Serenading Stanley (4 page)

This time it was Roger’s turn to blush, which was the
second
most beautiful thing Stanley had ever seen in his life. “This old perv told you about me, huh? Well, yes, I’m a nurse. Have been for about, ooooh, three weeks now. It still embarrasses me to be called one. That’s how new I am at the job.”

“N-nothing to be embarrassed about,” Stanley said, forcing himself to remain calmly conversational. When he was nervous, he tended to either get tongue-tied or babble like a brook. At the moment, he was trying not to do either. What he was
trying
to do was make a good impression. Not because it would get him anywhere with this gorgeous specimen of manhood, but because it seemed like the neighborly thing to do. “It’s a wonderful profession, Roger. Nurses are the backbone of modern medicine. Ask any doctor worth his salt, and he’ll tell you the same.”

“Wow,” Roger said. “You sound like my old instructor.”

Now it was Stanley’s turn to blush. “My dad was a nurse.”

Roger smiled very sweetly, eyeing Stanley even closer. “Ah. And that would explain your sincerity.” He applied a little more pressure to the handshake he was still sharing with Stanley, and just the friction of their two hands rubbing together made them both redden a little more. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Stanley.”

“You too.” Stanley beamed. They gently released each other’s hand, although a bystander observing this little interaction might have seen that neither of them really wanted to.

They were quickly dragged back to reality when Arthur farted. It sounded somewhat akin to the atonal blast of a battered trumpet.

“Hmm,” Roger said. “B-flat. Wonder what that means.”

Stanley grinned. “His heart’s working again?”

Roger blessed Stanley with a lopsided grin. “Well,
something’s
working. I’m not sure the heart is directly linked to the, um, tailpipe. I’m a nurse, not a mechanic. Still, it’s a hopeful sign. Let’s see if we can get him on his feet. I’d rather not give him mouth to mouth if I don’t have to. That lipstick is kind of a turnoff. I prefer peach.”

“Not to mention the cigar breath,” Stanley said.

And Roger nodded. “No shit.”

Stanley laughed.

Roger stopped what he was doing long enough to savor Stanley’s laugh. He seemed to savor it a great deal. He ran one of his strong brown hands across his buzz-cut hair, all the while just staring at Stanley’s smile. A look of what can only be described as intrigue spread across his face.

“Stanley what?” he asked out of the blue, his voice hushed, contemplative.

Stanley fought the urge to stutter beneath the heat of those stunning green eyes. Oddly enough, he succeeded fairly well. “Stanley Sternbaum.”

Roger reached out and gave Stanley’s cheek a gentle pat, which was about a thousand times gentler than the one he’d given Arthur and which stunned Stanley all the way down to his toes.

“You have a wonderful laugh, Stanley Sternbaum. I hope I’ll get to spend some time with it.”

Stanley didn’t know what to say to that, but he hoped to God his face wasn’t getting as red as it
felt
like it was getting. Hoping to drain some of the blood out of it, he tore his eyes away from Roger and concentrated all his attention on Arthur. Arthur was pretty straightforward. There was nothing threatening about Arthur. Stanley could handle Arthur. Roger, on the other hand, was an enigma. Enigmas were like beautiful people to Stanley. They made him nervous. Consequently, being beautiful
and
an enigma, Roger scared him shitless. Stanley wasn’t sure he could handle Roger at all.

Suddenly, Stanley couldn’t
force
himself to look at Roger’s face. He didn’t have the strength.
Jesus,
Stanley thought.
What a wuss I am.

Roger seemed to suddenly remember their patient. He looked down at Arthur and was surprised to see the man looking up at them both with a dreamy smile on his pudgy, stubbly, ash-sprinkled, lipstick-smeared face. Arthur studied Roger for the longest time before turning his full attention to Stanley.

Arthur didn’t seem to be too put out about finding himself flat on his back on the sixth-floor landing. He simply cleared his throat with a gentle rumble, like a waking volcano, to make sure his voice still worked, and said very politely, “So, young man. Do you want the apartment?”

Stanley thought about it for approximately two and a half seconds before answering, “Sure. Why not.”

