, swaying slightly on his feet as if he was a field of tall grass in a breeze. The rush from the battle slowed down and he started laughing. There on the pavement, he shadowboxed with his shadow, thrown onto the unpainted wall by a streetlight. After a huge uppercut that made him lose his balance he yelled, “BAM! Down you go, you asshole.” A fist was raised in the air in victory and he danced about on the pavement.

Laughing to himself, Stan started walking to the next bar. He had better behave himself in it, he thought to himself. There were not many other pleasant bars left, and he still wanted to do a lot of drinking tonight. He did not want to end up in some sleazy dive. Although now that he thought about it, that might not be so bad. Suitable surroundings for his mission for the night.

The door of the bar he had just left opened, and a pair of eyes watched him walk down the road. When the watcher was certain of not being noticed by Stan, the door opened further, and someone snuck out and furtively followed him. 92 A Man Called Stan

Saturday Morning Pain.

Alone it stood, all that filled Stan’s consciousness. He whimpered softly as he realised that he was awake and in awful agony. What had happened? He could not remember much. He tried to cast his mind back, but the effort made his head pulse with pain. He lay still, not forcing the thoughts but letting them come to him. He remembered yesterday morning, which was Friday, so today must be Saturday. Then he recalled seeing Anne with another man and felt even worse than he had two seconds earlier. The logical next step to seeing Anne with someone must be that he had gone drinking. He started seeing that again in his mind, and his violated stomach churned at the vision of all that alcohol. He must be hungover, but there seemed to be more pain than that common state. He remembered being thrown out of the first bar. Then there was that nice girl with the asshole friend in the next bar. Oh yeah, the fight with him! That must explain the pain. Except that he had only been hit once in that scuffle. He tried to recollect what had happened after that, but he could not, it was a blank from then onwards. Shit, maybe he had been beaten up later. That was a worrying thought. Maybe he was lying here, completely fucked up. Now Stan was concerned. He had to take the next bold step and open his eyes. He did so, with the utmost caution. He looked around to see if he was in hospital. It did not seem as if he was, no beeping machines or anything. But some hospital wards do not have much more than a bed in it, and the room was very dark. To his side he saw an open door with what looked like a bathroom behind it.

As he saw it, he realised that he was about to burst for a pee. That explained one of the many unpleasant feelings in his body. Moving tenderly but with urgency, he crept to the bathroom on his hands and knees. He hauled himself up the toilet and relieved himself, for quite an astonishing period of time. Phew, that was better, but now he was dizzy from standing. He splashed his face in the sink, and then noticed that his mouth felt as dry as the face of an Egyptian mummy that had lain in a desiccated state for three thousand years. Bending over, he gulped a litre of water straight from the tap. OK, he was making progress. Out with the old and poisoned, in with the clean and fresh. Now for the moment of truth. He looked up and into the mirror. back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 93

He looked terrible. Focusing more clearly, he saw that his one eye was blackened. That was definitely from the crushing punch in the bar, he remembered that all too well. His forehead was also cut and bruised, still from the gym accident on Tuesday. Suddenly surprise swam across his reflection and he examined his image more closely. Apart from those two marks, which he had known about, there was nothing else wrong with him. He had not been beaten to a pulp. Until now he had been convinced that this was the cause of the incredible hurt throughout his body. What else could have done the damage?

With an unidentifiable emotion as he realised that this state was born from a lack of self-respect, Stan understood what was happening. He was just hung-over from drinking. Tremendously so, yes, but hung-over nonetheless. This one may be worse than any he had yet experienced, but it was also true that he had made exceptional effort with his drinking last night. Sighing at his reflection, he did not know whether he should be pleased that he was not beaten up. It was probably for the better that his face was not a ruined mess, but he was not comfortable with the thought that he had landed in this poor condition as a result of his own actions. But then again, everything that happened was a result of one’s own actions. He left the bathroom and headed towards the bed, needing rest very badly. Then he should perhaps start figuring out where he was, and why, and how he had gotten there. Not yet though.

Reaching the bed, he climbed in and wiggled his way under the covers. He needed more rest before he could continue. Ah, nice and comfortable. What was what? Stan reached out to feel behind him for the cushion or something that he had touched and felt someone’s leg instead. He froze instantly, having to really apply willpower to resume breathing. He withdrew his hand and tried to figure out what the fuck was going on. He had no recollection at all of last night, any-thing could have happened. Something occurred to him and he felt a rush of panic. Dear God, please let her be between sixteen and forty-six years old. He did not have the mental strength to deal with anything difficult right now. He turned around, afraid of what he might see. What if she was ugly? Or too fat or too thin? Or too tall or too short? 94 A Man Called Stan

It seemed to be a woman. It had long hair at least. He leaned over and sniffed the hair. Definitely smelt like a woman. He lay down and waited for his eyes to get accustomed to the gloom again after the light in the bathroom, peering intently at the sleeping form.

“Good morning there.”

The voice surprised Stan terribly. “For fucks sake, you almost gave me a heart attack! Fucking hell, what a way to start a day.” “Excuse me; please stop shouting at me in my own bed. Not exactly the way I would like to wake up either.” The lady was unimpressed. “I am sorry; I didn’t mean to be rude. It is just that I have had too many jolts already this morning and my frazzled nerves dealt poorly with this last one. And my head hurts dreadfully.” “Oh, have you got a headache?” Stan replied that he did indeed and that he would have thought that she would have noticed that by the way that he had grabbed his head when he first yelled and since then had been holding it and whining. She told him to drop the sarcasm and asked if he would like a headache pill. He looked up at her with all the sincerity he could generate and said yes; he would very much like a headache pill. She got out of the bed and rummaged through a dressing table drawer for some pills. She was completely naked and from behind she looked wonderful. A cute but still classy build. She found the pills and brought them with a glass of water from the bathroom. When she came around to Stan’s side of the bed and held the pills and water out for him, he could see her in the light. “Oh, it is you.”

It was the girl from the second bar, the one whose male friend had begun a short argument with Stan. He drank a handful of the pills while she climbed back into bed. Some things had to be done as quickly as possible, and ending this headache was one of them. Then he turned and looked at her. “I can’t remember anything that happened. Will you tell me? I suppose we must have done it. I can’t believe that I don’t remember. Fucking typical, just my luck. Get laid with someone hot and I cannot even remember. Was I good at least?” “No, you were not.” back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 95

She laughed at the stricken look on his face and had to continue and elaborate out of compassion. “We did not do it. That was the plan, but you were too drunk. I basically had to carry you here. You puked on my doorstep. And then you fell asleep, while I was busy. No one has ever fallen asleep while I was doing that to them. You are lucky that you woke up with your balls still on this morning.”

Stan could not believe her tale. When she reminded him of how much he had been drinking, he began to see its possibility. He felt terrible. What a stupid thing to do. Wasting one of life’s rare opportunities. With an anguished sigh, he lay back in bed. Eyes closed, he started immediately to drift off into sleep, until a hand sliding up his thigh jerked him wide-awake. He looked questioningly at the girl. “Well Stan, seeing as how we did not get around to it last night, I was thinking that maybe we should get to it this morning. What do you think?” “I think it is a pretty great idea. But tell me something first. Who was that guy you were with, and what happened to him?” Stan reached for another sip of water to smooth the sandpaper in his mouth. “He is my fiancé.” She paused while Stan choked on his water in shock. When he had finished spluttering, she continued, “He is in hospital. His friends took him there last night, mainly to get some stitches.” When Stan enquired why she wanted to sleep with a guy who had just put her fiancé in hospital, she replied that he had angered her lately, and this was a good way for her to release her frustrations. Also, the whole incident had excited her. She had followed Stan out of the bar for this one purpose.

Stan lay there, trying to decide what his moral stance was on this issue. This was someone else’s woman. True, the guy had been an asshole, but maybe it had more to do with the situation than his personality. After all, he had just been trying to prevent what was happening now. Besides, this was a weird way for the girl to get her kicks. Stan did not know if he wanted to be a part of it. As he was about to share this information with her, he felt an incredible sensation in a part of his body. Looking down, he saw the bulge of her head under the covers. When he gasped a few minutes later, she threw back the covers and laughingly asked how he had fallen asleep during that the night before. Stan tried to stammer something about this maybe not being such a good idea, but she did not listen. Not that his protests could be described as fierce. After a few more delightful minutes, she climbed over Stan and lowered 96 A Man Called Stan herself onto him. Looking out over a wicked smile, she started to ride him as a cowgirl would. Our man decided that although this may not be a good thing to be doing, it was certainly a nice thing to be doing.

Stan lay there, revelling in the unexpected morning he was having. Until he heard a door slam shut and a voice shout, “Honey, I am home!” Stan sat bolt upright, “Oh fuck! Oh no! I must go, right now.” He tried to get up, but she pushed him back down. Gripping him between her knees she leaned forward and pushed him down with her hand firmly planted on his chest. “I want to see you boys fight”, she whispered huskily to Stan.

She seemed to be really enjoying this. He should have realised from the start that there was something wrong with this whole episode; he never got so lucky. This woman was not a great surprise that had fallen into his lap, she was one sick bitch and a whole heap of trouble. But it was hard to keep an objective view on these things when it seemed so damned good at first. She started to ride more vigorously as the noises from downstairs came nearer, as if she wanted to time her climax to match the moment when her powerfully built fiancé opened the door and saw her astride Stan. Stan swore as he wriggled on the bed, trying to get free. Eventually, deciding that it was either she or he, and he would much prefer that it was she, he cuffed her hard alongside the head. She flew off him and he jumped out of the bed. He picked up his pants and with surprising presence of mind checked that his wallet and house and car keys were in the pockets. Thank God, they were. He started putting one leg into the pants when the door opened. The huge guy entered, his face stitched together, and saw his girl naked on the bed, holding her head and crying. He also saw Stan, with one leg in his pants and a dick sticking out that had obviously just been in action. He roared and moved towards Stan. Stan looked around the room in a frenzied panic and suddenly jumped through the closed window, landing amidst a shower of glass on the lawn a storey below. Landing with quite a thud and in quite a heap. The impact was exacerbated by the excruciating headache that was still gripping him, and he struggled to stop the black-out from drowning him, barely managing to shake it off. He looked up and saw the man stick his head out of the window and roar incoherently at Stan. Stan yelled a quick “Fuck you, asshole” for good measure, got up and ran away. back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 97

In the street he skipped along as he struggled to put his other leg into the pants. A family going for a pleasant morning walk were coming from the oppo- site direction and stared at him in amazement. By the time he reached them he had both legs in and was trying to fold his semi-upright dick and stash it into half-pulled up pants. With some effort he succeeded and zipped it away safely. Then it was an all-out sprint for home. Or at least, for two blocks until his head and his heart both threatened to burst. He walked the rest of the way home and when he got there had a shower and lay on his bed. He needed some rest. Such a day, and it was still so early.

Later Saturday Morning Stan felt bad. There were the obvious reasons, such as the side effects of alcohol poisoning and the various injuries scattered around his body, but there were also more subtle causes. He did not feel good about the last day or so. He would not go so far as to say that his actions were wrong or that he regretted them, but still he felt a sense of disappointment. It did not have a specific cause, but it was pervading his whole being. He slowly understood what it was. He did not want to be living this same kind of seedy life anymore. He wanted to start experiencing life in a different way. That was why he had been so excited about Anne; he had been hoping that she would give him a chance at putting his life in a different place. Maybe there was no escape from the way he had it now. That was an awfully depressing thought. While he was trying to digest this, the phone rang. At first, he ignored it, but then he thought that having a conversation with someone could not be worse than sitting here wading through sorrow, so he picked it up. The state he was in was quite delicate, so this experience had better be gentle.

“Hello, Stan here.” The tone of voice was absolutely flat. “Are you the fucker who did my wife? I am coming to get you man. You better prepare yourself for some pain boy!” A voice bellowed down the phone. How did the big guy get his number? Or know who he was? This could cause a load of problems. “Listen man, she told me you were only engaged, OK? And that was only afterwards. I didn’t know, I promise you. Leave this alone. But wait, if you want some, then come over here, and we can get it on. I am tired of you crazy 98 A Man Called Stan fuckers anyway!” Stan was fed-up and wanted this shit to come to an end, even if the guy was much stronger and would probably kick his ass.

Peals of laughter came pouring out of the phone. Stan yelled down the receiver incensed and incredulous. What was the deal? Finally, through the laughter, he could make out intelligible conversation. “Haaaaa-haaaaaaa haa-ha! Oh, fuck me, that was classic. Woo-hooo Fred, you cooked with that one. Jackpot, yeah! Listen dipshit, it is me, Fred the Red. Long time no speak huh? Anyway, I thought I would give you a ring to catch up, and then while dialling your number my brilliant mind suggested that I see whether dear Stan has any guilt lurking in his conscience there. Haaa-haaaa, calm down there boy! Sorry, did I catch you at a bad time? Do you have to go get fucked up by someone? I can always phone later. Should I phone your home number then, or the hospital rather? Will you be in the general ward or a private room?”

Stan fell back on the bed laughing. Fred had categorically put one over him there and won that round. But Stan would have his revenge, and informed Fred of that maliciously. Casually he enquired how old Fred’s daughter was and asked if he could chaperone her sixteenth birthday party. Fred reminded Stan about his shotgun, which he would definitely use on Stan if Stan even looked at his daughter for more than ten seconds continuously. Compliments and greetings finished, they started catching up.

Fred was doing well in his job and his wife and kids were fine. They were also the best part of Fred’s life, apart from golf. It gave Stan pleasure to see Fred so happy and contented in life, when Stan had seen him suffer through a lot of loneliness growing up. Fred asked when they would have a game of golf again because he wanted to give his kids some extra pocket money and playing against Stan always improved his finances. Stan answered that he could not be expected to concentrate if someone was wearing pants louder than a rock concert within fifty meters of him. Eventually, the conversation wound its way to the decrepit state of Stan’s life.

Stan morosely weaved with words a rich tapestry that depicted both the outer events and the underlying essence of his life lately, “Things are fucked up, Fred.” back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 99

Fred laughed again and said of course they were, as they were part of Stan’s life. Getting more serious he probed with a few questions until he exclaimed, “Aha! It is a woman, isn’t it? Tell old Freddy everything. Is it the one with the husband, sorry fiancé? What is her name?” Stan told him that he did not know her name and that it was not her. He told him about Anne, about how he had been so smitten by her and then seen her with another man. He went on and indicated how low that had made him feel, and how differently he had felt about her. He summed up by telling Fred that he now faced daily life with all the anticipation he had when he once had to eat the contents of an ashtray after losing a bet to Fred when they were students, and Fred had cruelly enforced that obligation. “Stan, you know what you have to do, don’t you? You have to go to this woman and tell her how you feel. Maybe she thinks that the two of you together is a revolting idea, but then at least you know and can start getting over it. We cannot have you moping around for months because of her. Hey, it may be shit speaking to her, but it is most definitely going to be shit otherwise. What have you got to lose huh? Nothing at all.”

Stan agreed because he felt like he had nothing, so could not lose anything. He then blurted out, “Fuck off” and quickly hung up the phone before Fred could reply. He could picture the look on Fred’s face as it changed from surprise to indignation to amusement. It was not much of a shot, and a cheap one at that, but at least he had got a bit back. Stan did not have it him to articulate his appreciation for Fred’s sage counsel, but after many years together he knew that Fred would have understood the message accurately.

Fred was right. He had to talk to Anne. At least he had to tell her once how he felt. Then he could see what happened, and deal with it. Doing it before he lost momentum and courage, he phoned Anne and asked if they could meet later for coffee. She agreed.

Saturday Afternoon Stan sat in the coffee shop. Or rather, slumped in his chair at the corner table. The hangover was still in control of his body. Not so much specific problems, like a headache or a queasy stomach, but more of a general feeling of a tendency towards disintegration. He looked at the time on his watch. 100 A Man Called Stan

She was five minutes late. If she was not here in another five minutes, he would go home and never be civil to her again. Standing him up on this of all days would be completely unforgivable. With each minute that passed, Stan slumped more into his seat as his spirit sunk even lower. He was just starting to wonder if he had been cursed for life when Anne walked in. He looked up at her as she entered and was transported. The light seemed to stream into the shop behind her, chasing her through the doorway, to where she stood glowing softly just inside the door. She was not done up at all, very casual, but so beautiful in her natural state that Stan could hardly believe it. Looking around, she saw him sitting in the dark corner and waved hello and came up to him. Her smile of greeting radiated something that made Stan melt inside. He gestured to her to sit down.

“Hello Stan, it is nice to see you. Thanks for the invite. What happened to your face? Again?!? I saw a cut earlier in the week, and now there is more! Are you in some kind of trouble, or what is happening, Stan? How did you get them?” Stan blushed uncomfortably. “Aah, well, it is a bit embarrassing really. The one that I got during the week happened at gym. I had an accident, just my clumsiness. Fortunately, there were some kind people there who helped me with it. And as for this one, ummm…it was…hmmmm…. I tripped and fell down some stairs.” “Landing on your eye?” Why was she so sharp? “Uh, yeah, on my eye. I was a tiny bit drunk.” He tried to look sheepish at the idea of him having something to drink, as if it was something unusual for him. “Anyway, lets get some coffee and then chat.”

They got some surprisingly nice coffee and sipped at it while they talked. Stan was amazed at how much better he was feeling. Sitting here, talking to her, this was what he wanted. And the coffee was helping significantly as well, it had to be said. He had run out at home and been too listless to go and buy more, a sure sign that something was amiss with him. The conversation took the scenic route and after a pleasant journey arrived at the reason why he had asked her out. back again IT HAPPENS TO STAN 101

“Uh, Anne, I wanted to talk to you about something. I don’t know how this will sound or how appropriate it is, but I can’t not say anything.” He paused for breath and to summon up courage to go on. Scrutinising her face for signs of encouragement he found nothing. An inscrutable mask, as beautiful as it was. He had seen it display emotions expressively, so this blankness must be as a result of conscious control. Damn, this was hard. Taking a breath, he went on.

“Anne, I don’t know if you have noticed, but I quite like you. I was wondering if maybe you would consider the possibility of trying to have something with me. We could even just be friends at first, until you got to know me better. Then maybe we could try a relationship, or…” He stopped because she had burst out laughing. Stan watched in disbelief as she hid her face behind her hand while she tried to regain control over her laughter. This was indescribably awful. He stared open-mouthed at the woman. Eventually she was fit to continue conversation.

