3701. STANLEY

STANLEY

I have brought nothing to the fore and nothing to the show :

my architecture has all fallen down, and the tent I erected

did not withstand the rain. So let me show you other things.

This toybox, for instance, was built by my father's hand. It

was, from day one, way too large, but always useful. The

car shop, called Mike's, on the corner, only takes cash for

repairs  -  which always makes me instantly suspicious.

Across from him, the local country club is always filled

with vivacious and middle-aged people; expensively clothed,

eating well, bodies in fine shape, and  -  along the pool  -

there are always late middle-aged women in bathing

suits, looking not too bad. All around the area, there's

a red-brick wall about five feet high. Years ago, I remember

every day, at about 5pm, seeing the little Polish immigrant,

Stanislaus Polscyk's father, waiting for the bus after his

shift. He was an orderly, or janitor, or what have you, for

years. Then, just as retirement time came around, they

let him go. He was, the old man, devastated, and quickly

wasted away. I don't know really why they would do that

to him; what to be gained, etc. Stanislaus - who by then 

called himself Stanley - told me that.