The Story of Stanley Gates
Stanley Gates stood, shivering, outside the Target during the last hour of his shift on December 23, 1998. The tone of his Christmas bell rang throughout his head and inflated a week long headache. The air was a bitter cold that pierced the skin throughout his body. The snow from the week prior was almost gone; the only piles left were bordered with a delightful brown and yellow tint of slush that screamed industry. The night was coming to a close and the sun had been down for what seemed like ages. Stanley turned to check on the teenagers who had been spending the past half hour by the carts. He couldn't help but look at them with a mixture of disgust and envy. Their care-free lives consisted of nothing but presents over the next few days. He watched as they used their skate boards to push each other into a large mountain of snow that must have been built up by a plow.
Excuse me sir, said a little girl in a very cliche cute-little-girl voice. Startled, he turned around and was surprised with the smile of a girl tugging at his red pants. The girl was wearing a giant pink coat with a purple scarf guarding her from the outside weather. Her rosy red cheeks could compete with those of Santa Claus.
Stanley bent down and lowered his red bucket, and the little girl dropped a quarter into it.
Why thank you miss! Stanley replied with a grin across his face, suddenly feeling a gust of warmth. He looked up to see the girl's mom struggling to hold several large bags of future presents. Need a hand? he asked.
Oh I wouldn't want to-she started.
Oh no, please, I need the exercise! Stanley stopped her, Gotta get my body temp' up!
Stanley grabbed the majority of the bags and followed the mother of the girl in the pink coat to her Ford Explorer. He loaded them into the car and closed the trunk. Stanley turned to head back to his post at the front of the Target entrance and began walking. The sight of the red donation bucket sent a jolt of unknown sorrow. He must have found a hidden joy in helping others that distracted him from his current duty.
Excuse me sir! yelled a voice from the Ford Explorer.
Stanley turned around and saw the mother of the little girl in the pink coat, walking briskly towards him. She lifted her hand, wrapped in a black leather glove, and holding a faded, old, one dollar bill.
A sudden alertness hit Stanley's mind. He indeed needed the dollar more than anything. Just enough to get him something cheap from a fast food joint on the way home. But something inside him, possibly the polite little boy he was raised as, blocked all temptation and he was unwillingly forced to decline it.
No, please, keep it. Stanley assured the mother with a rather convincing smile of generosity.
She lifted the dollar closer to Stanley's cold, red face, I want you to have it.
His heart dropped as he said with confidence, No, I would feel horrible, and he turned back towards the entrance of the Target, with the salt crunching underneath his cheap black boots.
Several steps went by and he heard the woman again, Then at least let me donate it!
Stanley turned around, stared for a moment at the persistent lady, and a smile overcame him. The mother followed him back to his red bucket and deposited the dollar.
Stanley watched the dollar fall into the bucket like an ungraceful feather and replied with an expected, Thank you for supporting the Salvation Army.
The mother walked back to her car and Stanley watched as she drove away. When she was out of sight he felt a flash back into reality and stood there just as he was before. The teenagers who were by the carts had left, and his red bucket felt subtlety less full than it was before. This coincidence did not faze Stanley at all, as he glanced at his junky imitation Rolex watch to find he was five minutes overtime. He gathered himself and his red bucket, and went inside the Target to take a seat at a nearby bench to warm up.
Within seconds an employee approached him, Sorry bud, gotta close in five minutes so you'll have to get outta here. He was a young guy, probably in his twenties. He had a scruffy blond beard and looked as though he hated his job. But despite it, he still put on a good front to tell poor Stanley Gates he had to leave. Stanley nodded, slowly got up to leave, and walked out the store, back to the familiar pavement where he had spent his night. He heard the echoing sound of that screeching bell in his head, as he walked out into the street towards his car.
A white '91 Toyota Corolla, it had been on its final mile about 50,000 miles ago. But the deteriorating vehicle still managed to get him around town even in the cold winter. He got inside on the frozen cotton seating that was ripped and torn, and searched his pocket for his key. He pulled out the key and slipped it into the ignition, took a deep breath of hope, turned the key, but the engine did not start.
Been a cold day, you just need to wake up, you'll start. Stanley murmured to himself in fear. He twisted the key again as the engine sputter out sounds of a small factory attempting to get started under his front hood. Please, dear god, not today, tears filled Stanley's eyes, as he turned the keys again and again. Every twist of the cheap metal in his hand caused his heart to sink lower and lower into his helpless soul as he saw himself hopelessly stranded in a target parking lot. The engine sounded like a huge crowd yelling in disgust at him while he was in the center of stadium wishing to die. He removed the key from the ignition, placed them in the plastic cup holder and lowered his head in shame as tears flowed out of his eyes falling onto his red Santa Claus pants.