“Goody!” Arthur and Roger sang out in unison.

M
OVING
in was a fairly simple procedure. Stanley had his clothes, he had his books, and he had his computer. Since it all fit nicely into his little Honda Civic, which his father had bought him just before he died, Stanley only had to make one trip between his mother’s condo and the Belladonna Arms. And that was a blessing indeed. The less he had to confront his mother, the better.

He had left the woman silently seething in the breakfast nook of her La Jolla condo as she guzzled coffee and sucked at one cigarette after another until the condo reeked to high heaven—and two or three miles of the La Jolla coastline probably reeked along with it. The condo was practically unnavigable due to the purple haze of carcinogens hanging in the air. Before Stanley carted the last box out the door, his mother had already threatened to drop him from her will, set fire to his car, exercise a drug intervention because he
must
be taking
something,
and have him committed to an asylum for the criminally stupid if he didn’t change his mind
right now
about moving out. She had even tried tears, which weren’t hard to conjure with all the smoke in the air, but Stanley remained stoic. Besides, he’d seen those crocodile tears before. She dragged them out about twice a year. Their efficacy had long been reduced to an eye roll and a “Jesus, Mom, the Oscars are
over
.”

Stanley supposed his mother was suffering the initial pangs of a horrendous case of empty nest syndrome. Even so, it was about time her little chickie flew the coop. Stanley was twenty-two years old for Christ’s sake. This move away from home was long overdue. Now his mother could use his old room to store her booze and Marlboros. It would free up cupboard space for
other
staples, such as
more
booze and
more
Marlboros.

Stanley had been a student his entire life. Was
still
a student, in fact, and would be until he finished his master’s degree at Beaumont University. Already he was almost giddy with excitement at embarking on this solo adventure. He was about to be on his own for the very first time in his life,
with his very own apartment
. What young man wouldn’t be giddy about that?

As Stanley and his last box made its way out the front door, he said, “Bye, Ma,” but his mother remained as silent as a glacier. Shaking his head, Stanley gently closed the door between them.

On the way to his new digs, Stanley stopped at the post office to drop off a change of address form because of all the letters of introduction he had sent out to various museums and the dozen or so established archaeologists he had heard might be seeking interns sometime in the not too distant future. He hoped to land himself a slot fairly quickly after he earned his master’s. He didn’t want any possible responses to those queries lost in the mail. His mother was being such a bitch, if they came to the condo, she’d probably stuff them down the toilet out of spite.

At the apartment, it took Stanley exactly forty-five minutes to unload the car and lug everything up six flights of stairs. Without Arthur hanging on his belt like an anchor, the stairs didn’t seem bad at all. Stanley figured he’d get used to them in no time.

On his last trip up the stairs with a box of books in his arms, he spotted a young man peeking down the stairwell at him from above. Stanley straightened his glasses and took a good look at him. The man wore a pocket protector with several pens poking out of it in his shirt pocket, which was about all Stanley could see as he leaned over the railing above Stanley’s head. Although he did notice a couple of really big ears. The guy was kind of cute, though, in spite of the ears. Since he couldn’t wave, Stanley simply called out, “Hi! Moving in! Hope I’m not making too much noise!”

To his surprise, the man scurried off as if Stanley had lobbed a cannonball at him.

“Well, huh!” Stanley said, vaguely offended, then forgot about the man completely.

Stanley had everything in place in his new apartment before his heart quieted down from lugging that last box of books up the stairs. Since the place was furnished, getting settled was a breeze. The furniture was well used but serviceable. Actually, Stanley was mostly psyched about the place not reeking of cigarette smoke. That was a blessing he hadn’t anticipated.

In the living room, he had a lumpy sofa, a coffee table with a few horrific scratches dug into it as if by a runaway Rototiller, a bookcase just big enough to hold all his books, and a desk in the corner for his computer. What more could he possibly need?

The bedroom was tiny, but Stanley didn’t mind. There was a double bed and chest of drawers and a chair with a floor lamp beside it standing in the corner. The closet was small but big enough for Stanley’s needs. He didn’t have that many clothes to begin with, and most of those he never hung up anyway.

