Chapter Three
By the time the next morning came, I had no desire at all to head out and look for jobs again. The hammering I’d taken the previous day discouraged me, and it seemed pointless to even apply as long as I didn’t know what was causing employers to blow me off. Besides, maybe Stanley would come through for me, and if he did, then any driving I did today would just be a waste of time and gas.
But it wasn’t like I had anything better to do, so I joylessly showered and donned my nice clothes again before shuffling out to the parking lot.
Three hours later, I came roaring back into the parking lot, tires screeching, door slamming. Seven more failed conversations with hiring managers will tend to have that effect on a person. I don’t know if Stanley heard me coming or if he just had some irritating omnipresence, but he was waiting at the top of the staircase.
“Seems life’s not cooperating with you,” he observed lightly.
“Like it’s the pigeon and I’m the statue.”
“Some days it’s like that. The question isn’t whether you’ll crash, but where and how hard.”
“I don’t get what you mean, ‘crash.’”
“What I mean, son, is that life lets you down sometimes. When it does, it’s important to have a soft place to land.”
“Why does every conversation with you sound like a sermon?” I snapped, instantly sorry I had done it, because I wasn’t mad at Stanley; he just happened to be around while I was mad at other things. But before I had the chance to apologize (and honestly I’m not sure I would have, anyway) he already had his hands up.
“Didn’t mean to rub you wrong, Eli. I just thought you could use a little encouraging.”
“Well, I could, you’re right, so thanks, I guess.” My words hung awkwardly in the air, as I fumbled for what to say next, and eventually Stanley shrugged.
“I still got some casserole in the fridge if you want to drop by for dinner tonight.”
I couldn’t explain why but for some reason it felt very important that I take him up on his offer this time. “You’re going to keep saying that until I actually come by, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Well, yeah. That’s why I offered, you know.”
“Thanks, Stanley. I think I just might take you up on it tonight.”
He smiled paternally, and this time it didn’t feel condescending.
On my way across the hall that evening, I realized that I would probably not be able to carry on a good conversation. Truth be told, I almost never ate with other people, because I didn’t know what to say. Most of the friendships I’d ever had were built by doing things in common – I was friends with my ultimate Frisbee team, with my musician buddies, and a few other groups of people because we could always do those things and never have to worry about conversation. I wanted to ask Stanley about himself and where he was from, but he struck me as the kind of person who didn’t talk about himself. He acted like he was just a big walking set of ears and hands who only cared about other people. That was fine, for him, I guess, but it would make for an awfully dull dinner.
Even as I stood in the hallway about to knock, the aroma of baked chicken made the air thick. It had been long, almost out of memory, since I’d last had a meal that someone prepared by hand. When Stanley did swing the door open, the smell burst out and stormed into my lungs. It was so rich I thought I might suffocate. I’d never really liked casserole; we had it a bunch growing up, when dad was working in the tomato canning factory and mom was at home all day and we didn’t have much money to buy things that actually tasted good. Maybe that association, with being poor and not being able to do any better, was what made the flavor of casserole sour to me. It didn’t really matter anyway.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from Stanley’s apartment. Everyone else his age whose house I’d ever been in had spent a lifetime accumulating garbage, furniture that looked like Jesus might have made it, and antiques that were useless before they were even made. I wondered if those people ever bothered to think that “antiques” were only in antique shops because nobody had ever managed to find a good use for them.
And the smell. The overpowering, musty, heavy odor of old people and old things. That smell alone was the reason I’d always dreaded becoming old. I often told my friends, only half-jokingly, that if they ever caught me smelling like that, they should go ahead and finish me off before I had a chance to start buying antiques.
Even had it not been ripe with the scent of dinner, I doubt Stanley’s apartment would have fit the stereotype. For one, I’d never actually seen him in, or anywhere near, his apartment. Something about that made me doubt that he was the kind to stockpile worthless possessions. Second, Stanley was way too practical to be bothered with any of that. His conversation was always precise and to-the-point, and I couldn’t imagine his home being any different.