The emotions inside Stanley's head had never been so extreme. His life was a bandage that was slowly and painfully being torn off his skin. It was a never ending pain that death almost seemed necessary to climax it. He had never done anything that was substantially wrong. But he still managed to be put into situations of sorrow that added up to an unstable volcano that was now erupting in his Toyota Corolla. He felt a rush of crisp cold air move in through the car vents, as he watched his tears drop from the eyes on his lowered head.
Stanley opened the door to his apartment, removed his coat, unpinned his nametag, and took off his uniform. It had been a late night for the waiters of Red Lobster, and tips did not make up for it. Stanley walked into the kitchen and made his acquaintance with the silence he was praying for the entire evening. He opened the scratched, aged, wooden cabinet to the left, under the sink and grasped the bottle. He travelled to the torn cotton couch and slumped down, placing the half empty handle on the coffee table. He stared at the bottle and made a connection with it. It was as if he was interrogating the bottle. Who was the bottle? Why did they come to visit Stanley? Does the bottle have friends?
Stanley shifted his weight forward and opened the cap to smell the fragrance of regret. It pierced every hair in his nose as the bittersweet aroma crawled around his skull and kissed his mind. Love. He sealed the bottle and sat back again to resume his interrogation. He looked so intensely at the liquid in the bottle as if it were going to perform miracles. His mind stormed quickly through thoughts of life, love, and sorrow.
Why did Stanley need the antidote? He didn't care to consider the circumstances. He quickly removed the only border between himself and the purity of forgetfulness, and touched his lips to the cold glass that kissed him back, feeling the momentum of the vodka fall. The euphoric liquid sent the usual burning sensation down past his tongue and into his throat. A wave of replenishment and purification sparkled off the insides of his mouth. Pain was ironically the perfect treatment for pain.
Why was pain such a great remedy for poor Stanley? He did not know. Perhaps it lied somewhere in his comfort of sorrow.
You have to be kidding me, his girlfriend's voice startled him from behind. She rushed into the bedroom and began loudly opening and closing drawers.
Stanley knew what was going on this time in his life. She was going to leave him after 3 years of dating. But he did not care. He had his best friend in hand, and she was only an obstacle to obtaining such a potion. He listened to the symphony. It began with the slow beat of slamming doors, then quick eighth notes of stomping feet, and, of course, the final crescendo of a smashing glass frame most likely containing a picture of the two. How wonderful it was to be able to express such anger in music. Truly it was art to Stanley. He took another sip of vodka, a particularly large one, overpowering his mouth with pain, such paradise in the stinging sensation on his tongue and cheeks as he swallowed the elixir.
Goodbye Stan, she was staring at him now, from the doorway of the bedroom. With tears coasting down her smooth face. The sight of this pain alerted Stanley. He was stunned and continued to look at the destruction he had caused being represented by a human face. How could such a drink cause so much terror to her life?
They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. Such beautiful eyes, blue like the ocean, and containing all of the wondrous beauty of creation. It was as if everything her eyes had ever seen that was gorgeous had been captured and lived inside her vision. She blinked, turned, and left.
That was the time Stanley Gates got to look inside his one true love's eyes. But he soon forgot their artistic beauty as he continued to drink and forget. Forget everything.
Stanley was getting off the junior high school bus and was making his way down the street back home. It was a particularly nice day out, and he couldn't help but keep his eyes on the green leaves of the trees next to the pure blue sky, and how it mixed in with such a beautiful cluster of white clouds. He saw in the distance that his brother was in the driveway next to a pile of duffle bags. Stanley walked quickly into the driveway to investigate what was going on.
His brother was 17 now and had taken a very troubled path, he was involved with drugs and hung out with a group of kids at school that parents looked down upon. He slowly declined in society ever since the vacation to the Grand Canyon, but his mother did nothing to stop it for an unknown reason.
Just as Stanley began to open his mouth, he heard the sound of a loud racing car blasting the Rolling Stones pull into the driveway and come to a screeching halt, several feet from Stanley. He stared at the vehicle and examined the people inside who appeared to be much older than his brother.
What's going on? What's with the duffel bags? asked Stanley.
School field trip, replied his brother in a rather unusual, more droned tone than normal.
Where?
Don't worry about it. Ask mom or something.
Alright see you later I guess, Stanley said, perplexed by the whole situation.
His brother tossed the bags into the trunk of his strange friend's car and opened the door to climb in for the field trip. He put one foot in, stopped, looked over at Stanley with a troubled looked and said something that Stanley never heard, or expected to hear from his brother, I love you.