“Oh Stan, of course I noticed. You can hardly breathe when I am around! And yes Stan, I will try.”

There was silence as he tried to process this. This done, he slowly believed it. As it sank in, he popped upright in his chair and turned to face her with sudden buoyancy in his being. After some joyful exclamations, he inquired about the large blonde man he had seen her with the previous day. “Stan, didn’t you think we looked quite alike?” Stan nodded in agreement. Sometimes people were attracted to those of a similar type to them. “He was my brother. I had not seen him for months. Wait a minute, is that why you were so rude to me yesterday afternoon?” Stan nodded again, this time shyly. “Stupid man. I had been hoping that you would ask me out last night.” Stan remembered the previous night and could not believe he had been in that state unnecessarily. What a wrong turn. He shuddered and continued the conversation. Hopefully, things would start moving in the right direction now. 102 A Man Called Stan

A While Later Stan woke up. The phone had been ringing for five minutes to rouse him from his near-comatose state. He picked it up and mumbled, “Mmph, Stan here.”

“Hey Stan, Fred here. And YOU can fuck off.” Stan listened to the beeping of the line after the caller had hung up. He replaced the phone and looked at the time on his alarm clock. 3:45 am. He smiled at the thought of Fred laughing. Still smiling, he rolled over and put his arm around Anne and drifted off into the sweetest of sleeps. Chapter 6

a little down the line

STAN GETS ON WITH IT

Saturday Morning Stan woke up with a queasy feeling in his stomach. This was quite normal on a Saturday morning. What made this morning different was that on this occasion it was not due to excessive use of alcohol. Not implying that he had not used alcohol the night before, the man had indeed, and in a manner that most observers would describe as having definitely been excessive. But that limited indulgence would not have disturbed Stan’s stomach, which was used to far worse than mild excessiveness. In fact, if it were not for its particularly hardy constitution, the organ under discussion would have dissolved away into nothing years ago. No, the queasiness that was making its presence felt this morning was caused by a severe case of nerves. It would be fair to say that Stan was more nervous now than he had ever been in his whole life. He lay in bed, struggling to prevent himself from hyperventilating. Breathe in Stan, breathe out. Deeply in, deeply out. This time-honoured method was not working very well and the unsettled state that it could not prevent meant that for a disturbing change he was unable to drift off again into sleep. Running out of alternative courses of action, he considered getting out of bed. It seemed so wrong though, to get out of bed on a Saturday morning when the sun had

- 103 - 104 A Man Called Stan not even passed its peak yet. Grumbling at what a demanding world this was, Stan threw back the covers.

That momentous step taken, he lay prone on the bed, summing up the energy to arise. That was what was great about weekends; you could do things at your own pace, especially getting out of bed. Which explained why Stan was rarely up before noon in the weekend. It was just so difficult to be up before then. But today he had some very important matters to attend to, so he had better start this day. Or then again, he could just forget about his agenda for the day, and postpone it or cancel it completely. He felt relief flow through him at the thought of not having to pursue the course of action he had set for today. Then he thought about how it was imperative that he attempt it sometime, and now was always the best time to do anything. Thus, in an uncharacteristic but surprisingly determined manner, our champion steeled himself for what he had to do. Drawing in a deep breath, he managed to sit up. Good God, this was going to be a difficult day. Every motion was weighed down by the pressure exerted on him by this enormous thing he was going to try and do. It was like running into an invisible brick wall every few seconds. Wham! Stops you and your thoughts right in their tracks. Only way forward is to keep on climbing those walls, or just break through them. Stan made the breakthrough of getting onto his feet, and while he was on a roll made a dash for the bathroom. He was there!

After his shower he stood in front of his mirror and critically appraised what he saw there. He sucked his stomach in and turned to the side, grimacing at the profile he presented. Carefully he lathered his face with shaving gel and meticulously scraped his skin clean of any stubble. He even tried to brush his hair, some- thing that he rarely did and was not skilled at, so the end result was not overly impressive. He did not have a repertoire of stylish hairstyles to try. Splashing on some aftershave he stood up and looked at the cleaned, albeit naked product. He winked at it. Yup, that looked presentable enough. The best he would ever get it to look and smell anyway, so it would have to do. Opening his cupboard, he tried to decide what to wear. Hmm, this was a difficult task if you were making an attempt to look good. For the first time in his life, he understood why women always took so long to dress themselves. He could never grasp before how they could take half an hour when his wardrobe selection usually took less than half a minute. It seemed now as if it could be a more complicated task than putting on enough clothing to cover your nudity a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 105 but not so much that you overheated, and finding enough clean clothes to complete an outfit. This was an interesting observation, but one that was not really helping him at the moment. What to wear? He wanted to look slick and stylish, but not like a fairy who had spent all morning dressing himself.

Not that there was much chance of Stan looking overdressed considering the clothes in his cupboard. After an agonising and interminable two minutes of trying to decide what to wear, he closed his eyes and pulled out trousers and a shirt. Opening his eyes and noting the result, he tried to remember the rule about different kinds of checks in the same outfit. Well, they were both checks, so how could they not go together? With firm and determined actions he climbed into his green and yellow check pants and pulled on his red and blue shirt. That done, he looked in the mirror. My God! What a sight! Satisfied with the results, Stan made his way to the kitchen.

Sipping his second cup of coffee, he thought about the rest of today. That was not such a good idea unless he wanted the coffee to boil again in his stomach. Instead he let his mind roam, making sure that he steered it far away from the fearful place where his plans for today were stored. Swilling coffee around in his mouth, he remembered that day in the forest a while ago. What a strange day that had been. Although it seemed so fantastic now, he could remember perfectly how he had felt and what he had thought, and he knew that it had been real. What had it been though? And that old man, what an amazing person he was. Sometimes in his quieter moments, Stan had thought about what that man had said. It was interesting to know that there were people with such vastly different outlooks on life. It was very good to know that, as the outlook of the average person was pretty near worthless, if one considered the low level of meaning and shallow depth it gave to their lives. Stan wondered how such absurd views and philosophies that were so obviously limited and false had managed to be stamped over much of civilisation, and under the name of rationality as well when they were anything but that. No wonder that human society was so fucked up when it was based on such nonsensical principles. He had started to understand lately that herein lay much of the cause of his chronic depression and frustration. It was not that there was something wrong with Stan that prevented him from enjoying and appreciating what was around him; it was that something in him had always known that there was almost no worth in what was around him. In most of it anyway. There were still to be found those parts of life that were sincere 106 A Man Called Stan and true to the essence of it, and they were filled with a beauty of infinite substance. Sipping the last of his coffee, he finished his mental ruminations and went to brush his teeth. Time to get on with the day.

A Short While Later Stan was in his car, driving to the scene where the action was to be played out, with the tension building up in him as he drew nearer to his destination. When he reached there, he had to sit in his car a while, trying to psyche himself up. He was shaking now he was so nervous. He got out of the car on rubbery legs and strode up to the entrance. Reaching it at speed, he passed his momentum on by hammering on the door. Agitatedly he paced before the door until it was opened. The person whom Stan had been seeking looked out at him. Without saying anything, Stan walked into the building with a grim air of determination. The other person closed the door and walked behind him, in surprise at Stan’s behaviour. Stan sat on a chair, his face muscles moving as he clenched and relaxed his jaw continuously. His attitude started to affect his company who became decidedly on edge and asked Stan if there was a problem. Stan turned his head at the speaker and stared with an intense expression for an unnaturally long time. Never one to skirt an issue, he was wondering how to begin this thing. Finally, he spoke into the uncomfortable silence. “I have something to tell you Anne.”

Anne interrupted him, “Don’t worry Stan, you don’t even need to. I know what you want to say. I have seen the way you have been moping around when you are with me lately. That tortured expression on your face sends out the message loud and clear. You obviously do not want to be with me anymore and being in my presence seems to be something that you find quite a painful ordeal. Well, you don’t even have to bring yourself around to say it, which is something I can see that you have been trying to do for weeks. Just go. Leave now.” Stan stared at her and started to protest. She interrupted him again and told him to shut up and just get out. When he stood up to try and calm her, she pushed him to the door, her fit body overpowering him completely. He was still trying to get a word in when she opened the door, pushed him outside and slammed the door behind him. Standing there on the doorstep, he processed the preceding minute of his existence with a mind that would a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 107 never be quick enough to keep up with the volatility of a woman. When he completed the processing and understood what had transpired, he started pounding the door, yelling for her to open it. There was no result. Stan continued to pound at the door relentlessly and called her name until he was crying it like a baby. Eventually she opened the door a crack, “You are embarrassing me! Shut up and go away.”

As she started closing the door Stan stuck his foot in it and warned her, “If you don’t let me in, I won’t stop crying on your front door in this quiet neighbourhood, and all of your neighbours will come to see what is causing the disturbance.” He started shrieking to show her how awful it would be. It really was exceptionally awful. A high-pitched, false screech that tore right through your head. She yanked him inside and slapped him through the face. This was not unfolding as per his plans. Not at all.

“Thank you, Anne. For letting me in, not for the slap. Although maybe thanks for that too, it probably stopped me from becoming hysterical. Please let me explain.” “You don’t have to explain anything to me Stan. I already did all of the explaining.” She eyed him coldly. “Anne, it is not like you think it is”, he nodded in objective affirmation of his sincerity as he spoke. “Stan, you know you can’t deceive me. Are you going to deny the misery that you have been in the last few weeks, huh? Not what you could call the sign of a man happy in his relationship. Just admit it.”

“Anne, you are right, I didn’t know that you saw it, but it was there. But the reason for my mood is not what you think.” He paused, waiting to see if he was making headway. Not being slapped again, he took that as a sign to continue, “You see, a few weeks ago I was thinking how happy I was with you. Then I thought about what my life would be like without you, if I lost you. From the instant I first contemplated it, it depressed me. No, that is putting it way too mildly. I did not know whether to puke or to cry. Anne, the idea was terrible. It has been haunting me since then. My life without you would just seem so empty and useless, now that I know what it can be like, how rich and full it can be. I need you Anne. I need your beauty in my life.” 108 A Man Called Stan

Anne seemed to have lowered her hackles and was listening to him intently. As he looked at her face, overwhelming emotion welled up inside him. Stan tried not to drown in it and went on, “Anne, I came here today to ask you to marry me. I want you in my life forever. Please dear.”

Now it was Anne’s turn to process at a delay what had just occurred. When it finally got processed by her system, she leaped into Stan’s arms and repeated a tearful, “Yes, yes!!” First Stan concentrated on catching her and holding her, and when he understood what she was telling him he spun around in circles, holding her to his chest, while he laughed and cried at the same time. She asked if he felt all right and he bawled in happiness. Afterwards he would blame it on the release of pent-up and unbearable stress. The kind of stress that only a woman can cause, the kind that no man can really handle, least of all Stan. That kind of stress.

Friday Night (A Few Months Later) Tonight, was a big night, the night of the inevitable bachelor’s party. The party had already started to pick up reckless speed. To the surprise of absolutely no one, Stan and Fred were setting the pace. And quite a pace it was too, again an observation that would not surprise any reasonable observers. The lads frequently got themselves into a horrible state for no real reason, and tonight they had an excellent excuse. After all, this was the night in Stan’s life when he was supposed to get the most trashed that he had ever been, and he was determined not to disappoint. Fred was in full support in the same manner as Stan had been behind him at his bachelor’s party a decade or so ago. At the subsequent wedding Fred’s bride had been in a very pregnant condition and very unimpressed with the condition of her husband, who was more of a Green Fred on the day than a Red Fred. Her distaste for Stan, which had arisen naturally upon meeting him, had become permanent on that day, although she did tolerate his presence with admirable stoicism. She was a good woman and accepted her husband’s faults, of which friendship with Stan was the dominant one, overshadowing even her beloved’s short temper, foul mouth, and love of golf. a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 109

Sitting at a table in the club, the men got drunk and sentimental. They reminisced over their past, although it was a past that seemed far more attractive when viewed from this inebriated distance then it had been when in it and seen from up close. Grimness tends to fade quickly from memory. Laughter rang around the room as the lads all got caught up in the festive vibe. Eventually Fred pronounced a Tequila Toast to Stan and called for some silence, making his speech from his seated position. “Shut up you fucking hooligans! There, that is better. Full attention please. We are gathered here to mourn the passing of Stan from life into the death of marriage. Stan, I hope you realise that this is your last night as a free man, and judging from what your wife-to-be tells me, your last night out with the boys. So, everyone, let’s say goodbye to Stan who will be knitting at night in the future.” Everyone laughed except Stan who swore bitterly at Fred, worried about how much of it may prove to be true in his future life. Fred continued,

“No, really Stan, I am glad that you found someone and fucking amazed that it is someone as wonderful as Anne. We will never know what she sees in you. Hopefully, you won’t be such a sorry case anymore. Anyway, here is a toast to your happy future. Gentlemen, please proceed!”

Everyone downed their drinks, but Stan and Fred followed the proper ceremony. After applying the salt to the correct anatomical place, they sucked their slice of lemon, downed their tequila and then licked the salt off the nipples of the buxom waitress they each had sitting in their laps. Fred then announced that seeing as how he was paying for the evening, he wanted to try them both, so the girls swapped laps and the boys repeated the whole process. Stan then stated that seeing as how it was his party, he wanted a special treat. So, he moved the one girl onto one leg and beckoned the other girl to sit on his other leg. That done, a different kind of liqueur was dribbled on each breast and Stan started happily licking and nibbling his way from left to right. Four great big breasts later, there was a great big smile on his face. The waitresses packed their large breasts back into their blouses, packed their larger tips into their pockets, picked up their serving trays, and walked away laughing. Some people might feel that they were being taken advantage of, but they knew that it was them who were taking the advantage. Men were so easy to make money out of. 110 A Man Called Stan

Stan moved around the crowd during the evening, chatting to all of his friends and being congratulated by them. It really was a special party. Stan started to feel strange. This was his last night as a single man. The thought struck him fully for the first time. Oh My God! He could never touch another woman again! Was he doing the right thing? As he was pondering this, his friends called him to watch the show. The girls were going to start performing. Two very impressive looking women strode into the centre of the room. A blonde was dressed up as a Cowgirl and her darker friend as a Native American. The Cowgirl had the Native American captured in a lasso. The chorus of whistles that greeted the start of their performance quickly died into silence as they progressed, broken only by occasional gasps of appreciation and astonishment from the audience and slurpy and sucking sounds from the performers. Soon the audience were all sweating and goggle-eyed and when the show ended, they burst into rapturous applause. The girls stood up and waved to them in a friendly manner and then skipped over to Stan, completely naked, each one taking him by a hand and leading him to a private room in the back of the club.

Stan’s heart was beating in his throat. The girls started caressing and undressing him and taking turns to kiss him. Within seconds he was also naked and lying on a couch, with the girls lying all over him, stroking him. Wow, what an astounding turn of events, he had known that Fred would provide him with a cracker of a bachelor’s party. The girls were touching each other and him and it was all just incredible. As things started to get more serious, Stan suddenly became doubtful. How would Anne feel if she could see him having sweaty sex with two girls the night before they were to be married? She would not be pleased, that much was certain. And while he would absolutely enjoy it tonight, how would he feel tomorrow standing with her in front of everyone, getting married, when he knew he had been quite a dirty bastard the night before? Devastated, he realised that he would not be able to partake in this wondrous double-activity that he had so often dreamed about. With a sigh, Stan explained the situation to the girls, feeling quite odd as he did so. This was officially the first time in his life that his conscience was preventing him from doing something that he wanted to do. Combined with the honour of doing right, there was a feeling of intense regret that he was following the course of action that he had chosen. The darker haired girl answered, “Are you sure sugar? We don’t mind doing it you know. We are being paid for it, but it will be fun. You sure you want to miss this?” a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 111

She pouted at him and cupped her breasts to illustrate just what “this” was. Stan nodded and the girls exclaimed their sympathy when they saw that he was almost in tears. This was a very emotional moment for Stan. They soothed him with words and stroking and then the blonde one said, “Don’t worry honey, it is alright. Tell you what; we will make it easier on you. Stick your tongue out, Sue. Do you see that piercing through her tongue, Mr. Husband-to-be? Do you know what it is for? Show him Sue. I promise you honey, I have felt it many times before and it is really special. Come here sweetie.” So, the blonde one gently kissed him and filled his hands with her breasts while Sue did truly exceptional things to him lower down.

Half an hour after he had entered, Stan left the room, in a complete daze, unable to understand what his friends were saying to him or to respond to their jibes. He went over to Fred,

“Fred, you are a fucking prick. Thank you. Let’s get down to some serious drinking. And I mean serious.”

The two men then proceeded down a well-worn path, but this time they travelled further along it than ever before. Along the way their companions fell away (literally), unable to continue. At the end it was just Stan and Fred. There were some other guys at the table, but they were unconscious so do not need to be included as they may as well not have been there. Although they did serve a decorative function by creating a certain sordid air, as debauchery is definitely the theme of the evening when there are people lying asleep in their beer. By now Stan could hardly see Fred, who was sitting right in front of him in a well-lit room. This was because his eyes were swollen nearly shut and could not focus at all. The men were sitting across from each other at a table littered with bottles, glasses, ashtrays, a couple of sleeping heads, two glittered G-strings, a cowboy hat and a lasso. They were mumbling an unintelligible but important conversation until Stan’s slurred sentence tapered off and he fall forward onto the table, out for the count. Fred watched this with an open mouth, and then slid off his chair onto the floor. Silence hung heavily in the room. 112 A Man Called Stan

The Next Day—“THE” Day “Wake up Stan! For fuck’s sake, wake up you shit. Puhleese, wake up!” Fred really wanted Stan to wake up. “Wake up now, you asshole! You must be hearing me. Get up!” Fred was yelling till the veins stood out on his neck and kicking Stan in his attempt to rouse him. Fred was not simply concerned that Stan would be late. Fred was terrified of facing up to Anne if Stan did not arrive at the wedding at all. Soon his panic overcame his reason, and he grabbed a metal lid from one of the dustbins around them and started smashing Stan on the head and banging the ground around him to create an ungodly din. Stan started screaming and covered his head with his arms. When Fred noticed the movements, the assault came to an end.