I was right. As I stepped in the door and took stock of the place, I was surprised by how stylishly the place was decorated. The walls had been painted an earthy tan, and paintings and sculptures in other browns and burgundies adorned the place. Black-and-white photographs were all over, huge photos that had been blown up to poster size and small five-by-sevens. In them were dozens of people, black people, white people, Asian people, smiling and enjoying themselves. I knew that, between the artwork and the pictures, I had plenty to ask Stanley about.
He waved me over to the table, set for two with earthenware plates and glasses. A huge glass dish with steaming casserole sat in the middle, and smaller dishes of mashed potatoes, green beans, and bread formed an honor guard around it. I sat down, instantly ravenous and grateful for Stanley’s hospitality.
“You want to say the blessing, Eli?” Stanley asked, sliding easily into the chair opposite mine.
“Er…not really. I’m a bit out of practice. Would you mind?”
“Sure thing,” he smiled, bowing his head. “Father God, thank you so much for this night and for the company you’ve given me for dinner. Please send your richest blessings on this food as we eat it and on this conversation as we enjoy it. In the precious name of your son Jesus we pray, amen.”
“Amen,” I echoed.
“Dig in,” Stanley told me, and I didn’t need any more encouragement than that. In under a minute my plate was overflowing and I was shoveling casserole into my mouth. Stanley chuckled at me, clearly amused. “You’d think they never fed you back in Indiana.”
After a few moments I regained my composure and looked up from my plate. “So Stanley, I noticed all these photos when I came in. Where’d you get them?”
He glanced around the room, as if he’d momentarily forgotten what I was talking about. “Oh, they’re from places I’ve lived, churches I’ve been in. They’re memorials to friends. Friendship is a beautiful thing, and it deserves to be celebrated.”
“Of course.”
“That one,” he said, pointing to one of the few pictures that he was in, “was from our missions trip to Seattle a few years ago. It was a good time. The people on both sides of me lived downtown and were just miserable with their lives. They had no hope, no nothing. Life was just drudgery. Danny Tucker, the guy I told you about the other day who’s about your age, he gave them the gospel message and they got saved. You should see them now, Eli. They’re so full of joy it’s not even recognizable.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s a beautiful thing. There’s an awful lot of pain in the world, and there’s only one source of healing.”
“Sure.” I’d been to church before, so I was pretty sure I had an idea of what he was talking about.
He looked at me harder for a moment, as if he was talking about me and wanted me to know it, but then smiled again. “A lot of the other ones are my family, too. But enough about me. Tell me about yourself.”
I’d predicted that he wasn’t the type to talk about himself, hadn’t I? I was worried that he wa
s going to start preaching at me the way he sometimes had, and I really didn’t want that. But as I told him where I’d come from and where I hoped to go, I got the sense that he was listening, really listening, without trying to look for an opportunity to launch into a sermon. In fact, for the whole rest of the night we made conversation, and he never once mentioned confidence, or the fact that I slouched, or anything else. He just listened. I went home sometime after midnight with the feeling that he really cared about the situation I was in. I’d been a loner for so much of my life, worrying about myself and my problems with the understanding that no one else would. For some reason I couldn’t fathom, it seemed like Stanley was genuinely interested in my problems, that he was willing to enter my life and be concerned about me, with no hope of receiving anything in return. That was foreign to me, and while I was grateful for it, I didn’t quite know how to handle it.
Being a loner was comfortable to me. It felt good to know that I could talk to Stanley and he would listen, but it was also unnerving. What if he decided I wasn’t that interesting, or that I wasn’t worth spending time on? Why was I even bothering him and spending his time if I couldn’t give anything back? I didn’t understand what he was getting at, and that bothered me.
It didn’t bother me enough to keep me from sleeping, though.
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