So amazed and confused by his brother's statement, Stanley stood there staring. His brother slammed the door shut, and just as quickly as they drove in, the car disappeared down the street, leaving the trailing scent of cigarettes and gasoline. Thoughts racing, Stanley walked into the house and saw a folded piece of white paper on the counter labeled Mom.
Stanley never saw his brother again. His mother never spoke of him after that day.
8 year old Stanley Gates got out of the van at the Grand Canyon tourist site. He was looking forward to seeing the giant hole in the earth that he heard about from his parents. He followed his brother who was lead by his mother as they went along the path on the side of the cliff. Stanley's father, followed closely behind, observing the great wonder of the earth.
Stanley couldn't help but have his eyes fixated on the orange drop off of rocks that lead down to nowhere. Wondering how many miles it went, and the mysteries that where held within it. They arrived at the end of the path where a large circular, balcony type area, looked over the enormous canyon. Stanley and his brother went off to the fence to observe below.
How far down do you think it is? Stanley asked his brother in amazement as he stared down the cliff.
Enough to kill you, he said, in an attempt to scare Stanley.
I'm gonna ask mom.
Stanley left his brother and walked through the crowd to the back of the balcony where his mother stood looking out towards the sunset.
Mom, how far does-
Before Stanley could finish the final words to his question, the crowd at the Grand Canyon made such a horrifying sound; it was as if an entire choir had let out the same blood curling scream. Stanley jumped and turned around in order to find out what had happened. Immediately as his neck turned his ear was poisoned with the sound of his mother's scream of his father's name. Stanley had never heard such a terrifying sound in his life. He had believed his mother to be the strongest and fearless mother in the world and had never seen her do anything so much as cry.
The crowd rushed to the balcony around Stanley's petrified brother, who was standing there staring straight ahead in such a moment of complete concentration of ultimate terror. The din of the crowd grew to an incredible volume that it took over ones thoughts, or so it was for young Stanley.
The rest of the experience at the Grand Canyon vacation for Stanley has been completed erased from his memory. His brother was never the same after witnessing his father's last moments. His mother completely broke down and was hopelessly depressed for about a year, but then slowly realized she had to take care of the family and put her husband's death temporarily behind her. Or so it had seemed on the exterior, but she rarely slept from that day on, for at night her truly saddened soul was released only to herself.
Stanley sat with his head resting against the cold steering wheel. He was shaking from a mixture of the harsh cold weather and the emotional breakdown. Nothing had seemed to go right in his life. He rarely did anything wrong, he found joy in helping people, tried to do good acts, but never quite was rewarded in joy. He thought about Christmas Eve the next day. He would be spending it alone. Most likely he would bundle up in as many clothes as possible and take a several hour walk. To anywhere, any place to escape the setting where he has already experienced torment and misery. He would observe the scenery around him. Think about life. Consider new ideas. Possible futures. He would laugh for no reason to himself. Try to find a reason to smile. Then, he would go home, lie down on his couch, and stare at the ceiling while blankness fueled his mind to explore his deep depression.
A sudden knock on his car window startled him. Through the foggy window he saw the figure of a person. He opened his door.
Something wrong? the man outside his car asked, obviously noticing the tears on Stanley's face.
Wiping the tears he replied, Ah, my car won't start long day.
I've been there; let me jump it for you.
Thank you so much, Stanley released a breath that with it carried some relief.
The man got the jumper cables out of his car, hooked up the two cars, and successfully got Stanley's car running. They began to talk, Stanley trusted the man instantly. He told him all about his life, and what happened that night. He told him of his father's suicide at the Grand Canyon, how his brother had left his family when he was in junior high, and how his drinking problem that caused his girlfriend to leave him. They became good friends, exchanged contact information, and planned to talk again in the future.
Well, listen, I can't thank you enough for helping with my car, Stanley thanked the mysterious saint.
Merry Christmas, he responded with a smile.
Stanley returned the wish and shook his hand, as he walked across the familiar crunching of the salt. He opened his door and was stopped.
Hey, the man directed towards Stanley.
Yeah?
The man stared at him for a while, and then said, You are one of the most fortunate men on earth.
Stanley stared at him in awe, was this crazy man listening to any of his stories?
I have been blessed my entire life with luck. I never have had trouble getting by. And tonight I realized by listening to your stories, that it isn't luck at all. I am unlucky. You will die a fulfilled life who has overcome so many complex tragedies, and I will die with regret. Never give up on yourself, you would be surprised to know that most people on Earth don't really know it, but envy your life.
Stanley stood there and watched the man get in his car and drive away. He drove home in silence, went to his couch, stared at his broken television, and pondered the man's words until morning. It was the greatest Christmas he had ever had.
Stanley Gates never had another sip of alcohol that day, he found true love in another woman, and they had a family. He had no regrets when he died at age 81.