When his friend stopped attacking him, Stan cautiously took his hands away and looked around him, bleeding profusely from his beating. They were lying in a filthy alley, with garbage and the stench of urine all around them. Fred looked down at the bewildered expression on Stan’s bloody face and the humour of it all struck him down. He collapsed in helpless laughter, lying on Stan and laughing till the tears ran as freely down his face as blood was running down Stan’s. Stan was wailing to the heavens and asking if he was in a particularly cruel realm of Hell. He had been lying there with the worst headache imaginable, trying to ignore it with sleep, and then someone had started smashing him on the head with a metal object. Unbelievable. Now this maniac was lying on him, laughing, in the trash.

“What the fuck is going on? Why are you laughing, you mad fucker?” Fred tried to catch his breath, “Don’t you see Stanley old boy, it is so perfect. We have your bachelor’s party, and you end up like this. Lying, bleeding, half naked, in the garbage in an alley. It is fucking classic man!” “My bachelor’s party! So today is…Oh no, oh fuck me!” In a frenzy, Stan threw off the red bulk that was Fred and tried to stand up and run to his wedding. He wobbled two steps, then bent over and puked between his feet. This special day had started off in style. Still convulsing, Stan asked what the time was. a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 113

Chuckling, Fred informed him that it was half past eleven. Wiping his mouth with his forearm, Stan asked what time he was supposed to be at the church. Fred scratched his head a while and replied with a smile, “Eleven o’ clock.”

“WHAAAT!?!” Stan interrupted himself to clasp his head in agony. He continued, “What kind of a best man are you? You are supposed to help me with this day. More of a worst wanker than a best man if you ask me. Fucking asshole.’’ In his anger, Stan also started laughing and after a few near-hysterical minutes they were sitting in the trash again, trying to gather themselves after their laughing fit. Eventually Fred stood up, “Come groom- boy, time to go. You need a wash. God, but you stink!” And with that friendly encouragement they hobbled down the alley, having no idea where in the city they were.

The Event In the taxi on the way to their hotel room, Stan tried to decide if he really was in danger of dying from alcohol poisoning or if it just felt that way. At the hotel, they impersonated a tornado as they flew through the shower and their suitcases until they were neatly dressed and groomed but still looking like absolute shit. Not much could be done about that though. Maybe a week in a health spa, but there was not quite the time for that course of treatment at the moment, so it was not really an option. Casually, almost as a joke, Stan asked Fred if he was sure that he had the rings on him. Fred informed Stan that he did not because Stan had not yet given them to him yet. Stan then insisted that he had, which Fred denied vehemently. Their discussion rapidly descended into an argument and after a few filthy insults and a push they were on the floor, fighting.

As Fred punched Stan in the ribs, Stan yelped and then shouted at Fred to stop. “I will you asshole, if you stop biting my fucking ear.” This was a reasonable request, so Stan let go of Fred’s ear. “Now get off me, you fat fuck.” This time it was Fred’s turn to comply. Stan sat up and felt in the inner breast pocket of his tuxedo where Fred had just punched him. He had felt something between his ribs and the fist. Grinning, he pulled out two boxes. 114 A Man Called Stan

“How is that for forward thinking huh? Yesterday I put them in here so that they could not be missing today. Ah! What the fuck was that for?” While Stan had been explaining their location to Fred, Fred had kicked him in the shins. Fred explained that this was for blaming him but being entirely wrong, and probably having known that all along that Fred had never bee in possession of the rings, but not wanting to take the blame himself. Having expressed his righteous indignation, he took the rings from Stan and pocketed them. They were looking slightly less groomed now, so they wiped away the fresh blood and brushed their hair again. Satisfied, they took more headache pills and left for the church. Only an hour late, this day was going to be a success after all.

At the church, Fred ran in to appease the wrath of the bride and tell everyone that things could proceed. Then he came to fetch Stan and the two of them walked down the aisle, not too steady on their feet and not in pristine condition, but still looking good enough for the part. They reached the altar and came to a standstill. Stan seemed distinctly nervous. His mouth was drawn, and his face was very pale. The skin colour could well have been due to his ravaged physical condition, but the twitch down the right side of his face was definitely not. Then the music started, and all eyes went to the back of the church. Down the aisle came Anne, accompanied by her father.

In a white dress, shining with inner light, she was a magnificent vision. Every- one in the church sighed an exclamation, apart from Stan, who gulped. How could he have been wondering last night if he was doing the right thing by marrying her, and linking to her for life? Marriage to her was the greatest gift the Universe had ever bestowed upon him. Watching her walk up to the altar, Stan realised that he was watching the approach of his Life’s Happiness. She saw him watching her and sent him a smile that made emotions surge in him so powerfully that he felt as if he may burst with trying to contain it all. They were too overwhelming and too vast in their compass to be reduced to mere words.

Or maybe there was an expression for them, the proper and profound meaning of words used undeservedly on a daily basis, “I love you”, he mouthed to her, and then turned around to face the front, afraid he might lose his composure. Must act cool at all times, especially at your own wedding. a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 115

The ceremony was a lengthy process, as they tend to be, and Stan was starting to find it very difficult to remain standing. Swaying on his feet, he glared balefully at Fred, who had shooed a flower girl out of her seat and was sitting in it. Fred saw Stan’s expression and smiled innocently back at him, knowing full well what was going through his friend’s mind. He stretched back in his chair, trying to show Stan just how relaxed and comfortable he was. Eventually the priest called for the best man to present the rings. Fred hauled himself out the chair and held out the rings. Anne gently fitted his ring and squeezed his hand briefly before releasing it. Stan started shaking as he slid the ring onto Anne’s finger. It is not often that you have one of the biggest moments of your life. When they were pronounced man and wife, he kissed her sweet mouth and held her to him, his heart on fire as it felt her closeness. Stan was married.

The Reception They went straight from the church to the venue where the reception was to be held. The guests all seemed prepared to party quite heartily, except for those who had attended last night’s proceedings, who looked slightly less enthusiastic. Even Stan and Fred were amongst these with a reserved approach to the festivities. Stan personally wished that he could curl up in a dark hole for a day and recoup, but there was little chance of that, a fact that he was well aware of. As the evening began and they were quickly left behind, they realised that the only way that they would survive was to have a few drinks. Only a few though. Restraint would be easy tonight, as their stomachs were acid filled bags of turbulence. Fred went to fetch them a drink, and while he was gone his mother came to greet Stan. “Hello Stanley.”

Stan beamed at her. She was a great woman, and the focal point of some of his favourite memories. In fact, his brief period of training with her was still one of the best things that had ever happened to him. She congratulated him on catching such a wonderful bride. He assured her that he would never have been able to do it without her help and asked how she was. Stan was pleased to hear of her happy second marriage, this woman did not deserve to be alone. Her daughter then came and told her that Fred was looking for her.

When Carolina left, Mary Jane turned around to face Stan. They stood silently a while, looking into each other’s eyes and reading the face in front of 116 A Man Called Stan them, a face unseen for many years. Before Anne, this had been the woman for whom Stan had experienced the deepest feelings. Even though it had been in childhood, the emotions had been more real than in any of his later relationships, until he had found his wife. But after they had left school their paths had gone in different directions, which had been painfully difficult at first, as their hearts had not felt a similar split. It had just been that there was only one way forward for each of them and they were separate. Stan held out his arms and she slipped into them and squeezed him tightly. She whispered his name while he stroked the back of her head, touched by the moment. He held her out from him and carefully appraised her, “You look stunning Mary. It’s so good to see you! How are you, dear?” She spoke to him about her blossoming career for a while until her family returned. Fred gave Stan a drink as Carolina and Mary Jane walked off to the bar. A few metres away, Mary Jane turned around and sent an especially meaningful look to Stan. Half sighing, half smiling she turned back around and joined her mother.

Fred caught this exchange and enquired of Stan, “What the fuck was that all about?” Stan studiously ignored him and sipped his drink, looking around the room as if Fred had not spoken. Fred pondered a while and then remarked how he would never understand women, and how they could sometimes be so emotional for no apparent reason. They had never informed Fred’s family of the relationship, for obvious reasons. Such as Fred killing Stan. Stan had also never told either of the women about the other. It would have been too much. By the time that he had started seeing Mary Jane, he had stopped going to bed with Carolina anyway. As fantastic an arrangement as it might appear, even he had to admit that the situation would not have been quite right. The two friends had their drink and started to feel a bit better. Stan demanded that Fred go fetch them more, as it was Stan’s wedding and there was no way that he was going to serve himself. When Fred returned with the drinks, Stan took them and thanked him accordingly, “I am sick of your boring company. I am going to spend some time with my delightful wife. Later.”

And Stan walked over to where Anne was sitting, surrounded by her friends and acquaintances, and politely asked them all to leave, immediately. They did so, although quite unimpressed. He did not even see this ruffled a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 117 reaction to his request, as it did not interest him. As long as they complied, he was satisfied. Complied quietly, it should be added. Sitting next to Anne, he grabbed her hand and stared at her, “Hello wife.” God, that felt good to say. This woman had made him feel ways that he did not know were possible. Who would have guessed that a person could feel so fulfilled? While he started to tell her this, they were distracted by a commotion. Fred was chasing the singer of the band away and taking control of his microphone. After bellowing “Testing, testing” into the microphone, he asked for everyone’s attention.

“Good evening all, it is wonderful to be here tonight with everybody, and at such an occasion. Stan and Anne got married. Wow!” He paused until the applause settled. Clearing his throat, he continued, “We have already had the speeches from the parents, but there is no way I am letting this opportunity pass to say in public some things about Stan, and let you all know what he is really like.” Stan started to worry.

“I have been friends with Stan for a long time. Since the first day of school. In that first day, I learnt a lot about Stan, and I will share it with you now. That first morning Fate, with her usual strange sense of humour, saw to it that I was seated next to Stan. I could not help but notice how he was eyeballing all the little girls in our class. When break came, I watched him run up behind all the girls and lift their skirts and peek to look at what was underneath them, without them ever realising. I then suggested, jokingly, that he should try that with our teacher when class began again. His eyes gleamed at the thought of looking under the dress of a pretty blonde in her early thirties. I tried to talk him out of it, but there was no hope of that. When we went back into class, he waited for the right moment. When the teacher went to help some little girl and was bending over to see what was on her desk, Stan slipped out from his seat and ran behind her. He flipped up her dress and the sight before him made his eyes go wide as he gasped aloud. When the teacher turned around to see what the commotion was about, he let go of her dress and fell onto the floor as he back-pedalled and tripped over his own feet. She, and the rest of the class, stared at this kid on the floor and Stan got up shamefacedly and came back to his seat. 118 A Man Called Stan

“Nice move, asswipe”, I told him. I had been expecting him to do it smoothly, as he had done with the schoolgirls and had started to this time. When I asked him why he had folded at the pressure moment, he looked at me with this white face I will never forget. “She wasn’t wearing any panties man.” He did not speak again until second break. Very educational first day of school!”

Fred paused again while laughter erupted all over the room. When it was possible, he continued, “At second break, we were sitting in the playground, discussing the incident, when a couple of older kids came up to us. My mom always looked after me very well, and these kids basically wanted to steal my lunch, with chocolates and all. So, the leader of the gang said, “I have an idea, fatso.” He was addressing me, by the way. At the time, I was quite a corpulent little kid.”

Fred had to wait again for the laughter to subside, all one hundred and twenty-five kilograms of him, on a short frame. He resumed his story with a grin, “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the leader of the gang had an idea. He said that instead of me eating my lunch and getting fatter, he would take it from me. He would also do me this favour every day. I was about to reluctantly hand over my lunch to avoid a beating when Stan interrupted. “I have a better idea,” the six-year-old version of Stan said, “Why don’t you guys go around the corner and fuck yourselves? You can do this every day and do us the favour of leaving us the fuck alone. What do you think, bitches?” They really kicked the shit out of us that break, but they never bothered us again.”

Everyone was in stitches now and Stan nostalgically rubbed his jaw where he had been kicked. Fred started speaking again, “I will conclude now and leave everyone to continue enjoying themselves. Stan, I just want to say that while you can be an asshole of immense proportions, you are also the best friend I have ever had, and it is special for me to be here today. Especially considering that I had already given up hope five years ago that you would ever get married. Still getting over my disbelief that you found Anne, and that she wanted you. But kid, I know it is the best thing that has ever happened to you. Anne, I wish you strength and luck, but I know there will be a lot in it for you. I would hereby like to propose a toast to the two of you. May you live happily ever after!” a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 119

Stan clicked his glass against Anne’s and downed the best tasting drink that he had ever tasted. His life was starting to sort itself out. They kissed after the toast and Stan started wishing that they were alone. Their flight was early in the morning but he wanted to start his honeymoon now. No chance of leaving this party early though. He started thinking about what it would be like to bed his wife, and then he really wanted to go home. That would not be possible for a while yet though. To get himself out of the mood, he suggested that they go and speak to Anne’s family a while.

That did the trick as a libido killer. The feeling in her family towards Stan could best be described as mixed, with some being more willing to give him a chance than others. He requested Fred’s company to make the experience more bearable, and Fred joined him with a few liquid friends. They discussed over these refreshments how low their tolerance for liquor was tonight, which was no surprise considering the battered state of their bodies, especially their insides. After sharing a drink with her family they moved over to Stan’s family. They all loved Anne, obviously, and most were still slightly incredulous that she had joined with Stan for life. As was Stan.

Presently Junior came up to Stan with a huge glass full of a very strange looking liquid. Looking at this strange stuff held out by his brother who by now sprouted a huge set of dreadlocks, Stan was very dubious. Junior convinced him that it was a drink that he had asked the bartender to mix for Stan, a celebratory bowl with which to properly toast the proceedings. Having warmed up a bit already, Stan took the drink, shrugged, and downed the half litre in about three seconds. Junior was stunned. “I didn’t mean down it! You were supposed to slowly drink that. Do you know what was in there?” Stan belched mildly in reply, expressing his deep concern.

After greeting the families, they went around to their friends and bade them farewell. Stan was tottering around the room as they made their rounds, desperately eager to get Anne back to his apartment and glad it was finally happening. Just in time too. He would not be able to endure much longer. Maybe he should have treated that last drink with a bit more caution. When they left the building, he was aghast at the sight of his sporty car. It had been completely whitewashed so that you could barely see what colour it was underneath the white. . There were also the usual objects tied to the bumper, but that was not all. The doors were scratched badly, and the bonnet was 120 A Man Called Stan crushed. “My fucking car!” he screamed, running up to his baby. Reaching it he kneeled down to inspect the damage. It was real. Her turned around to stare into a battery of flashes going off as the prepared crowd took their photos of Stan in anguish. Stan was screaming at them, “You fuckers, what the fuck is going on? Did someone DO this to me on purpose?”

As he asked, Fred came up with his car keys, juddering with laughter. “Sorry man, when I was driving it to get it whitewashed, I drove into the wall. Bit too much to drink I suppose. Then I panicked and scratched the door against another wall. To be honest, I found it rather funny and the last bits were almost on purpose. But you have got to admit, we got a good reaction from you. You were taken by surprise with that one!” Fred saw the bursting violence in Stan’s eyes and quickly added that he would get it fixed while Stan was on honeymoon, he had a friend who was a panel-beater. Stan turned and looked at his car and had to laugh. Waving goodbye to everyone, they got in the car and drove away from the cheering crowd to Stan’s place in the neighbouring town.

An Hour Later The car pulled up outside Stan’s house. The engine was switched off and the driver got out and went around to the passenger door and opened it. The sleeping passenger was taken out gently and carried to the door. Anne opened the door and carried the comatose Stan over the threshold of his home. Their home now. It was fortunate for Stan that she exercised regularly and was in good shape or he would have had to sleep in the car, as there was no waking him tonight. She lovingly undressed him and put him to bed. Enjoying the feeling of doing it in her new home, she washed her face, brushed her teeth and put on her pyjamas. She then took a cushion and placed it on the floor of the sitting room. Anne knelt on the cushion and closed her eyes with her hands held together in her lap, sitting still and upright. Her mind became calm and she dwelt on the feeling of being married, the joy shining in her heart at the idea. After some time had passed, she said a quick prayer of thanks for this development in her life, and vowed to do all that she could to make a success of it, and to support her husband and help him to grow. She bowed down until her head touched the ground and paused in that position, feeling deeply her connection with the Universe and her awe of it. The serenity that a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 121 so characterised her washed over her prostrate form. This type of practice and reflection was the source of the serenity that filled her. Smiling, she stood up and switched off the light. After getting into bed, she nestled up to her new husband and hugged him while she waited to drift off into sleep.

Nine Months And One Day Later “Get out of the fucking way!!!!” Stan was screaming at the cars that dared to stay in the lane in which he was travelling. He was also holding his hand on the hooter and continuously flashing his lights in case they were unable to hear him screaming from inside a car travelling at 200 km/h with all the windows closed. He looked beside him at Anne, seated in the passenger’s seat. She was huge, bursting with child. At breakfast she had suddenly gasped and held her stomach, announcing with no warning that it was now the time of the birth. Within a ten minutes they had been in the car, driving to the hospital, barefoot and in their pyjamas, without even a cup of coffee. Anne was panting, trying to endure the pain, and also to calm her husband, whose eyes were wide with panic and who was panting louder and faster than she was. She started massaging his shoulder, trying to soothe him and to avoid a twenty-car pile up. They were travelling well over double the speed limit, so all things considered; life was not boring at the moment. Fortunately, Stan knew where the hospital was, and as they entered the city, he headed straight for it. Within the congestion of the city traffic they had no choice but to move along slowly, and Anne started to seriously worry about the state of her man. He was hyperventilating and swearing softly in a never-ending stream of imaginative obscenity, frequently casting a wild glance in her direction to see if she was fine, while she was keeping a careful eye on him to see if he would make it. With one of his desperate glances, he noticed that her gown was wet. “Oh my God!!!! It has started already! Shit! Are you having the baby in the car? Can you DO that? Is that all right? Oh fuck…” She interrupted him to say that it was just her waters that had broken, and that it was perfectly normal and meant that the birth was to be soon. Stan looked at her warily. He had never been too sure around women.