The bathroom had a small window that overlooked the Coronado Bridge in the distance and a shower stall in need of a curtain. He’d run to the store later and buy one.

The kitchen was miniscule. Just big enough for a fridge, a stove, and a kitchen table with three chairs. One chair was missing.

Back in the living room, Stanley gravitated to the wide window beside the couch, which looked out on the eucalyptus tree outside. Wow! He had a view of a tree! How great was that? Arthur had spoken the truth when he’d told Stanley the butter-yellow curtains Arthur had installed were darling. They were darling indeed. Nice and cheerful.

Stanley wangled the windows all the way open, which wasn’t easy since they were old and painted shut, but when he finally got them up as far as they would go, he felt the tiniest breath of fresh air creep into the unit. The new curtains barely stirred—that’s how weak the breeze was—but Stanley figured it wouldn’t always be like that. The weather would cool off sooner or later. Plus, when he was buying a shower curtain, he would also pick up an electric fan. That would help. And towels. He needed towels. And soap. And sheets and a pillow. And maybe a small microwave oven. Jesus, he needed a
lot.

Digging through the empty cupboards in the kitchen, he realized he would need several other things besides groceries for his culinary adventures. First off, paper plates, plastic silverware, paper cups, and paper napkins. No point spending the rest of his life washing dishes. Oh, and maybe a skillet. He supposed he could glom the skillet off his mother, but he thought it best to stay away from her for a while. The woman could be maniacal when she was on a tear. The name of vengeance was not woman, as some writer once said. The name of vengeance was Lola Francesca Sternbaum. And Stanley had spent his whole life trying to stay out of her line of fire.

With all his belongings in place, Stanley decided to shower and cool off. He didn’t have any soap, but there was an old bottle of Ivory Liquid sitting on the kitchen sink. He’d use that. And he didn’t have a towel, but an old T-shirt would work just as well.

Later, when he was all cleaned up, he would walk over to the university and see if they had posted the class schedules yet. The semester was starting in a couple of weeks, and Stanley was eager to get underway. After he checked out the school, he’d go shopping.

Funny. Stanley had the strangest sensation his life was just beginning.

With a smile on his face at the prospect, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into his very own shower for the very first time.

F
EELING
newly invigorated and ready for anything, Stanley stepped
out
of his very own shower for the very first time. Since he didn’t have a shower curtain, he had actually sat in the tub and taken a
regular
bath, but that was beside the point. Dripping wet, he grabbed up the Britney Spears T-shirt he had elected to serve as a towel, since it was still new enough to have some absorbency left. Rubbing his hair dry with Britney’s face, he was about to commence humming from sheer youthful exuberance when a sound in the apartment made him freeze. It was a clicking sound.

Click.
Then a bunch more.
Click click click click click
.

Startled, Stanley tilted his head to the side and listened harder. Over the thumping of his suddenly galloping heart, he now heard the sound of heavy breathing. That startled him even more than the clicking. Every horror movie he’d ever seen passed before his eyes.

And dammit, here his life was just beginning too!

Furious and terrified all at the same time, Stanley threw himself naked through the bathroom door with the only weapon he could find on the spur of the moment held high above his head—the bottle of Ivory Liquid. And
it
was half-empty.

Woefully unarmed and knowing it, he was almost relieved to come face to face with—nothing! The living room was empty. Then he heard the heavy breathing coming from the kitchen. And smoke. He smelled smoke. My God, the apartment was on fire!

Still naked and still dripping wet and still holding a bottle of Ivory Liquid over his head like a club, he tore into the kitchen only to find—his mother! She was standing by the kitchen sink, all doubled over, gasping for air. She had a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. Smoke enveloped her head like a cloud hovering over the tip of Mount Fuji. The clicking sound he had heard was the sound of her cigarette lighter, he now realized. He should have known. He’d been listening to that damn clicking sound his entire life. In fact, she was still holding the lighter in her trembling fingers. Obviously those six flights of stairs had taken their toll on her.