Stanley
Amy was waiting for the doorbell to ring. It wasn't long before the dog barked ferociously, lunging at the door, showing her sharp, white teeth with each snarl. Amy grabbed Flash by the collar and opened the door. Joe's friend Stanley stood on the porch carrying a tattered suitcase; his tall, thin frame exuded patience; he didn't move, or speak a word while the dog raged fiercely. "Come in," Amy said. "Why don't you go sit in that chair over there until Flash calms down?" Now formally invited, Stanley walked into the living room. He seemed immediately comfortable in the gold-rust armchair, Joe's chair.
"Hi Flash, you're a good girl! You're a good girl!" he praised tirelessly, while she continued to bark and gnash. Every few moments he turned his head, so the large Shepherd would have the opportunity to sniff him out. When he looked back again, she ran away, then quickly returned, resuming her vicious declaration of territory.
"She'll calm down soon," Amy reassured Stanley. But her husband's lifelong buddy was unintimidated; he loved dogs. The massive Shepherd accepted dog biscuits and pets from Stanley within a half an hour.
"Joe'll be home any minute," Amy began. "He only works till one o'clock on Thursdays. He looks forward to seeing you, you two are good friends."
"Since first grade," Stanley sighed, as if remembering a bygone world. "…First grade."
"Well, there's coffee in the kitchen," Amy said, "and cookies and potato chips."
"Thank you, no. Could I have a drink of water, please?" She fetched him a glass of water from the tap. Flash began barking again and running from window to window.
"Joe's home!" Amy announced. "Flash's always first to know he's here."
Stanley just stared at the black screen of the TV, as if it was on.
"Hi Stanley!" Joe exclaimed, walking in the door. "So you made it!"
"Yep."
"He made friends with Flash already," Amy told her husband. "Took a while, though."
"Flash's my friend, she's a good girl, she's a good girl," Stanley babbled.
"Good dog," Joe agreed. "Good watch dog, too."
Joe and Stanley watched TV for the rest of the evening, while Amy did some light housework. Joe went to bed before 11 o'clock, but Amy stayed up till 1, waiting for Stanley to go up to bed, but he continued to watch TV, dozing off and on in the chair.
She announced loudly, "I'm going up to bed now."
"'Kay, goodnight!" he said, unmoving.
Within a minute or two, Amy heard Stanley's footsteps ascend quietly upstairs to the guestroom. "Doesn't seem like this'll be too bad," she thought, and rolled over on her side and fell asleep.
The next morning, Amy walked down the stairs in her T-shirt and sweatpants. Stanley was staring at the blank TV again.
"I'm making coffee," she said abruptly, and went to the kitchen.
"I don't want any, just half a cup," Stanley said. "I'll just run more water through the coffee machine later if I want more."
She brought a hot, steaming cup of coffee over to the couch, handed one to Stanley, and sat down. Stanley began talking about his injured back, stories she'd heard many times before.
"I have two ruptured disks," he said, "and when it rains, I'm in agony. I need my Lortabs. My doctor gives me a hundred fifty pills a month, and I told her, 'I abuse them,' but she says I need them for pain… I'd be in agony without them. But the Lortabs aren't the problem, you can get off them. It's the Valium I have to take…my anxiety disorder. I get panic attacks. But my doctor found out I gotta problem with a heart valve…you can only hear it when I'm lying down…and if I don't get the Valium, she said I might even die! Joe's mother gets those pills, doesn't she? If I run out, I'll get some from her…I'm good friends with Joe's mother, I've known her for thirty years - "
"Yeah…Mm Hmm…" she interjected a few times to be tactful but wasn't much interested in Stanley's talk about pills. She drank her coffee, half-awake, annoyed with the animated chatter so early in the morning. In the past, she'd received phone calls from Stanley about his "agony," with the resulting pressure to run pills over to him. Still, he seemed to have some charm, he was honest, and very polite. She just wished he'd change the subject.
The following morning, Stanley was still in the chair. The TV was on, but the sound was turned way down low.
"I didn't mean to wake you with the TV," Stanley said.
"You didn't." She walked into the kitchen to make coffee her eyes barely open. She served Stanley his half a cup and sat on the couch to sip hers. The lecture about pills began again:
"…Oooh, my back went out today, I'm in agony!" he said, swallowing a handful of Lortabs with a glass of water. Joe's mother takes Ativan. I don't know if they're any good, they're only a half a' milligram, but they are Benzodiazapenes. I know she'll give me a few, I've known Joe's mother for years. Every month, I run out of Valium before I can get it refilled again. I was going to three different doctors and three different pharmacists, and Medicaid found out, so now I can only use one pharmacy for all my scripts. They're triplicate…you know what that means…the doctor signs, the State gets a copy…But I need the Valium for anxiety, I get panic attacks. Once you're on Valium, you're on it for life! The doctor said it's not worth going through all that rehab shit to get off 'em. And now I found out about this heart valve problem - "
"I'm gettin' more coffee," Amy said, quickly rising from the couch. With a fresh cup in hand, she returned to the living room with Stanley. She liked to do household chores during the day - she worked in the evenings - but now she had a guest to entertain, and his conversation was never about anything but pills.
In bed that night, Amy had a private conversation with her husband. They whispered, as Stanley was in the guestroom close by.
"Why don't you take him to work with you in the morning?" Amy suggested. "Maybe you could get him a job or something."
"Are you kidding?" Joe chimed, almost too loud. "He hasn't worked in the last ten - fifteen years. I remember him telling me how glad he was to get on disability, because it paid more than welfare!"