Eventually, after a torturous ride, they arrived at the hospital. Stan left his car at the entrance with the motor running and the keys in the ignition and asked an orderly to please park it for him. Picking Anne up, he ran for the entrance, ignoring the available wheelchairs that would have made 122 A Man Called Stan transporting her easier and quicker, especially when considering her present extended size. When they reached reception he put her down and yelled in a babble that his wife was having a baby and needed attention immediately, the best attention, and why was no-one helping her, this was urgent, and they had better take care of her, etc.

A brisk slap through the face from the lady at reception silenced him. Anne quickly explained the situation and orderlies immediately came and wheeled her away, with Stan scurrying in pursuit. She was taken to a room where a doctor examined her. Stan gibbered in the background while the doctor assured Anne that everything was proceeding normally, if a little quickly, and the only problem seemed to be the husband. Anne smiled sweetly upon hearing the good news and it was her turn to assure the doctor that she knew how to cope with the husband aspect. When the doctor left, Anne managed to get it through to Stan that there was no cause for worry and that he could relax. He did so, visibly. Anne started laughing, touched by how concerned he was for her and for the unborn child. Stan drew a chair nearer to her bed, sitting in his polka dot pyjamas and holding her hand, telling her every minute or so how wonderful she was and how much he loved her. Stan suddenly noticed how very odd he was feeling and deduced that it was as a result of not having had any coffee yet today. He could not remember ever before having been awake for over an hour without having drunk any coffee. At the insistence of Anne, he went off to get himself a cup from the vending machine.

It took Stan a while to find it as he worked his way through the maze of corridors. His face burst into a smile when he smelled the rich aroma. Standing in front of the machine he reached into his pockets for some change and realised that he had no pockets. Looking down in surprise, he was slightly stunned to see himself wearing only his pyjamas, not really the way one wishes to appear in public. But the circumstances when he had left his house provided a satisfactory explanation for this mishap. After puzzling it out a bit, he realised that the only option was to try and beg money for coffee from someone. He approached a few people, but most avoided this unshaven, disturbed looking man in polka-dot pyjamas. Finally, he cornered a nurse who was initially worried that this patient was going to try and expose himself to her. He explained his morning to her, and she gladly bought him a cup of coffee, giggling all the while. After thanking her profusely, he dawdled back to his wife, sipping on his sustaining gift. He got a bit confused getting back a little down the line STAN GETS ON WITH IT 123 to the room, but then found it. When he entered, there was no one there. Must be the wrong room. He left it and walked around again.

Slightly agitated, he returned to the room in about ten minutes. He read the name on the patient information board over the empty bed, and it was definitely Anne’s. The instant the light particles bearing that information fell on his retinas, he yelped and jumped upright, in the process spilling what was left of his hot coffee all over his chest, raising the volume in the room even more. When he touched the ground, he ran out of the room into the corridor, screaming.

Stan ran up to everyone in a white uniform, grabbed them by their coats, and shook them while he screamed in their face, frantically enquiring as to his wife’s whereabouts. Bouncing from one to the other like a polka-dotted ping- pong ball, he made his haphazard way to the maternity ward. Stan ran into a room and saw a huge black lady busy breaching what looked like it could be a whale. This was definitely the wrong room. Zipping into the various rooms and followed out of each of them by angry yells, he soon found himself in the room where a beautiful blonde was lying sweating on a bed, surrounded by doctors.

“Anne!” he yelled as he ran up to her. Giving her a hug that almost simply popped the baby right out, his obvious relief endeared him to the doctors just enough to prevent his vigorous dismissal from the room. He was babbling again to try and find out her condition when another slap stilled him long enough for a stern looking nurse to tell him, “Listen mister, your wife is doing fine. The biggest problem in the room right now is you. Now either you behave yourself, and are quiet, or I chase you out of the building for being a disturbance. Got that straight?”

The last question was delivered over a pointed finger and beneath a fearsome scowl. Stan meekly nodded his assent and stood by Anne’s side, gripping her hand and whispering to her. When the activities in the room started to pick up in intensity, he started to look decidedly queasy. As the doctors encouraged Anne to push, which she did with gusto, Stan got whiter and wetter as he witnessed this momentous occurrence. With a great rush a baby came pouring out and Stan’s knees gave way underneath him. He knelt on the floor and watched the nurse hold up a slimy little object. 124 A Man Called Stan

“Oh my God, look at that! What is it? Will it live?” Stan was shocked. “Mister, this is a perfectly healthy baby boy. You should be proud. Now stand aside and let me hand it to the mother.” Stan obeyed immediately.

The nurse cleaned the baby and held it to Anne. She took him and cradled the tiny being in her arms, gazing into its confused little face. She looked up at Stan and smiled like the Madonna she was. Stan looked down at his family and felt the fullness well up inside of him. With the help of this woman, his life was making him rich. He bent over and embraced them both, with no words to say. Chapter 7

further down the line

STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS

Wednesday Morning Stan lay awake in bed. It was gosh-darned early in the morning, and it was against his nature to be conscious at this unseemly hour. It was rare that he has not dragged out of sleep by an alarm clock, a child, or his wife. There was still time to get more sleep, but his mood prevented it. The resulting state was that he was lying there, trying to figure out why he was so disgruntled, and becoming additionally disgruntled because he could not sleep. There was an uneasiness inside of him. It was as if he was perpetually bordering on the edge of a panic attack. This mood had enveloped him a number of times recently, and was becoming ever more frequent, and now here it was again, keeping him awake early in the morning. Why should he be feeling like this when he was snug in bed in his own house, a house filled with his family? His beautiful wife whom he deeply loved was lying peacefully beside him, and his exuberant children were getting some much-needed rest in the other bedrooms. The last decade or so had gone pretty much according to plan. He had progressed in his career, built a loving family and settled in a suitable house, and had

- 125 - 126 A Man Called Stan spoiled himself with a choice car. They were financially secure, healthy and prosperous. These were all the things he had been working towards since his marriage. At first the slow attainment of these objectives had brought him real satisfaction, more than he had yet had in his life.

In retrospect it was possible that it had seemed that way because he had been confident that he had been working towards a better state and any seeming progress on this road was regarded as an achievement. Now that he had achieved virtually all that he had dreamed of, he was finding out that he was the same, and felt the same, as always. What was any better? Did those milestones mean anything if the road that he was following did not lead anywhere?

Being unable to do anything else but mull over his life in these stark hours of day, he started seeing where the cause of the growing disquiet might lie. His melancholy had eased for years when he had thought that happiness would soon be his, once he had a well-balanced life filled with all the features that most people love and yearn for. His confidence in imminent release from the darkness had made it easier to deal with any negativity that may have made its presence felt in his life. Now he had reached the place which he had held in his sights for so long, only to find that it was of the same nature as the place from whence he had beheld it. The level was simply different. And this thought, that his life would be the same as it had always been and could never change, this thought gave rise to flurries of fear when it passed through his mind. Stan felt almost guilty that it was so, but it certainly was so. He was not quite sure what in his life caused this feeling. Or it could be something that was lacking. This was still on his mind when he drifted off into a fitful sleep shortly before it was time to rise.

Upon rising reluctantly, much of his nocturnal musings were forgotten. He had a vague awareness of not having had a deep and restful sleep but was acutely aware that he felt like shit this morning. His head ached, his eyeballs burned, and he had no energy with which to take on this day.

Accordingly, his mood was far from pleasant to experience, both from the inside and the outside. The groaning as he climbed out of bed woke his wife, who mumbled a, “Morning honey, hope you have a nice day.” “Yeah, easy for you to say, all curled up in the duvet. It makes no difference further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 127 to you what kind of day I have, after you have seen us all off you just sleep here blissfully.” A sleep tousled blonde head came out from under the soft mound and eyed him with a sharp mix of emotions written across the pretty face. “What has been with you lately? Mr. Sunshine himself. Please warn me to put on my suit of armour before I start a conversation with you again. You know full well how hard I work. Now go away before you ruin my day.”

With that she dropped down and wiggled herself back into the most comfortable position that her supple body could find. Stan did not answer her, as he knew that she was right. She was the very last person he should be venting his frustration at, but it was unavoidable as they were in such close contact and there were so many interactions that were open to doses of crabbiness, and he was so inclined towards it, due to his state of mind, that it was unavoidable. He was trying to keep it under control, but this was extremely early in the morning, before he had all his mental systems running smoothly under command. Also, it had to be admitted, this underlying feeling that had been bothering him lately was growing and he was becoming more prone to outbursts. In the cold light of day, the nature of this feeling was more nebulous than the defined object it had been during the sleepless hours of critical and prolonged examination, but the feeling itself was just as strong. He looked longingly at the warm movements of her body as she settled down into the bedding and then he left the bedroom to shower.

His movements were very slow in the shower as he tried to rouse himself. After the shower he realised that he was now fully awake but was just so tired that this was how drowsy he felt. This sleeping problem was starting to become more serious. Just what he needed, great. It was difficult to believe that this difficulty with sleep was happening to him, it was like a nymphomaniac becoming frigid. His headache developing, he got dressed and made his way to the kitchen. En route, he nearly got bowled over by two flesh-and-bone rockets, which were presumably his son and daughter. His yells of annoyance resounded down the passage, bouncing off the walls but never catching up to the diminutive posteriors. When he reached the kitchen, he sternly asked what on earth was wrong with them. A breathless Paul remarked that they were quite fine but had been racing to breakfast. Stan stared at him and then switched to his attention to the coffee machine, something that was apt to prove more co-operative than his family. Ah, simply the aroma filling the 128 A Man Called Stan kitchen was already making him feel better. He poured himself a cup the moment there was enough coffee in the pot. This done he sipped on it and observed his family starting their day.

Watching his children prepare their breakfast, he had to smile. His mood lifted as he watched Jamie stand on her toes so that her curly head just peeped over the kitchen table. In this precarious position, she shook some cereal into a bowl; her arms wobbling under the burden of a cardboard box and spraying puffed rice all over the table. He helped her with pouring the milk to avoid the white puddle of milk on the floor that would definitely have been a consequence if she had continued with her plucky efforts unassisted.

Sitting down to breakfast with his family, that familiar warm glow managed to make its presence felt inside him, even through the cold mist that had been enveloping him. Where would he be without his children to bolster his spirit with their pure, young and loving energy.

Paul brought him the newspaper from under the door and he read the main section while his son read the cartoons. After a few minutes of going through the sewer of mankind that represented current events, he wondered whether his son might not be making the better choice in reading the cartoons. Stan’s lifted spirits sank again as he read about what his fellow human beings were getting up to in the rest of the world. It made for quite horrid reading. His appetite dwindled away into nothing as he paged through the paper. He read an article about high-level corruption, an article that seemed to be repeated hundreds of times over the years with only the names and the amounts changed each time it appeared. There was no surprise ever voiced when corruption was uncovered, as it seemed to be the natural tendency of people who were in a position of trust. Were human beings so greedy that they could be relied upon to steal money whenever the opportunity presented itself? The answer was unfortunately a most definite yes. Stan wondered if there were any people in public positions who were truly there out of a desire to serve and were not there in a quest for personal power and wealth. Probably not, which was yet another indicator that the world was in a fucked-up state, with a society that was so false and hollow that it was bound to collapse in upon itself in the foreseeable future.

Slumping in his chair, Stan read further. He read about the rapid and steady decline of the global ecology, at a pace that was still unchecked after further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 129 decades of awareness of the situation that was arising. He could not understand how huge areas of precious land could be razed every day when the people responsible knew what the consequences were. Or rather, he did understand. The people’s greed overrode any forebodings they might have. Greed drove the companies to rip down the jungles and dig up the earth, and greed moved the politicians responsible to grant the permits that should never be granted. It was also greed that made producers take illegal shortcuts that led to a lower cost per unit but polluted the environment around them and made it impossible for life to flourish there. Stan dropped the paper and leaned back in his stool. There was no sincerity or integrity in people at all. They were shallow and driven by base emotions and did not strive at all to possess any kind of virtue, or to be of benefit to the world around them. He had never been overly fond of most people, but he had not sensed the wrongness of their ways so strongly before. Sighing softly, he took a sip of his coffee as he pondered existence.

Hearing movement behind him, he turned around to see Anne enter the kitchen to join her family. Even straight from bed and in a crumpled state, she was gorgeous. Before he could open his mouth to inform her of this, she took the coffee mug out of his hand and emptied it into the sink, informing him that he drank too much coffee and that it was contributing to his poor mood of late. The effect on Stan was stupendous, way more than the aggravation it was intended to cause (for while there was truth in her comment, it was probably motivated largely by a desire to irritate the person who had irritated her with increasing frequency lately–even the best of us are small minded on occasion). He withheld his reaction and stared at her. If she had paid closer attention, she would have noticed that the skin on his face was white and tightly drawn. But she was oblivious of his condition.

Anne’s moment of spitefulness for the year now over, she gently chastised Stan that he should look after himself more carefully. She prepared him a bowl of muesli and handed it to him. Sitting down opposite him, she began munching hers, expecting to enjoy their regular family breakfast. Still not having said a word, Stan stood up and poured his muesli down the sink. When she gaped at him in astonishment, he stated calmly that events of the morning had left him too disgusted to eat. He saw the hurt on her face left there by his cutting tone, deepening as she read his heartless expression. Before he could make things worse, he left the room. Brushing his teeth, he 130 A Man Called Stan thought about how he had instantly turned from calm into seething anger. That would not do, he needed to have more control than that, especially with Anne. Again, he had vented all of his frustrations at her, implying that she was the cause of the fire, when she had merely been the match to light the fuel gathered by his turbulent mind. He would have to explain it to her. She would understand, she always did, that was part of why he so loved her, but it was still not a good situation for her.

Before going to work he searched for her and found her in the garden, walking amongst her flowers. His heart swelled and ached as he saw how she had come here to be in more peaceful surroundings than being around him, seeking solace in the serene company of the plants. She heard him coming and looked up, biting lightly on her lower lip. She turned away and studied the flowers intently. Stan walked up behind her and embraced her, rocking her softly. Anne melted a bit in the warmth of his genuine embrace. After a few minutes he whispered in her ear that he was deeply sorry, he knew that he was behaving badly lately, but that it had nothing to do with her, he loved her; his head was just making him crazy at the moment. She turned around and gave him a deep kiss, the tears on her cheeks anointing his face. He hugged her tight and then left for work.

Driving to work he tried to make sense of the turmoil in his head. Why were things so chaotic in there? It was starting to become unsettling, bearing witness to all the strange and unpredictable thoughts and feelings that were playing through there. He really did not feel like work today. Come to think of it, did he ever feel like work? He had a good job and had never considered himself dissatisfied in his career. But could a different job maybe have brought him more enjoyment than this? Then again, would he be able to enjoy any career from within this frame of mind? Maybe every experience would leave him flat because of his melancholy. Or it could be that he was simply glum because that was the reasonable residue of a mediocre existence. Stan sensed that there was a definite connection between all of this, something more than he could comprehend at this moment. The perspective was not right yet. Analysis of his current funk was proving to be a complex task. At least he seemed to be learning from the processes of observation and contemplation. That would make sense though, he realised immediately. By focussing his awareness on different objects, he came to understand more about them, as if they unfolded under his mental further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 131 gaze. He appreciated the value of the realisation and it gave him heart, knowing that some form of progress was being made.

Waiting in the traffic, he looked around him and his attention was drawn to a group of manual labourers walking to work. Here he was, sitting in his comfortable car, on his way to his well-paid and highly respected job, and he was depressed. How bad it must be for them, walking to a mundane job that barely paid enough for them to stay alive, with no real prospects of a better situation. He watched one man, many years older than him, walking with his head bowed as if he was shouldering the heavy burden of his life. Stan sighed and was glad when the traffic lights changed, as if he could drive away from the observation and its depressing effect on him. When he reached the office, everyone greeted him warmly, impelled by both his popularity and his seniority. He gritted his teeth through the cordialities, almost unable to bear it. It took every ounce of his control to not be terribly rude, but he managed to come across as simply distant, which was quite a success considering the circumstances.

Entering his office, he quickly shut the door, shutting off everyone and interrupting some, but most importantly, escaping. Sitting at his desk he slumped forward and sighed, this was not going to be a good day. Lying on the desk, he saw from a sideways angle that today’s date was circled in red on the calendar. Why was that?

He grabbed the calendar and read what was scribbled there. A grin broke out over his face, like a sun surprisingly finding its way through heavy cloud. He was going to have the afternoon off! Even better, he was playing golf against Fred. Him and old Red were going to talk “business”, so it did not even count as personal leave. That was how work should always be. Life could be sweet when she wanted to, the bitch. Stan went about his business; more able to endure it now that he knew it was for a limited time only. And the afternoon held promise of being great, or at least good. When he left the office at lunch for the golf course, he may not precisely have been smiling, but the familiar frown had eased considerably. There is a well-known quote to remind a golfer who is playing badly during a round of business golf, that the worst day on the golf course it better than the best day at the office. Stan agreed wholeheartedly with this piece of wisdom. Having forgotten about today he had not packed golf clothes and clubs, so he dashed home to fetch 132 A Man Called Stan them and then raced to the golf course to get there in time. His mood was not quite the steady and relaxed one preferable for playing golf, but his enthusiasm was making him hurry.

Wednesday Afternoon In the changing rooms he felt good as soon as he pulled on his tartan pants. Ready to take on anything. Admiring their blue and yellow design in the mirror, he was startled by a voice booming out behind him, “Oh no, don’t tell me that they are letting turds like you in here now. Fuck this, who can I complain to? Where is the so-called management? Aren’t there supposed to be standards of some kind? This is a disgrace.” Stan turned around and joyfully greeted Fred. He asked him about the flight down and then they both asked about wives and kids. With that done, the social niceties had been observed, the small talk was over for the day, and it was time to get down to business. “I hope you are ready to get your ass kicked all over this golf course my lad”, Stan checked with Fred. “Ha, that is funny. Let me laugh again. Ha, ha, ha. Did you hear that laugh? Kicked by whom exactly, your caddy? Definitely not by you, you loser. You are looking at a man who is going to leave here today victorious, and with more cash.”

“A man? I thought that I was looking at a hippopotamus. And correct me if I am wrong, but didn’t I take a few hundred bucks off you the last time we played?”

Only to your closest friends, where the mutual respect was certain, could one be so incessantly insulting. Bantering in this light-hearted manner, they walked to the pro shop and paid their green fees. Stan loved it in the pro shop, being surrounded by new golf clubs and other highly desirable equipment. He scrutinised some of the clubs, but although they were fine, he had no real want for them as he had a set that suited him perfectly. He supposed it was like his marriage. He may see other lovely women and recognise that they were so, but generally felt nothing towards them as the one he already had gave him all that he wanted and needed. He stroked the club, returned it to its place, and joined Fred on the practice green. Fred commented on Stan’s practice strokes, further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 133

“I see you still putt like a blind person. Good, makes my life easier.” “Bigmouth. Now, are you going to back it up with your wallet?” “But of course, I always invest in a sure thing. That is how I got so rich.”

They settled the terms of the complicated system of wagering and flipped a coin to see who would tee off first. Fred won and swaggered up to the tee. He teed up his ball and then interrupted his setting up for the shot to remind Stan, “Shit, I nearly forgot, we were going to discuss business today. Shall we get it over with now before we start the round?” Stan agreed to this idea, it was better to be able to free his concentration for the more important matters. Within five minutes they came to a decision regarding the business deal and could get on with the game, the real business of the day. Fred took his customary jab at the ball and Stan laughed as he watched it slice to the right. Stan took a huge swing and sang the praises of the result as his ball soared high in the air, landing safely in the fairway. Fred’s ball was in a bush for more than one shot, and Stan’s second landed safely on the green. Walking off the first green after two easy putts, Stan asked his caddy, “Hey caddy, why am I only one up? Wait, I know, it is because we have only played one hole. It is going to be an easy day for you, fellow.”

The next few holes all went well, with Stan winning or drawing most of them. He was getting into a better mood than he had been in for quite some time. Then on a par four, the last hole of the nine, Stan’s great drive left him with just a little chip onto the green. Fred was on the right, as per normal. Fred hit a crisp shot out of the rough that left him on the edge of the green, possible to sink with two putts. Stan stood over his chip, wanting to leave it close enough to sink the putt and win the hole, stamping his authority over the day. Instead, he shanked it only a few metres to the right, about as far from the hole as it had been before he had played. Shaken, Stan stared in disbelief at the ball and then his club. He tried to keep his calm by saying to himself that it was OK; he was still in the running to win this hole. Just play a close chip on and sink the putt. He hit it on, but not close enough to sink with his first putt. Fred sank his second putt to win the hole and walk to the halfway house grinning. Stan walked behind him, feeling like a bomb the second before it explodes, the situation not being improved by Fred enthusiastically explaining how you could tell the quality of a player by how he handled pressure, and a great player could be identified as someone who pulls in from a disadvantage to win against all odds. Sitting at the halfway house they had some sandwiches 134 A Man Called Stan and a cool drink, sheltering from the midday heat. A few restorative minutes later they headed for the tenth tee.

Fred had the honour because he had won the previous hole, so he teed off first. His drive again faded away to the right but gently this time, so that it still landed on the fairway. Stan took an almighty swipe at his ball and groaned in real pain as he watched it hook savagely to the left, deep into the shit. The hole was over before it had begun. He swore throughout the whole hole and went to the next tee a loser again. Fred was starting to demolish his lead at a rapid pace. More alarmingly, Stan’s temper was worsening with each stroke. He recognised this and realised, from past experience, that this could prove fatal to his golf. He must control it. After struggling for another hole, he managed to gently stroke a short iron onto the green of the next par three and take the hole. It was becoming a tight game, as it always was. It was also something that they always took seriously, but Stan’s present frame of mind was less stable than usual. Of course, the usual state was not exactly rock solid either.

Stan struggled along until they stood on the seventeenth tee. He had managed to draw the sixteenth so still held a one-hole lead with two holes left to play. Having drawn the sixteenth, Stan was reasonably confident that he would be able to hold on to his lead and win this game. Being perhaps a bit too enthusiastic, he tried to hit the ball as hard as he could and tipped it on the top so that it rolled a few meters instead of flying a few hundred meters. Fred, aware that his friend was losing his grip, tried to hold in his laughter with limited success, wobbling as the chuckles ricocheted inside him.

When your opponent laughed at you, it was annoying but acceptable, when they were trying to keep it in, then you knew that things were going really badly. Swearing constantly, Stan walked to his ball and pushed his next shot deep into the rough. Fred played his second onto the green and the hole was out of Stan’s reach before it had even really gotten under way. They were all square. On to the next hole, and the last.

Feeling rather anxious, Stan watched Fred’s tee shot on the eighteenth hole. It was that same right-curving arc, again landing on the fairway. Stan swore at him and teed up his ball. Concentrating as hard as he could on maintaining his rhythm, he managed to make decent contact and his ball further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 135 landed just to the left of the fairway, having travelled a good distance, a significant further than Fred’s had, which left him a shorter and therefore easier approach shot. As they walked to their balls, Fred discussed what a nice afternoon it was and how enjoyable their close game had been, and how sweet the victory would taste in his mouth. Stan was too tense to enjoy himself casually, although winning would certainly be something to make him smile. But he was not able to enjoy the game itself, regardless of the outcome. As he thought this, he was struck with a feeling similar to that he had felt when noting that the constant contemplation had led to many discoveries. It was a feeling of a realisation that had not quite yet dawned but was looming above him, ready to break. To be able to play the game and enjoy just the experience, without caring about winning or losing, would certainly make it simpler and less of a strain on the nerves. Of course, that was not easy, especially with the amount of money riding on this game. Fred was in a different income bracket to Stan, and what was fun money for Fred was significant for Stan.

Fred waggled his fat butt about and then jabbed his second shot, again to the right, but annoyingly, it was near to the green again. Stan passed a comment about how it was unfair that such a shit shot should have a fair result, and then prepared for his shot. He took a few practice swings and stood over his ball, summing himself. He swung evenly and breathed a sigh of relief as he watched his ball go straight up in the air and plop on the green. Visions of a shank into the rough on the right had been flitting through his mind’s eye. Fred grunted something about it being a good shot and they walked to the hole, Stan explaining to Fred how you could never beat great golf with simply consistent but mediocre golf. They got to the green and Fred hit a delicate chip to about six metres from the hole. Stan putted his ball and watched with satisfaction as it crept to less than half a metre from the hole. At least he would not lose this hole, whatever happened. After being berated for taking so long, Fred finished lining up his putt and hit it smoothly. The ball rolled along its curving line, hit the side of the hole, rolled around and fell in the back of the cup. Stan exclaimed his disbelief while Fred whooped in joy over his massive putt. So now Stan could not win this hole and had to sink this putt to draw.

Fortunately, it was almost impossible to miss. His stomach feeling jittery, Stan stood over his ball and carefully lined up to the hole. He pulled back his putter and hit the ball and pulled it an inch to the left of the hole. He 136 A Man Called Stan had lost the hole and the game. Remembering in his fury to get off the green before he cracked, he strode to the grass behind the bunker and continually smashed his putter into the ground until it was bent almost ninety degrees halfway up the shaft. Then he flung it into the water. Fred watched this with amusement and then mentioned, “You seem a bit touchy. Is everything OK Stanley?” “Go and fuck yourself, Fred. And don’t call me that.”

“Ooh, sore loser, aren’t we Stanley? Well, I would be too, all that money. Speaking of which, hand over the bucks, bitch.” Fred was not about to miss an opportunity to strike while the iron was burning hot. In their constant testing of each other, this presented a magnificent opportunity to drive Stan to the edge. Stan eyed Fred with a white-faced wildness that even Fred found disturbing. “Fred, you have no fucking idea how close you are to walking off this golf course with your clubs sticking out of your ass and golf balls stuck in your throat. We can go have a few beers but cool it, OK? I may not be able to control myself.” “Fine, you asshole. Talk about overreacting. Just like a little teenage girl. Moan, moan, whine, and whine. But. it is not a problem. Let us go have a drink. I can afford to buy you one; my cash flow is even better than normal. Just had a fabulous victory on the golf course, have I told you about it? I beat this other asshole in a beautiful manner. I even let him think that he was going to win for while too, to make it sweeter in the end when I snatched it from his grasp.” Stan swatted him affectionately on the back of the head and they went for a sorely needed shower and beers that were almost more urgent than the shower.

Sitting behind their beers, watching evening draw in over the immaculate golf course, they chatted in the easy manner of old friends. The air between them was of the kind that is undisturbed by long periods of absence, because it is the natural link between some people and nothing can change it. These are the friendships in life that are worth having and are all the more precious for their rarity. Most friendships are just people in a similar space hanging together, with no real connection, and therefore the relationship was of no real value, and disappeared if they no longer shared a similar situation. Sipping on his beer, Fred asked Stan if everything was OK with his job. Stan said yes further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 137 to this question and the following ones about his marriage, his family, his health and his finances.

Gathering this information, Fred then asked what the reason could be for the brooding thunder- storm that was posing as Stan. Stan laughed at his friend’s insight and spoke to Fred about the growing disquiet within him, a feeling that he could not link to any directly attributable cause.

“Are you an idiot?” Fred enquired earnestly when Stan was finished with his outpouring. “How can you be surprised?” When he saw Stan staring at him, Fred continued, “Listen Stan, since I have known you, you have had a wide miserable-bastard streak in you. No sorry, I don’t mean it like that, you weren’t a sourpuss. But you know that you have never been completely satisfied, never. You have had a good life, but there has been something else missing, since the beginning, and now you are getting older and the part of you that had been seeking all this time is starting to panic. It is saying, wait a minute; time is running out, where are my answers? And that part had lain quiet for a while because the rest of your mind had enough going for it to tell it to shut up, but now it is making its voice heard after years, and you are hearing it and that panic comes from knowing that it is right. A part of your life is still missing Stan, and you need it.” Stan sat still, stunned. Every word of Fred’s had rung true. Fred correctly judged the expression on Stan’s face. “Don’t look at me like that, asshole. I may look dumb, but I am not. Remember, we wouldn’t be friends otherwise. Who else can keep you so entertained and on your toes huh? Let’s have another drink.”

Which they did, followed by a few more. The conversation turned to less weighty matters, the men preferring to relax in the sunset rather than get deeply philosophical. Eventually it was dark, and the enjoyable get-together had to reach its end. The two old friends said goodbye to each other and then Fred hurried off to catch his flight while Stan moped to his car. Throwing his clubs into the boot, Stan got behind the wheel. Something then occurred that happened very rarely for several years; he did not feel like going home. He did not feel like presenting the picture of the man that was supposed to be Stan and trying to uphold it. The strength to do that was just not there. He felt like drowning his sorrows, properly. Satisfied with his decision, he drove towards a bar that he used to hang out in a lot a decade or so ago. It was going to be one of those again. 138 A Man Called Stan

Wednesday Night Being a weeknight, the bar was not too full. There were some groups having a quiet social drink and there were a few people who more intent on the drinking part. The number of these latter few increased by one as Stanley entered and made his way to the bar counter. The barman recognised him and greeted him in surprise; it had been a long time since he had seen Stan around, a situation about which he had mixed feelings. Stan cut the civilities short and ordered some drinks. At first offended by the lack of a response to his welcome, but quickly remembering Stan’s normal behaviour and the financial implications for himself, the barman nodded and complied. Stan took his drinks and went to a quiet corner, avoiding everyone, even the drunks. Sipping on his drink, he peered around the bar. In the corner were some men playing pool on a shaky table, he might go and have a game later. At the far side of the room was a rather attractive girl, quite young though. Too young. He sipped at his drink, thinking about as little as possible. There had been too much thinking lately, it would not desist. He needed a break from it.

“Hi there, how are you doing?” The girl looked at the slightly dishevelled middle-aged man in front of her and smiled cautiously. It was an hour later, and a significant number of drinks had passed in the interval. Stan had decided to come and talk to the good-looking girl. Fortunately, her apprehension seemed to disappear quickly and she opened up to conversation and interaction, so he bought her a drink as an excuse to sit next to her and chat. During the next drink he noticed how cute she was, the freshness of her youth emanating from her. Nothing can replace the fresh beauty that youth briefly gives. While sipping his next drink, his hand rested on her thigh and then gently felt it.

My oh my, how trim and firm were those! Mmm, he could just imagine what it would be like to stroke them, or lick them…. Shit! What was he thinking? He had not done anything like that for years! Was he not too mature to act like that? Was he not a decent person and a good husband? Taken aback by the potential of the situation and its implications, Stan sat back and took a sip of his drink. He surveyed the girl over his glass. She was very young and tender, and while it might be wrong, maybe that was just what he needed. To add some excitement to his life, and what could be more exciting than an illicit romp with a girl close to half his age? His heart started further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 139 thumping at the thought of it. The girl saw his expression change and moved closer to him, probably more out of curiosity than anything else. She leaned over and they exchanged a probing kiss.

Stan sat back and tried to catch his breath. Phew. While he was chasing his breath, a young geezer came up to him and asked if he wanted to have a quick game of pool. Stan agreed; it would give him a chance to gather himself. And of course, it would not hurt to impress the girl with his prowess at pool and prove that he could still hold his own against the young guns.

The youngster cleaned him up, quickly. Stan was not very impressed. They played another game, closer this time as Stan scraped off the rustiness that built up from many nights spent at home and not in bars, but Stan lost again. During this second game the mood between the antagonists became prickly, with verbal taunts paving the way to a confrontation. After Stan lost the second game, he sat next to the girl, who now seemed less interested in him and was chatting to the youngster. The kid then asked Stan if he wanted to play a last game, maybe win back his money. Stan agreed instantly and went to buy drinks while his opponent racked up the balls. Stan sunk one at the break and managed to keep his lead throughout the game. His confidence returned and the vibe with the girl was good again. The kid was irritating him though, and the atmosphere became more charged with every minute. Stan would love to take his money back. Eventually his opponent had one ball left on the table and Stan had a shot on the black. It was not a very difficult shot, and Stan lined up expecting to win. He played the shot and missed it badly. He stood up, holding in his fury, the tight whiteness of the skin on his face a clear signal to anyone who knew him well. The kid was a stranger and did not know Stan at all and unwittingly slapped him on the back saying, “Guess you are just too old, hey pops?” The slap made Stan choke on his drink and he turned around to share his displeasure in time to catch the kid winking at the girl, mocking Stan. Stan cracked.

He laid the guy out with one explosive punch and then split the pool cue into two over his bent leg. He sank onto his knees, astride the guy who was on his back and had not yet had time to move, and repeatedly thrashed him with the sticks, each blow landing as soon as the previous one had lifted into its next back- stroke. After a devastating few seconds of thrashing him, he 140 A Man Called Stan grabbed the guy’s collar and pulled his bleeding face to within a centimetre of his, and hissed, “What do you say now, punk?”

The only answer was a whine, which was entirely reasonable, given the circumstances. Stan dropped his opponent’s head back onto the ground where it settled after a bounce. He stood up, dusted off his hands on his pants, and turned to face the girl. The smile on his face died when he saw her expression. She stiffly suggested, “I think you had better leave now mister.”

Stan paused, looked around him, nodded, and left the bar. So much for that then. On his way out he nodded to the bartender, who surveyed the scene and refreshed his understanding of why he did not miss Stan’s visits. Reaching his car, he drove home hoping that Anne would be in bed when he got home and stay there while he was getting ready to join her. He did not feel like facing up to her in his present condition. He was both irritated by her being there, and ashamed of himself. Unfortunately for Stan, his wishes were not fulfilled as she came out of their bedroom to meet him when he reached the top of the flight of stairs. They stood there facing each other, summing up the person in front of them. At last Anne exclaimed, “Oh Stan, look at you!”

She came forward to hug him, but he pushed her arms away. He did not want to be close to her now, he felt too bad. It would be wrong. Not able to face up to the look in her eyes, he brushed past her and locked himself in the bathroom.

Stan stood under a boiling hot shower for a long time, trying to wash away the way he felt. He did not have much success. Eventually he soaped himself and after another very long rinse, he got out of the shower. He slowly dried himself, brushed his teeth and drank some water. It was quite a while later when he opened the bathroom door. He was hoping that Anne would be asleep by now. Entering his room quietly, he got into bed. He could sense that Anne was still awake, from the way she was breathing as she lay there on the far side of the bed. Getting under the covers, he moved nearer to her and gently put his arm around her. Holding her tenderly and meekly, his agitated mind eventually let him fall into a troubled sleep. further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 141

Thursday Morning Anne shook him awake. “Stan, it is time to get ready for work. You must get up now.” He opened his bleary eyes and surveyed the situation. He felt like absolute shit and he could either get up and go to work all day or stay in bed. Not a difficult decision to make. “Anne, there is no way that I am getting out of this bed.” After a moment’s thought, “Honey, would you mind phoning in sick for me?”

After brief consideration Anne got up and fetched the phone. While he lay there dozing, Stan listened to her as she spoke to the personnel manager and informed him that Stan was ill. When she said that she was worried about him, the sincerity of her tone was impossible not to believe. Stan smiled, because he knew that he was safe in terms of sick leave at the office, but also wryly at the thought that his wife was seriously worried about him, and with good reason too, he had to admit. She finished the call and came to sit on the bed and reached out to him.

“Stan, what is going on? You started having strange turns a few months ago and it is steadily getting worse. Where is it going to end up? Is there anything I can do?”

She looked at him with an expression that had grown more frequent over the months, one of concern and confusion, but also of compassion. Stan acknowledged the situation and explained to her that they could discuss it; he was starting to get some comprehension of it, but that discussion would not be now. He was going to sleep all day, get some much-needed rest, and they could talk about it tonight. She agreed and with a sweet kiss on the forehead left him to sleep. He was so lucky to have her.

Thursday Afternoon Stan decided that it was at last time to get out of bed. Not that he was now feeling good, but he was at least rested, something he had not been for quite some while. Maintaining the slow pace of this day, he sank into a bath to soak himself, a treat that he had not enjoyed for a long time. It was always a shower that had to be rushed because there was somewhere else where he should be already. Lying in the bath, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift 142 A Man Called Stan in the steam from the hot water. With pleasure, he tasted the nature of his mood and realised that it was less bitter than it had been of late. Not sweet at all, but something inside him was easing. Languidly soaking, he assessed the state of his body. While he felt a bit shaky from the unaccustomed drinking, he had not caused grave physical damage like he had done regularly in his younger years. An aspirin or four and he would be near to decent. In body anyway, if not in mind.