"I don't believe he has an anxiety disorder," Amy said. "Maybe he has a back problem, but he's not really in agony - only when he thinks there are pills available."
"No, his back's fucked up," Joe said. "If he's bothering you with all his shit, I'll see if I can take him to work with me. He'll be gone in no time anyway."
"Thanks," Amy said, "I really can't stand to hear about his pills anymore."
The next day, Amy awoke, put on her sweatpants and a T-shirt, and walked cautiously down the stairs. There was no noise coming from the TV. At the last step, she glanced nervously towards the living room chair, and no legs or feet showed. "Freedom," she thought to herself, smiling.
She made the morning coffee, finished off three cups, and started picking up newspaper and other debris from the floor. She noticed there were a few cigarette burns on the gold-rust chair, and for a moment, became angry. "Well, Joe could've done that himself a long time ago," she decided, and put it out of her mind. She was glad the intruder of the past several days was gone, so she happily went about vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, and humming along with the music on the stereo.
When she arrived home from work at 10:30 that night, Joe and Stanley were watching wrestling on TV. Stanley knew every wrestler's name, his background - their entire biographies. He seemed to have information about everyone on TV and filled in any missing facts with his own embellishments. Stanley rose from the chair, approached Amy, and in a kind, polite voice, asked, "May I please get some water?"
"Yeah, go ahead," Amy replied, a little disconcerted, having been charmed by his honest face and polite manner. She had the sudden realization that this was Stanley's act - his charm was a masquerade… and she had been suckered by it time after time. Even though she was now aware of this, would she no longer be affected by it?
"Amy, let's go upstairs and watch TV," Joe said, cutting into her thoughts. Stanley had been there almost a week, and the agreement had been a few days only.
"He's your friend," Amy said in a loud whisper. "It's your job to tell him to get out."
"I will tonight, I will right now," Joe said, and walked softly downstairs. Amy heard muffled conversation coming from the living room, but as hard as she tried, she couldn't make out what they were saying. When Joe returned, he told her that Stanley would begin looking for another place tomorrow.
"I hope!" Amy sighed, relieved.
Another week passed, another torturous week of listening to Stanley's version of the Pharmacopoeia, and she became more and more angry with Joe for not getting rid of him.
Worse yet, Stanley had run out of his monthly disability money, and the couple was now providing food for Stanley, as well as a place to stay.
"Why doesn't he go back to Michigan?" Amy asked Joe, in a moment of privacy.
"How's he gonna get there now?" Joe replied. "He doesn't have a dime, and his father won't give him any more money. He thought it would be cheaper to live here! Hah! His benefits didn't increase much after all, did they?"
Well, I want him out!" Amy demanded. "You talk to him again tonight! If he's not gone by tomorrow, you can tell him to grab his stuff, and we'll give him a ride to the City Mission!"
"Okay, I'll talk to him… Tonight, alright?"
Later that week, Stanley began calling numbers, looking for rooms for rent. He received a lot of return phone calls but was unable to see places that weren't within walking distance. Amy gave him rides to a couple prospective homes, but Stanley seemed to have problems with each one.
"This one has no oven, and they won't let you have a hot plate," Stanley complained. "If I can't do my own cooking, I'll be spending a fortune eating out. I can't survive that way."
Days passed. Amy was getting more and more disgusted with Stanley's endless monologues about drugs, and his back. Sometimes in the mornings when she saw his feet from the second-last step, she'd turn around, walk right back upstairs, and return to bed. Other times Stanley was decent enough to go with Joe to work, but that wasn't enough. His image pervaded her mind, his belongings inhabited the guestroom - he was an invader in their home, in their marriage. Amy fought with Joe more than she ever did before. The question was: what would make Stanley leave…if not Joe? And Joe didn't have the balls to throw his friend out.
It had been over a month now, and Amy was on the verge of tears. Every day when she was alone, she called her mother, her friends, sobbed about a "guest" in the house who wouldn't leave of his own accord… and all it would take would be a few harsh words from Joe.
"You're a wimp! You're an asshole!" Amy yelled at him, when the two were in the yard with Flash. "My boyfriend ten years ago would've told him to get the fuck out and thrown him out the door… he wouldn't care where he went or what happened to him… and I don't think you do, either!" Joe angrily turned his back.
The following night, Joe had another private conversation with Stanley. All Stanley's stuff was packed in the car, and the two headed off to a bar. They had been discussing plans for Stanley to move into the room above the tavern. Hours later, Joe returned with the unwanted guest. Amy ran upstairs to her room.
The bedroom door creaked open, and Joe entered. "Don't worry," he said, "he's going soon." Amy wouldn't listen; she buried her face in her pillow. Joe turned away.
"Did he clean out your mother's Ativan and Darvocet yet?" she shouted, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Joe closed the door.
The end of the weekend approached, and Joe helped his degenerate friend pack the car again and drove off. Amy clenched her teeth, fearing the moment Stanley would appear on their doorstep again. Images from horror movies of monsters like "Jason" appeared in her mind; it seemed that every time you turned around, he was there. There was no escape from Stanley.
Joe returned alone.
"Where's Stanley?" Amy asked, fearing the answer.
"Gone," Joe said.
"I don't believe he's really gone," Amy responded.
"Well, he is," Joe said, "and he's not coming back."
It was two restless weeks before Amy became convinced that Stanley's disappearance was a certainty. She patted Flash on the head. "Why didn't you tear him to pieces the moment he got here?" Amy asked the Shepherd. "Bad dog, bad dog, bad dog…"