After dressing he went downstairs and made some French Toast, enjoying cooking again. Anne would only be back later in the day, so he had to fend for himself, something that was not often demanded of him. He still had a touch in the kitchen, particularly with breakfast dishes. With a very generous hand he lashed the warm toast with dollops of maple syrup and sat down to breakfast at three in the afternoon. When he was done with that delightful event, he sat in the lounge and savoured a big mug of coffee. Well, he intended to, but after involuntarily gulping down the delicious, creamy, brew, he slowly appreciated the second mug while he listened to some old, favourite music of his, revelling in the darkness of it which resonated so well with his mood and outlook. After an hour or so he decided that he needed some fresh air to finish clearing out his head, so he left the house for a stroll.

Stan walked through the roads in his suburb, grateful that it was peaceful at this time of day. It was a nice place to be in and was especially striking during this season. Autumn had painted many of the trees a bright red or yellow, a striking contrast to the greens around them. The air was soft, and it was a mellow part of the world to be in, conducive to an easy frame of mind. Looking around him, he realised again what a pleasant area he lived in, and how little he appreciated it these days. Pleased by the fact that he was finding pleasure in it now, he walked to the nearby park. Strolling over the open green lawns, he found a bench at the top that had an expansive view over the town and seated himself. He took in a few deep breaths, drinking in the fresh air and the view. Why was he enjoying himself? What was different between today and the day’s before it? Had they been soured by passing through his perception? He noticed that the usual flurry of jumbled thoughts was missing today. His consciousness was focussed on the current moment, and that moment was good. Stan realised that practising this the whole time would make a difference, as most moments are not that bad. It is the worrying about them and others like them that is unpleasant, and the constant struggle further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 143 to try and analyse those moments is what makes them so overwhelming. When you could break free from the conceptions that you had of life and rather perceived it as it was, it was something pure and with real meaning. It was not the jumbled mess that was often seen as life but was instead just the thoughts held on life, the observer distorting the reality. When each moment was accepted for what it was without an attempt to define it, only then was that moment truly experienced.

Sitting lost in these thoughts, Stan was startled when a voice addressed him. He had been sitting alone on the bench, and the person speaking to him was sitting right next to him. Stan did not see how the person could have approached and sat there without being noticed by him. However, Stan did not think about this much because he was even more astonished by what he had heard. “Good afternoon Stan, how are you doing?” Stan stared in amazement at the man sitting next to him. An exceptionally old man, with a face still handsome beneath the layers of wrinkles. Just as Stan was thinking that there was something about him that seemed familiar, the man spoke again in his raspy but gentle voice. “There are those who are trying, Stan.”

The old man looked at him calmly, while Stan’s thorough bewilderment increased rapidly at an exponential rate, his face an amusing display of these emotions that washed over it, much as colours wash over the skin of an octopus deep in thought. This episode was accelerating in strangeness with every moment. The man’s comment should have seemed absurd and out of place, but somehow it rang true somewhere in Stan and he almost understood what was meant by it. His mind seemed to be exploding into a different level of consciousness. Flabbergasted, he listened as the old man continued,

“You are upset because of how low people are, but there are those who are trying to be as good as they can be. Look around you and you will see them. And you are married to one of those, that is the reason why we gave her to you, so that you could see this virtue every day of your life. If you would just look.”

Stan sat, utterly dumbfounded. The man continued, “One more thing. It is impossible to find happiness by looking for it 144 A Man Called Stan around you. There is only one place where it can come from, and that is from inside yourself. The growing disquiet that you have been feeling lately was because you were starting to realise this, that external endeavours would not bring you peace. You have obtained that which you thought would bring happiness, and realised that while it brings you material comfort, it does not feed your soul. You have seen that you cannot find this happiness with anything from the outside, you cannot get it from the world, and this was depressing you because you then felt that it was nowhere to be found. But what I am telling you, is that you can find it within. By being one of those who are trying. It is not by making something out of your life that you will find happiness; this is what you have discovered this. The way to find it is by making something out of yourself. By doing all that you can to be proud of the man called Stan.”

The man gazed at Stan while Stan struggled to process all this with his finite, linear mind that could only deal with a few thoughts at a time but was now bombarded with many. Who was this man and how did he know Stan? How did he know exactly what was in the deepest parts of Stan’s mind, articulating it more clearly than Stan could, and seeming to know answers where Stan could find none? Why did he seem vaguely familiar? These obvious and glaring questions were passed over by Stan’s mind in an instant as he intuitively concentrated more on the words that had been spoken, knowing that they were more important. The old man’s words had gone straight through into the centre of his awareness. The deepest part of him, the part that was truly the basis of his being, understood these words clearly. His Self knew that this man was speaking directly to Him, and the words being spoken were exactly those that He needed to hear. For the first time, Stan had a clear understanding of what had been disturbing him all these years, with a few sentences from a stranger. This filled his mind so completely that the extraordinary situation did not make an impression upon him. He started considering the rest of the man’s speech and turned around to ask him for clarification. There was no one there. For a moment Stan was stunned. Had there ever been someone there? Maybe this was it, and the last few weeks were culminating in a nervous breakdown. Starting to see and hear things. There was no way the man could have left without Stan seeing him go; he had only been facing away for what seemed like a few seconds. Then Stan relaxed when he realised that he could still smell the man, so he had really been there. It was a dry smell, like old books, and somehow comforting. further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 145

Stan sat there, his mind in a whirl. After vainly trying to chase his thoughts the activity in his mind started to slow. Like a bucket filled with water and sand that had been shaken and then put on the ground, clarity started to appear as his mind settled into a quiet state. Calm now, he considered the man’s words. He had correctly summed up what bothered Stan. The low level of life he saw around him upset Stan; he felt that it was something he did not want to be a part of. People just did not try to uphold anything or live to any system of values. The attributes he often saw in people evoked unpleasant reactions in him. This was true without a doubt, and he had no problem with it. Yet as he dwelled on the man’s words, he realised that this had caused him to neglect other aspects.

For sure, there were abundant examples of low, ignorant people around. But that did not necessarily mean that everyone was like that. After all, the world was full of immense variety and everything came in a range from terrible to excellent. Food was like this, and cars, so why not people? If this was true, then there was a whole part of the human community that he was missing. A part that was everything he had been looking for, and also a part that had been there the whole time. The most shining example of all was right there, in his house, in his bed. How blind must he have been to not appreciate that about her? What about him? He was generally and naturally a good, kind person, but was he even trying to be the best he could be? Was he trying to improve? Did he even know what parts of his personality he should be addressing and refining? Was he proud of being Stan? The quick answer was no, he was not. He felt that what the man had been explaining to him, is that he would be proud if he knew that he was doing what he could to make earth a better place for himself and for all others. He did not need to be perfect, he needed to be committed to a path to a better place, to a better version of himself.

After a period of deep contemplation, Stan got up off his bench and started walking back. On his way home he passed a group of labourers returning home from a long day’s labour. As before, Stan saw those who walked with all their worries weighing them down, who looked like they had spent all day working hard and were trapped in a life of menial labour. But today, Stan’s observations did not stop there. Although these were the first which he had noticed, there were other men amongst them who looked different, and there were a number of these men. They walked with their 146 A Man Called Stan heads high, smiling at the thought that they were free to do as they pleased for the rest of the day and looking forward to the warm meal waiting for them at their home, a home that was small and simple but still the place they could return to and be at peace and with their loved ones. Stan saw how love filled some of these men and made all their trials bearable as they were prepared to sacrifice everything that they had for it, and for their families.

As he was watching them, a tall, proud man started to sing in a deep voice. Others around him joined in and the rich sounds flowed through the afternoon. The words were unknown to Stan as the song was being sung in the ancestral language of the men, but the meaning was clear. They were singing that while it was sometimes a hard life, it was life, and was filled with richness, and that these men would spend their lives living it to the full, as best they could. When the men stopped walking at their pick-up point Stan was disappointed to leave them behind, he had enjoyed their company.

He stopped in his tracks and laughed when he noticed the strange and unfamiliar thought. To enjoy the company of strangers, when he normally avoided people as much as he could, for the sake of his calm. He continued his way home; more in tune with his surroundings than when he was his normal distant self. On his way he mulled over the man’s advice, and specifically the part about Anne. Thinking about it, he knew immediately that she was one of that type of person the old man had spoken about. Stan had always known that, it was why he had been so drawn to her, but he had never been able to conceptualise exactly why that had been. He had just known that he had loved her, and that she was a good woman.

As soon as he made her the subject of his enhanced concentration, his understanding of Anne flowered open into a rich awareness as he saw perfectly what was inside of her and gave her direction. Simultaneously, his admiration for her grew, the principles he saw strong within her being those valued as precious by him. Realising that he was blessed enough to be married to this wonderful being, he smiled and quickened his step, hoping that she was home. Nearing his house, he saw her car parked in the driveway and hurried inside. Dashing through the house, he found her standing looking confused in the lounge. She heard him come in and looked up, the relieved surprise on her face evident when she recognised her husband. further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 147

“Oh, there you are! Where have you been? I dropped the kids off at their friends and came home expecting to find you still in bed, but you weren’t. To tell the truth, I was quite worried. Anyway, here you are, so it doesn’t matter. Stan? Is something wrong? Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything alright?”

Anne looked positively perplexed as she tried to fathom the expression on Stan’s face. Stan drank in the vision in front of him for a few moments more and then briskly picked Anne up and carried her up the stairs. Her startled squealing soon gave way to delighted giggling as she held onto her man while he jogged up the steps and to their bedroom. Reaching it, he tossed her onto the bed and then dived on top of her while she was still bouncing.

When they settled, they lay there while Stan held tightly onto Anne, cherishing her as he had never properly done before, as much as he had cared for her. Now he was aware of what deep beauty he held in his arms. After long moments in this blissful cocoon, they gently started to kiss. She seemed to just melt in his mouth, her physical manifestation as tender as the spirit within. Slowly, the heat built up between them until he started to undress her, feeling almost anxious at the chance of getting to touch this goddess, for now he saw how that was exactly what she was. She sensed the strong emotions in him, and it fired up hers, her face flushing with the internal heat. Moving together, they became naked and started exploring each other’s bodies, as if for the first time. Smoothly their bodies moved to a shared rhythm, building up the energy between them. They rolled over and Stan lay while Anne sat up on top of him. She leaned over and placed her forehead against his. Then suddenly, Stan’s perspective shifted.

He had been looking up at the gorgeous sight before him (this was one of his favourite views in life, Anne on top of him) and had closed his eyes when Anne had leaned forward, expecting her to kiss him. When she placed her forehead on his, he had focussed on feeling her moist skin against his. Then his skin startled to tingle between and above his eyes, and a moment later everything changed, and Stan experienced a viewpoint beyond any he had felt before.

No longer was he looking up at Anne and feeling her warm weight on top of him. Instead, although he was still one being, it was the two of them, together. Somehow, he knew that Anne was feeling the same thing. Their 148 A Man Called Stan motions, which had already been in harmony, stopped being separate but became the movements of one being. The fake borders of Stan’s ego were crossed over and his awareness now included Anne’s mind and awareness. Knowing and touching her so intimately, the emotions rose at the same pace as the physical sensations until they both overflowed into a glorious release.

Friday Morning Stan woke up, roused by the soft sound of movement. He lay there, steadily finding his way out of the fog left by a sleep deeper than he had been in for many a month. Trying to find his bearings, he cast his mind over yesterday to remember where he was in life. He remembered the euphoric evening, and how it had winded down with a leisurely dinner with his wife and then a very peaceful sleep. Smiling before he had even opened his eyes, Stan turned over and pried them open. The first sight he saw was Anne standing in the early morning light that was streaming in through the wide gap in the curtains, casting an appropriate halo about her. She sensed his gaze and turned around with a surprised smile on her face,

“Morning honey, you are up early. Going into the office a bit earlier today, to catch up?”

“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t think I am going to go in at all today. Think I will take a day of personal time and declare a long weekend, one that we can enjoy together. I need to relax. Maybe we can go stay somewhere, have the kids stay at Suzi. What do you think?” “That sounds like just what we need, babe.”

With a smile laden with charm, she turned around and went through the routine of movements that she practiced daily. They were based on Eastern culture and philosophy and apparently were effective for relaxing one and bringing peace within. Lying there in bed, Stan realised that nothing could be more needed by him. Why had he not considered doing it before? And why did he not start now? It could only help. It was surely a good way to start making more of himself. further down the line STAN AND HIS MID-LIFE CRISIS 149

“Anne?” She turned back around, bothered by the interruption but not yet irritated. “Yes honey?” “Would you mind showing me some of that stuff?” This request came out in a very meek voice, as he was cognisant of the fact that for years he had held and displayed a dismissive attitude towards the practice. Anne’s face, which she could usually control completely and form into an inscrutable mask on any occasion, took on the befuddled air of yesterday afternoon when she had first seen Stan walk in. Understanding the reason behind her bewilderment at him showing interest after more than a decade of disdain, Stan explained that he had finally realised that it would be good for him to do it, and he was at a stage now where he wanted to make some effort with his life. Her expression changed to one of real pleasure as she beckoned him onto the floor to join her. Stan raised his stiff body out of bed and obeyed. She showed him how to do a breathing exercise and Stan took a deep breath. The air rushed in, filling him with pure energy and invigorating him at the start of this new day in his life. Chapter 8

the end of the line

STAN GOES AWAY

One Morning Stan lay in bed, awake, as he had been for some hours now. He watched as a border of glimmering light appeared around the curtains, the daily signal that the day was about to get under way. Soon he would hear noises through the thin walls as those who had been fortunate enough to sleep throughout the night slowly came out of their slumber. Stan liked those noises, knowing that he was no longer alone in the day. He did a scan of his body as he lay there. Same as every day, run-down and rather tired. Deciding that it was time to get going, he slowly extricated himself from between the sheets. A coughing fit wracked him, something that been occurring with increasing frequency, every morning and lately during the day as well. Once up and out of bed, he made a few movements that could barely be described as stretches but were the furthest that he could go with this old body. Having done that, he donned his gown and the alien slippers that he had received for his last birthday. They were bright green and even better than the previous absurdities. The alien’s bug-eyes peered around as Stan shuffled his way to the bathroom.

- 150 - the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 151

He still bathed himself, although he no longer stood in the shower. That was an activity that was beyond him now, a thought he did not like to dwell on, but something that he had been convinced of after slipping one morning in the shower and spraining an ankle. Apart from him being convinced, the authorities who ran the home had taken showering while alone and standing off his “permitted activities” list. Oh well, at least he could take a bath alone, even if he could not shower. After running in the water and testing that it was nice and hot but would not boil him alive, he gingerly lowered himself into the bath. He sighed as he lay back, feeling how the heat entered him and eased the dull, persistent ache in his bones. Ruefully he wished it could do the same for his soul. With his next breath, he chastised himself. No need to feel sorry for himself, he had nothing to complain about except growing old, which was not exactly something unfairly thrust upon him. It happened to others too. As he lay there soaking, he felt his brittle old body relaxing in the warmth. It felt good. The mellowness he was wallowing in now was like filling a teapot with calm, so that he could drink from it during the day. When he judged that he had had enough to last him, he methodically washed and rinsed himself and got out of the bath. Drying himself, he chatted to the others who had entered, some with their attendants who had to help them bathe. None of the conversation was very stimulating though, so he left it as soon as he was dry enough for the walk back. With fondness and a twinge of sadness he recalled the daily exchange of pre-breakfast insults with Harvey.

Walking down the passageway, he shook his head to clear out the last fuzziness of sleep. As he opened his door, he thought about how many times he had repeated this morning process. Every day for years, coming back to the same little room, with its olive-green curtains and uninspired interior. All these years spent here in “Sunny Days”, with such little change during them. He had grown steadily older and less capable, but that was about it. One thing that had not changed at all is that he still missed Anne as much as on the day when he had arrived here. This was not to say that Stan had not dealt with his loss. His understanding had deepened over the decades to a point where he was just grateful for the time that they had shared, but he would never stop missing her. Without her, there was a gap inside him that he was always aware of.

After dressing, he briefly looked at himself in the mirror. Stan could not believe that what he was looking at was a reflection of him. How much older could he get? Not a lot, surely. He was all of eighty-eight now. Smiling wanly 152 A Man Called Stan at the mirror, he left the room and went to the grandly named dining hall. Same as every day, he helped himself to a healthy breakfast. Then he thought better of it and took some fried eggs. Might as well binge, no point really in being careful about diet at this stage of the proceedings. Not wanting to be rude and ignore the others in the room, he joined a table of other oldies. After greeting them with a false cheeriness he sat down and began his breakfast.

A few minutes later, he was wishing that he had been rude and sat by himself. The conversation was killing him. These people were such pussies; they were the stereotype of old people made flesh. They used words like fudge and sherbet to swear, and golly was the word used as an exclamation. This riled our silver-tongued Stan hugely. He lost his appetite listening to the saccharine sweet chatter. It was especially at times like these that Stan missed Harvey, he had been his company here and now he had none.

Harvey had died a couple of years back, peacefully in his sleep, without any suffering. That is how he had always said he would go. It had been strange dealing with it, such a surprise. One day Harvey had been fine, and they had played cards that evening, Stan being the loser, and the next morning the staff told Stan that he no longer had a friend. It had seemed surreal. Sitting in the dining hall with his breakfast, Stan was reminded of the tomato sauce incident. Harvey had decided that the old folks needed a bit of spicing up and had acquired a few bottles of chilli sauce smuggled in by his family. Harvey and Stan had then snuck into the dining hall one afternoon when it was deserted and poured out a substantial amount of each bottle of tomato sauce and refilled them with very potent chilli sauce. After shaking the bottle, a bit to mix up the contents, it was almost impossible to tell the difference between the mixture and the pure substance. That evening they were served lasagne for dinner, a dish which almost everyone used tomato sauce with. The results were spectacular. Spluttering and wheezing on a grand scale, with chairs falling over all around and even one table being turned over, all the cutlery, crockery and food that was on it crashing to the floor and increasing the commotion. Quite a few people ended up in the medical ward that night, suffering from trauma, both mental and to their physical system. It had been great. The two old bastards had celebrated late into the night with another bottle smuggled in by the same dodgy relative of Harvey’s, the contents of this one also potent, but in a different way. The next morning, they too had been admitted to the medical ward. That part had not been quite so great, but the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 153 looking back at it now, it was undeniable that it was probably a very fitting end to the tale. Poetic justice of a sort. What goes around, comes around, or so they say.

Now Stan sat here with these breathing mummies and missed his hairy, obnoxious, entertaining friend. Finishing his breakfast as quickly as he could, he stepped outside into the fresh air, away from the stuffiness of the home. He took a stroll through the park that surrounded the building. Some of the residents never set foot outside, something that Stan could not understand. Watching TV all day instead of sitting in the sun was a lifestyle choice that was beyond him. This morning was nice and sunny, the change of seasons making for a pleasant time of year. Coughing profusely, he came to a tree that he was particularly fond of and sat underneath its spreading branches. Reminiscing about Harvey had brought back memories of the earlier years at “Sunny Days”. He remembered Wanda, and how she had wasted away for years, her end beginning a year before Harvey passed on and only finishing a year after his swift departure. Throughout it all she had been calm and accepting, even the unrelenting pain not making her bitter. Stan had been angry towards her family, for not being with her through this time. He could not imagine her being anything but a wonderful mother, but her family had hardly ever come to see her, their last visit taking place two months before her end.

Stan had been by her side a lot over this time, reading to her, chatting with her, or sitting with her in silence. The last few months she had hardly been able to talk but he had still visited her, knowing her well and knowing that she would want the company. Throughout this time his admiration for her character grew. The staff were understanding and allowed him to be there whenever he wished. Stan had been holding her hand when she passed away, watching as her breathing slowed and then stopped. Suddenly he was not holding the hand of his friend anymore, but a piece of dead matter. He had closed her eyes and after a brief prayer for her left the room and called the doctors. For a month he had tried to decide how the episode had made him feel. Strange, that was for sure. Watching her go, it had been so peaceful that the element of drama was lacking, probably also because it had been such a long time in the coming. Also, he knew that it was ripe time for her to go. Whatever there was for her afterwards, there was nothing left for her here. He 154 A Man Called Stan was glad for her sake that it had happened, and her dwindling existence here had ceased, even if it meant that he had lost his last real friend in this life.

She had been the last of the people close to Stan who had passed away. Fred had been the first, dying many years before Anne. That event had not had the devastating effect on Stan’s life that Anne’s death had, but it had been a severe shock. The manner of it had caused Stan many sleepless nights trying to puzzle it out. Fred’s life had gone just as he wanted, with his career and family developing exactly how he had hoped for. Then one night on their way home after dinner at a restaurant, a drunken student had crashed into their car and killed Fred and his whole family. The student, who had not been wearing a seatbelt while they had been, escaped the accident with a broken arm. And a broken life, Stan was sure of that. This incident had left Stan very confused for some time. He did not know what to make of it. There was the obvious reaction; that it was a terrible tragedy that had taken their lives from them before their allotted time was up, lives that they would have surely enjoyed. But part of Stan felt that such a sudden and profound occurrence was the result of more than just mere chance. Maybe their times were up, as simple as that, and the accident had occurred as a process to bring an end to their lives, which were always going to end then. Maybe everything they were meant to do in their lives had been done; they had been a particularly happy and satisfied family. Stan had struggled for many years to fight against feelings of hate for the young man whose stupidity had caused the crash, even toying with the idea of tracking him down and punishing him.

Sitting in the shade from the warming morning sun, Stan thought about all these deaths. This was not a subject he often dwelled upon, but when his mind wandered in a direction, he let it explore the area at a leisurely pace. Especially these last few years when he did not have much else to do. He felt that this was a good use to make of all his time, all these long hours with no demands placed on them. It was more productive than playing endless rounds of bridge with a bunch of toothless wonders, that was for sure. So now that death had become the subject, he sat back and let his mind run over it. The first point that sprang out was that everyone died, sooner or later, in different manners, but in the end everyone was dead. This was quite a remarkable fact, especially when considering how little attention was paid to death in society. Or in Western society at least, Stan had heard that there was a different perspective on it in the East. Anne had discussed it with him a couple of the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 155 times. One of the things he had learnt was that she had absolutely no fear of this. In times to come this would console him, but to a limited extent. For the first time now, he wondered if this fearlessness had anything to do with her carefree nature. He had never met anyone as unfettered as she had been. He supposed it was just all part of who and how she was.

But in society as he had experienced it, death was a subject that was avoided as much as possible, and when someone died the reaction to it from the people who remained was unsure and nervous in nature. No one was certain what had happened to the person, or how to deal with it. Stan sighed and decided that he had thought enough about this topic, at least for today. He lay on his back and watched the sky through the branches of the tree, watching the clouds form images and letting his mind drift amongst them. After a while of this he slipped into a light snooze, until he was awakened later by his stomach reminding him that it was time to eat again. Very drowsy but pleased that he had been the recipient of a bonus nap; Stan made his way back to the home.

Upon entering the door, he was stopped by a member of the staff. He tried to ignore her, but the imposing bulk purposefully barred his way until he took notice. Grudgingly, he turned to face her. He was not a man who appreciated having his mealtimes delayed once his mind was set on them. The matron addressed him, her steadfastly cheerful manner sending the message that she was not going to notice Stan’s unfriendliness, no matter how hard he was trying to get the message across, “There you are! We have been looking all over for you. We have a new resident, and I wanted you to meet him. I was hoping that you could show him around, make him feel at home.” What was she thinking? He was no nanny. Let someone else look after him. Was she matchmaking him with friends because she felt sorry for him and thought he was lonely? Or was she expecting him to make the old fart comfortable in his new surroundings? He took umbrage at both alternatives. The tank drew aside, and the new guy stepped forward. Crikey, he was even older than Stan was. Something about him was vaguely familiar. As Stan was thinking this, the old man greeted him, “Hello Stan, how are you doing?” “Ah, alright I suppose. No real cause to complain. Should we get lunch?” The new arrival nodded his head and they headed for the hall; Stan much 156 A Man Called Stan relieved that he would be able to eat now. They both had their plates filled and moved to a table. Stan took care to avoid the other diners this time. He had endured enough insipidity for one day. Boredom was something that Stan had never had much tolerance for, and the blander parts of life had this stupefying effect on him, especially when encapsulated in the form of most people. Maybe it was suited for others, but to him it was torture. Taking another look at his lunch partner as they sat down, he thought that he was probably in for it again.

“Damn”, he said to himself, “Look at this piece of work. Makes my reflection seem youthful in comparison. Oh God, I am probably going to be bored to tears now, hearing about grandkids and shit like that. If he starts, I will just ignore his blabbering and eat my food. Why did the matron choose me? The bitch. I will bet it was deliberately to bother me. Have I been rude to her? If so, she should excuse it, I have earned the right to be a grumpy old man.” His musings were interrupted by the new guy, who had something to say.

“I suppose you are wondering why you got saddled up with me, huh? Cursing that stern lady for pushing me on you, I bet. Don’t worry, it won’t be that bad. I am not going to tell you about my grandkids. But don’t tell me about yours either. It has been a long and hard day for me, even though it is only lunch time now, and I don’t have the energy to listen to you waffle about the little monsters.” Stan stared at him while he was speaking and then froze there, blinking, while he mulled it over. His wrinkled face burst into a grin and he said,

“Fine, sounds good to me. And I think we might get along OK. Tell me, are you ever going to finish with that tomato sauce? Because if you ever do, would you mind passing it to me? If it is not too much trouble and effort.” The last sentence was laced with the sarcasm that formed the opening riposte of the type of banter he had always enjoyed with his friends. They got on with their meal, with limited conversation punctuating the eating. Stan enjoyed talking to someone where he did not have to watch every action carefully in case it might offend. Not that he usually did keep a careful eye, but he was supposed to. When he did not, there were occasionally those slight pangs of guilt afterwards when something inappropriate slipped out and caused a reaction and sometimes a scene. After lunch, he asked the new the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 157 arrival if he wanted to go outside and digest. A nod answered and they left the room, Stan leading the way to a bench.

Stan sat down, creaking as per normal, followed by a coughing fit that was also becoming pretty regular. He was surprised by how quietly the other man sat, not a sound. As they sat in the afternoon sunlight, something about the situation struck Stan as very strange. He could not quite put his finger on it, but there was something definitely odd about sitting with this man on a chair outside in the sun. Wondering, he asked his companion where he came from, if Stan had not maybe met him before, there was an element about him that was almost familiar. The old man started chuckling, and Stan asked what kind of a stupid answer was that supposed to be? The old man told him to shut up and be more patient and withdrew something out of the pocket of his jacket. He held it out in front of him.

Not wearing his glasses, Stan leaned forward and squinted to focus on the object. In the moment that he realised that it was a bottle, it caught the rays of the sun at an angle and shot out sparks of light. In that same moment, Stan was flooded with a memory, ages ago, of a bottle being held out in the sun in front of him, glittering in the light. That day in the forest, with the incredible experience after he had drunk from the bottle. Looking closer, he saw it was the same bottle. Turning to face the old man, he saw it was the same one as all those decades ago. Impossible that it could be, but it certainly was. No mistaking that dried out grin. Sitting here on the bench, facing him, it jarred another memory. That day at the park, when the stranger had sat next to him on the bench and told him things about his life that he had desperately needed to know, that had been this same man. Stan had never made the connection between the two incidents before, the first being almost forgotten at the time of the second one occurring. But here he was, sitting next to this man, a man who had been ancient when Stan had first seen him, almost a lifetime ago.

Stan sat back, stunned. He did not know what to think. The old man was watching his face carefully, and eventually said, “I suppose that you have got a lot of questions, Stan.” Stan thought about it and answered, “No, not really, only one. Are we going to have some of the stuff from that bottle, or what?” Surprise turned into laughter upon hearing this. “Sorry Stan, I underestimated you. I had thought that you would have had a stronger 158 A Man Called Stan reaction. As for the bottle, I was planning on us taking some, but not quite now. I wanted to talk to you first about some things.” “Well, can’t we talk afterwards and then take some again later? Let’s just take a bit now, sit in the afternoon sun and relax. Come on, I saw how much you took last time: don’t pretend you don’t want to; I know that you love the stuff. Then tomorrow we can start with our talks and when they are finished, we can take some again. But that time, we must take more. Remember, I have been sitting in this home for years without doing anything exciting. Don’t be a dick.”

The old boy laughed, “Aren’t you even going to ask anything? Aren’t you curious?” “Of course I am but let us get to all of that tomorrow. We can just chill today. It would be fun, don’t be a wet blanket.” Stan’s new companion laughed. Stan could be quite insistent. Still chuckling, he unscrewed the bottle and gave it to Stan, cautioning him to only take a little. Stan took a gulp, stopped by the bottle being jerked away and not by his mouth closing. Shaking his head at the new level of the bottle, the old man took an out- sized sip too and put the bottle away. He told Stan that they would need the remainder for next time. Satisfied by the thought that there would be a next time, Stan sat back and tried to deal with the taste in his mouth. Ugh. How could anything taste so bad? It was like staleness made into substance. Not the kind of thing that you wanted to drink really, at least not for the taste. But it would be worth it. Filled with anticipation, he sat and waited for the result.

While they waited for the reaction to set in, they started talking. The afternoon was pleasant and so was the anticipation of the upcoming experience. Slowly it started, and Stan recognised it clearly from all those decades ago. It seemed as if everything became gentler, the world around him becoming more comfortable. The colours became more vivid and the textures in the objects around him more detailed. Stan noticed how intricate the design was in all the bits of nature near him. Fascinated, he peered forward to study some of these works of art. It amazed him how finely they were finished off. While he was investigating some flora, his companion spoke to him,

“Stan, I am not going to talk much this afternoon as I think it was a good idea of yours to just sit and relax. It will lift the heaviness in your soul. But there is one thing I want you to think about today, in the state that you will the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 159 soon be in. You can see for yourself how carefully and perfectly that flower is designed; it is faultless. If you look about you, you will see that the same is true of everything. It is all part of one wonderful design, infinite in its complexity. What I want you to realise, is that humanity is not excluded from this. As flawed as humankind can seem, they are a part of this structure, and as such are intrinsically and purely beautiful. In fact, being the most advanced form of life on the planet, they are more highly developed than anything else in this nature, and from their higher level are more majestic than the grandest waterfall, and subtler than the most delicate butterfly. The base elements in them are part of their nature, a result of the incomplete stage of their development, and should be accepted as such. It does not define them. OK, that is all. Carry on as you were.”

Stan looked at his companion as if he was the strangest thing that Stan had ever seen. A second later he realised that all things considered, he certainly was. This made Stan burst into explosive laughter. The old man had been watching Stan’s face carefully, and at this outburst also erupted into laughter. It very quickly became uncontrollable, as chain reactions often do, and soon they were both crying and unable to breath. Stan’s laughing ended when he was wracked by a vicious coughing fit. In its aftermath he wiped his eyes dry, took a few deep breaths, and still giggling resumed his examination of the flower.

They spent the afternoon just sitting there, the feeling of the warm sun stroking their worn faces something quite splendid, more tender than anything Stan had felt for a while. When one grows old, much of the joys and pleasures of human existence are gradually lost until eventually one lives a day barren of most of what used to make a day good to be in. He sat there in peace, enjoying the calm state of his mind, a mind empty of running thoughts but feeling lush, not desolate, in the quiet that engulfed it. When he closed his eyes and held his breath, it felt as if he was poised in a moment of eternity. Which was true, as it always as, because it was impossible to be any other way. The difference was that he was aware of it now.

The afternoon strolled its way to an end and the sun slowly lowered its huge mass over the horizon. The two old fellows slowly got up and strolled their way over to the home. After a quiet dinner, they retired early, Stan having the deep and continuous sleep that had eluded him for years. 160 A Man Called Stan

The Morning After Stan woke up, relishing the rare feeling of waking up from a deep slumber. He was a bit fuzzy in his head from the previous day but felt well rested after his good sleep. He walked to the bathroom with a smile on his face, the very presence of the expression cheering him up more. After boiling himself he dressed and went to get breakfast. His appetite was keener than it had been for a while. In the dining hall he saw his companion and smiled a greeting. Stan helped himself to some breakfast and then walked over to sit next to the guy. After sharing the meal, they decided to go outside again. They needed a place to talk and agreed that the less company, the better, with the ideal being no one around. Outside it was overcast and cool under the clouds. Stan led him along a gravel path to another of his favourite spots, a bench beside a pool. After sitting, Stan idly flicked stones into the water while they chatted. Then he turned and mentioned something, “Well, I would say that you have a lot of explaining to do. Are you going to start now, after fifty years, or do you want to wait a while longer?”

Almost predictably, the man laughed before he started answering, “I suppose there are a few things you must be finding curious, huh?” “Yeah, you could say that. For instance, the first time I saw you, you looked like you were very old, not much longer to go. Now it is decades later and you look exactly the same. At the same time, I have gone from being in the raw prime of my life to a withered remnant, although I am still looking fresher than you. Something a bit out of the ordinary there, that is undeniable.” “OK, I will explain. But you must let me finish, without interrupting me. I won’t talk about everything now, just an introduction. It will sound very strange but you must believe me. I have no motive to tell you anything but the truth. What is more, you have seen enough evidence that something special is occurring to give my explanation some credibility. Agreed?” Stan nodded in complete agreement. His companion continued, “Hmmmmm, I am not sure where is the best place to begin. Maybe with introducing myself?” “That would be a good idea. In case you were wondering about the proper timing, it is normally one of the first things one does. You know, soon after meeting someone. Often it takes less than fifty years.” the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 161

“Listen Stanley, from what I understand you are not anyone who is well placed to admonish other about their manners. And it was not possible for me to introduce myself to you earlier. You would not have understood. In fact, today is the first day in which you are in a position to understand, which is exactly why we are about to discuss it. But you will know what I mean very shortly.”

“OK, good, because I don’t have a clue what is going on at the moment.” Stan was looking forward to finding out something about all this.

“Well, Stan, I am your guide.” Stan looked at him blankly. “As in spirit guide. I am the being who watches over you.” The blankness was replaced with an expression so unusual that no words have come into use to describe it. Bewilderment mixed with surprise, and a dash of an indefinable something else. The man continued, “All humans have a guide who follows their lives. These guides are beings who have taken an interest in a particular human being. They do not interfere with the daily running of your lives and are not your guardian angels. You do have guardian angels, by the way, but that is another topic altogether. Your guides ensure that your life goes according to the blueprint of its design. When we see that it is not, we try to influence matters to get things on track again. We do this because every human being comes into this life with a specific task to fulfil, and if this does not happen then the life was a waste, and the person will have to go through it all again. Accordingly, we try to ensure that this frustration does not occur. When I say task to fulfill, I refer to steps that they were planned to take in the journey of the unfoldment of their spirit. Every human life is perfectly designed to bring that human being exactly the experiences that it needs to be able to take the next steps of its realization and development. Still with me?”

Stan nodded, slowly. The guide continued, “Remember when I first came into contact with you, when I gave you that potion to drink? At that stage on your life, you had seen the worthlessness of the superficial layer of life but you had not yet seen the deep substance behind it. I wanted you to have an experience to open your eyes to the other side, and I think it did. It was particularly important at that time because you had just met Anne, 162 A Man Called Stan

and it was necessary for you to realise that there was something special about her, something that you may have missed if you were not aware of another part to life, the part that is pure and alive and behind everything. Hence, I orchestrated that day. Even up to that woman who took your parking spot. Do you remember that?”

Stan did and smiled, both at the memory and in amazement at the fresh perspective he now had on the whole string of occurrences. His guide continued, “What I was hoping for was that your cynicism would be diminished by an experience almost magical, and that during this temporary respite of dark doubt Anne would be able to have her full effect on you. Which I would say she did. Are you with me so far?”

“Surprisingly, yes, I am. Not quite sure what to make of it all, but so far, I am following you and understand what you are saying. It will take me a while though to know what my reaction is. But I am listening and interested. Please continue.” Conversations with this guy really made Stan’s head spin.

“The second time I came into your life was when you were approaching middle age. I had seen that you had sunk into a depression, and this was worrisome. I did not want you to get stuck into a rut for decades, wearing down into such a deep groove that you would not be able to see over the top of it. I can sometimes see alternative futures. There was a danger that you would have descended down this route, and your life would not have taken the upward curve that we had planned for. I saw this possibility and wanted to help you get a fresh look on things to avoid it. That is all it took to get you out of that slump, a different perspective. Again, I think it helped. Did it?”

“Yeah, it definitely did. You know, at the time I was so busy thinking about what you said, and the implications, that I never really dwelled on the context of it, and who you were and how you knew about me. Strange, really.” the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 163

“Not that strange Stan. I influenced you as much as I could to not think about it or about me, and rather change the direction of your train of thought to other matters. I should mention that I can follow your thoughts closely and have done so for your whole life. Probably more than you have, Stan. Therefore, after these last two interactions and their success I thought it was time to come down again, this time for a longer period of interaction, for our third meeting on this plane. Therefore, I manifested in this gross physical substance, a process that is very tiring. That is why I said yesterday that it had been a long day. And it is strange getting used to this form again. I have not been in it for hundreds of years. But I am digressing from my point. There is a reason why I came to see you Stan. You are dying.”

As would be expected, Stan was affected by this news. He did not even attempt to make a reply that was appropriate. He waited for more information, which was immediately forthcoming, “Those coughing spells that you have been having lately are the start of it. Your lungs are starting to give way. The doctors would have told you this in a few days, but I thought that you would prefer me telling you than getting the news from them. I know you, and you would not have wanted to be weak in front of them. Anyway, I am here to help you prepare for death, Stan. That is why I have taken this form; so that I can be here for a while and we do not have to rush it. Don’t worry Stan; we are not talking a matter of days here. You will have more than enough time to ready yourself.”

Stan seemed rather relieved at this. No need for panic then. He motioned to his guide to continue.

“Well Stan, I don’t want to overload you with information. I think that is enough for one day. I just wanted to orientate you a bit, so that you know what we are going to be doing. You can mull it over and we can start the process of preparation tomorrow. What I will tell you already is that you have nothing to fear from death, you will be fine. I am here to make sure that you are as ready as possible. Although no one can ever be properly prepared for it, it is too different from earthly life. OK, that is it with the serious stuff for today. Shall we go relax inside? Maybe play some cards?”

Stan lifted an eyebrow, his mind trying to get hold of everything, not even attempting to process it all now, that was for later. Finally, he answered, “Sure, lets go to the games room.” 164 A Man Called Stan

They creakily got up and made their slow way to the games room, agreeing that they would keep the conversation light for the rest of the day and just relax and enjoy themselves. They reached the room and entered. It was quite full of old people, some playing dominos, others listening to the radio, some just sitting there in their usual daze, due to either medication or mental failure. The guide looked around and Stan dug out a pack of cards. There were some people playing already, but they were playing bridge. Stan mentioned that, as he was not yet dead, albeit barely, there was no chance whatsoever that he would play that wishy-washy game. “How does a game of poker sound?”

A smile was his answer and they sat down and set the terms of play. That night’s dessert was the prize on offer, but it was not about that. It was about the joy of competing, and of enjoying each other’s company. It had been a very long time since Stan had had someone around whom it was pleasant to be with. As he thought that, he realised how lonely he had been these last few years,

without any decent company. Maybe the ending of this life would not be so bad after all. He shuffled the cards and dealt them out. Soon they both became oblivious of their surroundings, of the wheezes and croaks of the other occupants of the room, of the gaudy furniture and irritating radio. All that was in their minds was the game, and the struggle for supremacy. Both of them were deft poker players, and the game was conducted at a high level. It was very close, with both of them winning and losing. After a long and evenly matched session, Stan’s opponent started getting the better of him. He was just playing perfectly, catching Stan out every time. Then Stan got dealt a completely blank hand. He decided to bluff it and did not even change any cards at the draw, smiling in satisfaction at his hand. His opponent stayed in the hand and won with a pair. “A pair!” yelled the irritated Stan, “Why would you stay and bet on a pair! You must have known I was bluffing…”

Stan paused, lost in a moment’s quiet thought. The quiet moment soon passed, “You bastard!! You have been reading my mind the last few hands. Started following my thoughts to see what I was going to play, weren’t you?” the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 165

“Stan, I am a higher being, with pure values. I would not do something like that. I did not pry into your mind, although I could.” The guide looked very earnest. “Higher being my ass! You cheated, you bitch. Wanted to win too badly, didn’t you?”

As he finished yelling, they both looked around them into the full but suddenly very still room. Everyone was staring at them, puzzled. They stared back. Then they faced each other, and after a second burst into hilarious laughter. They both had to sit down, with tears streaming down their dried- out faces. The others in the room then obviously stared more, which made the situation more absurd and the humour of it was not lost on the two poker players, who were both battling to breathe by now. Their laughter was more than just a reaction to the situation; it was a release of the tension and emotions arising from the last two days. A hearty coughing fit eventually ended Stan’s outburst, and when they had regained composure, they left the room. They were supporting each other on shaky legs but were light in heart.

The Next Morning After breakfast they stepped outside, as per usual. While they were still walking, Stan broke the silence, “I was doing some thinking last night.” “Yeah, was it hard?” “Shut up idiot.” They were quickly building up a good relationship. Stan continued, “If you are my guide, and have been watching over me all this time and trying to help, then I suppose I should thank you. So, here it is - thank you.” His guide paused in his steps and turned towards him. “Why, thank you Stan. And trust me, it has been a great pleasure. Although not always the easiest of jobs.”

They both nodded and continued their leisurely stroll. Stan asked him to explain a bit about guides, and how it worked. His guide assented, “Like I said before, each human has a main guide. There may be other guides as well, to help with certain aspects of their life as needed, but I shall not discuss those now. Your main guide is not concerned with the day-to-day activities of your life, but rather with the course of your life itself. I should 166 A Man Called Stan point out that they are not there to ensure that you comply to some big plan, even if you are unwilling. They are there to see that your life unfolds along the plan that you yourself had for it when you entered this life. They don’t want you to finish up your time here and then realise afterwards that you had wasted most of it. They simply help you achieve those goals that you set before you entered into this life. Am I making things clearer or worse?” The speaker had noted the expression on Stan’s face.

“Uh, fine. Tell me, how do guides and humans get matched? Do you choose your human, or what?” “It differs. Sometimes the guide and human are two beings who are bound by karma, their fates intertwined. Having shared lifetimes on earth, the one then helps the other when he enters into another earthly life. Other times they meet just before the human incarnates, the guide promising the other spirit to help it though the confusion of this earthly life.”

They walked on until they found a suitable setting and then they slowly seated themselves. After that was done with the customary creaks and Stan’s coughing, the guide continued, “Stan, I have spoken about myself. Now I want to speak about you and your nature. Tell me Stan, what are you?”

Stan pondered this philosophical question until he found the right answer and then delivered it with authority, “I am an old fart.”

Chuckling, his guide responded, “You know Stan, I may be an astral being who has become incarnate in the physical realm to guide you through the passing over into the spiritual realm, but I am not sure which of us finds this experience more surreal. You are indeed an old fart; I will give you that. But what are you apart from that?” This time the pupil had an answer he knew must be correct, “A man called Stan. That is what I am.” “That is true Stan. And what does it mean, to be a man?”

And with that the guide began a series of explanations on the nature of mankind, and of Stan himself. These talks were short and took place over a few days, enough for Stan to have learned from each of them but never too much to digest at once. He explained how these human forms of flesh and the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 167 bone were nothing more than a tool for the spirit within them, necessary for performing its functions during the lifetime. It was the spirit within that formed the being. This spirit was undying, the death process meaning nothing more to it than the changing of clothes. This spirit had always existed and always would and was of a Divine Nature. This spirit was all that Stan was.

One Afternoon “Hey Stan, lets go outside quickly. I want to show you something.” Frowning in annoyance at having to get up, Stan got up and followed his guide outside. These damn higher beings, thinking they can push you around merely because they come from another realm which purported to be more advanced. He voiced these misgivings, “What do you want, asshole? Or are you just enjoying making me jump?” “One would think that you would be more polite, seeing as how I am crucial to your future in the afterlife. Anyway, shut up and look at this.” Stan looked, and saw that bottle again in the hand of the guide. Stan had drank from a lot of bottles in his life, to try and estimate how many would be a disturbing exercise, but this was his favourite bottle, he realised, as he looked at it and felt a warm glow rush through his body. “Yeah, now we are talking, give it to me baby.” Stan reached for the bottle but it was jerked away from his clutching grasp.

Explaining that he did not trust Stan to measure his portion, the guide first drank half and then passed the rest of the bottle to Stan, instructing him to drink all of it and knowing that there were now limits to the dose. Stan did so, gagging as he went, but doing it with pleasure, nonetheless. The gagging was followed by a coughing fit and then the medicine was safely in. Raising a bemused eyebrow, he mentioned to his companion, “So, here we go, huh? It is going to be a good day.” “Yeah, that it is. Stan, we took this for a reason today, not just for fun. There is something I want you to do during this experience. I will explain now while we can concentrate and then I want you to remember it throughout the experience today. OK?”

Stan nodded his comprehension and the guide carried on with his instructions. He spoke about the spirit within, which they had discussed for some time over the last few days and about which Stan now had the 168 A Man Called Stan necessary theoretical knowledge, and an understanding of its nature and workings. What the guide wanted was that today Stan was to take some time out, withdraw from his surroundings and focus on himself, and what was inside him. He wanted Stan to feel this spirit, feel it alive inside of him. Intellectual knowledge was one thing, but Stan had to KNOW it, from personal experience came deep and unshakeable belief. The potion that they had just taken enabled man to come into clearer contact with these parts of him. Stan said that he would try.

The dose which they had taken was far larger than the one that they had taken a few days ago. Stan felt it descend upon him as he sat there, almost forcing him down. He obeyed the pressure and found a comfortable spot to lie on his back in the grass. Overhead the clouds swirled and formed themselves into exquisite structures, dissolving as soon as the eye realised what picture it was seeing. There was a breeze blowing and Stan could hear the passage of air in the space above, hearing the actual movement of air and not just the rustling of trees. The sun’s rays could be felt on his body, the energy entering him. Again, he was loving this experience, the heightened sensations and the way he felt everything more intensely. He remembered the instruction of his guide and realised that this was the perfect time to do it, now that his perception of everything was enhanced and the concentration of his mind greatly increased. He first closed his eyes to limit the stimuli coming in, but that did not work very well. The light filtering through his eyelids started swirling in a kaleidoscope of bright forms, constantly changing in design. It was beautiful, but quite distracting. He was about to open his eyes when his guide told him to keep them closed.

Stan obeyed and then realised nothing had been said out aloud. “Did I just hear him in my mind?” Stan wondered to himself. “Yes you did”, said the guide, almost giving Stan a heart attack and premature departure from this life, “In the same way as I can normally read your thoughts with some effort, your mind is now at a high enough level where I can communicate directly with you. If it were always like this, I would not have needed to come down in this body to talk to you. But it is a great field trip for me here on Earth, so I don’t mind. Anyway, are you doing OK?” the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 169

After catching his breath, Stan decided that he was. His guide then told him to continue concentrating on his breath; it was a good way to focus his mind. He should then try to feel who was breathing, and who was observing the breath. As he breathed, he was to make each breath slower and deeper. He did this, and as he did so and his breathing slowed, he felt himself become more relaxed and serene. As he relaxed, he breathed slower. He drifted through this gentle cycle to a state where he was barely breathing, hardly moving a muscle, the air drifting in and out, almost imperceptibly.

Letting Stan know how much he had relaxed, his guide told him to just keep his mind clear and be aware of what he felt. He explained to Stan what would happen. It was as if Stan standing in front of a pool, looking at his reflection. The water was rippling and his reflection unclear. As the water calmed, undisturbed by thoughts, Stan would see his reflection clearly in the water. He would see himself, his true being.

Stan gathered all his concentration and applied it to the central core of his mind, watching over it. A few last thoughts appeared but fell away quickly, unable to survive without him placing any interest in them. Soon it was quiet, no movement in the still pool of his consciousness. Without any distractions, he started being able to feel the nature of the undisturbed consciousness. Everything calm, he could sense the timelessness of this state. Nothing changes here, ever, including his real self. This is what was behind everything, and this is what was inside of him. With his mind quiet, his personality was subdued, and he could sense the real being behind it, the mask removed. He felt, in its fullness, the part of him that never changed. His Self. I am, thought Stan. I am this spirit, and this part of me will always be. He stayed in this state for a while. When he slipped out of it, he knew exactly what it was that would remain and continue, that would not be affected by this death or any other. He also knew that it was all that was really him. Stan understood.

A Couple Of Days Later They took some cups of coffee and went outside, as per normal. It was quite chilly and damp, so they had to sit on a bench instead of on the grass which was their preference. It was nonetheless pleasurable, somewhat bracing to be outside. The coffee was weak and in plastic mugs, but still terrific. They 170 A Man Called Stan sipped on it as they chatted. Stan said he had a question. He was told that that was very interesting, but pretty useless until he asked it. Subsequently, he asked it. “You haven’t told me yet. Where will I go from here? You know, when I…uh, go away.” “Well Stan, I have been trying to get a deal for you. I wanted to make sure it was definite before I got back to you about it. It is looking good; I think I may be able to get it down to about 5,000 years in a hell realm, and from there you can move to purgatory. And hopefully not one of the worst hells either.” “What? Fucking hell!” Stan was upset, understandably. “Come on, are you surprised? What did you expect? You haven’t exactly been an angel, have you? Didn’t you know that drinking was a sin? And fornication? How many times did you go to church?”

Stan felt sick to his stomach. He stared at the floor. He did not think it was going to be like this, not at all. There had been no warning about this from the way his companion had approached the process. His glumness was interrupted by raucous laughing. He turned around, enraged, “How can you be laughing, do you think it is funny? Can you die? I want to kill you, now. I am sure I can, if I try hard enough.”

“No, relax, I am kidding. Just a little joke.” The guide smiled sweetly. “A joke! Are you sick? That was below the belt. Now I am definitely going to kill you.”

Then Stan saw the humour in it and started giggling. Damn, the bastard had got him going. Phew, what a relief though. Better make sure, “So, I am not going to burn then?”

“Not quite Stan, not quite. You will be fine.” The guide told how karma partly determined what would happen to you after death, the karma generated during this life. This karma was not meted out as punishment or granted as reward, but was simply the result of acts performed during the lifetime. It was a Universal law, that all acts have a reaction. He had not done much in the way of harming others in his time here, so he did not have a heavy karmic debt. Most of the misguided actions of his life had involved himself as the only victim. the end of the line STAN GOES AWAY 171

The guide then explained to Stan that basically all human lives have two aims. Those aims are to learn, and to love. Stan had done both of those. His heart had flowed with love for his wife and family and he had grown a lot over the decades. His guide assured him that he would be fine. The important thing was that when the time came, he had to let go completely. And he had to have faith in what was to come; there could be no fear. He was simply returning home. This state of mind was the last factor, and this was up to him alone.

A helper looking for Stan interrupted their discussion. His daughter was here to take him to lunch with his family. Stan got up and asked his friend to join him. Although he knew Stan’s family, he had never met them face-to- face. Now he would, so they walked together to reception. Stan introduced his friend to his daughter Jamie and asked her if he could join them, knowing she would never say no. Then he had to plead with the staff member at the front to let them go out without prior approval. They succeeded in circumventing the bureaucracy with the promise of some renowned home baked goodies from Stan’s daughter. With his arm around his treasured daughter, they left the home.

One Morning On his way from the breakfast hall to go and brush his teeth, Stan was summoned to the office of the head matron. It felt a bit like going to the headmaster. Stan tried to remember if he had done anything against the rules lately, but nothing sprang to mind. He waited to be informed, and he was, “Stan, I have some sad news. They found your friend this morning, dead. Must have happened through the night. Stan, are you all right? You look a bit peculiar.”

Stan knew that a smile was not the appropriate reaction and was trying to fight it. Realising how odd the situation was, did not make this battle easier. He mumbled something, hiding his mouth behind his hand. She spoke again, “If it offers any consolation, he can’t have suffered. His face was very peaceful. he must have just slipped away.”

Regaining his composure with a breath, Stan took his hand away, and replied,

“Oh, I am sure you are right Miss. I am sure. And I will be OK.” 172 A Man Called Stan

Stan left the office. Sadly, his friend was gone. He must have decided that his work was done here. That was good to know, Stan supposed, that the teacher thought that the pupil was ready for the test. It made him a bit anxious though, about what that implied. That meant that this must be the home straight then. Hmm. Coughing, he went to brush his teeth.

Another Morning Stan looked around one last, lingering time, lay back on the bed, closed his eyes, and drew in a labouring breath. He held the breath a while, savouring the feel of it in his lungs, and then let it go, at the same time letting go of this life. Stan died.

Stan lay there a while, trying to feel what was happening to him. He had to admit, he was nervous. You could never really be prepared for death, it was too different, or so he had been told. He believed that. After a while, he looked around. It was exactly the same. He got up and looked at the worn-out body lying there on the bed, obviously empty of life. A lump of matter. Standing up, he saw that the body he still had was also shedding some of its grosser substance. Turning around, he saw the old man. The old man smiled at Stan and asked if he still felt pain in his body. Stan said no, of course not. The old man smiled wider, explaining to Stan that this meant he did not have to first go to a healing centre, but could come directly with him. Taking Stan’s tentative hand, they started walking. Stan noted that they were going upwards, as if they were walking up an invisible staircase. They passed through the walls of the old age home without any difficulty and then they were walking up through the sky. As they walked a tunnel of light started forming around them. Stan gazed around him, awestruck. The old man tapped his arm and told him to look up. At the end of the tunnel was a bright light, pouring through the entrance. While Stan was looking down the tunnel, this light at the end flickered as someone entered it from the other side. As they drew nearer this person came into focus. Standing there, as patient as ever, with that sweetly angelic smile across her face, was Anne, in all her beauty, waiting for him.

Stan smiled too. Life was good, even when you were dead.

The End (of this)