The Shoeless Principal
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His girlfriend, Sheila, was taking off her bandages to show me her head wound that a falling cherry-red Wonder Woman mug had caused. There was something funny written along the side of the cup she was saying, “I’m not saying I’m Wonder Woman - I’m just saying no one has ever seen us together in the same room.”
“Ah,” I said. 
“Sort of cute, right?” Sheila asked, and I nodded.
“Sheila and I joke that I’m a problem drinker because I have water in four mugs in my upstairs office,” Stan said. “I carried empty ones to the kitchen, when I tripped on our cat, Scargo, who has the worse breath in America.”
“That’s a tough nut,” I said. “Do they make Scope for felines?” 
“Some version of it, I’m sure,” Stan said. “But the red mug struck Sheila’s skull.”
“Jesus,” I said. 
“It scared the crap out of me,” Stan said, “and knocked Sheila out cold. I picked her up and rushed her to the Urgent Care, and the police there gave me funny looks the entire night.”
“Frightening,” I said. 
“They even shaved part of my head,” Sheila said, showing her skull off to me. “But who knows? Perhaps Stan has unresolved, homicidal agita stuck inside him?”
“I’ll be on Dateline soon,” Stan said. “Known for my coffee mug-style murders.”
Sheila gave me a warm blanket; ‘You must be freezing your ass off, huh, Ed?’
“Just about,” I said. “Plus, I should probably be leaving…”
“Nope, no way,” Stan said, pointing the meat tongs at me. “You gotta wait for steak and more scotch, that’s why I threw the extra beef on the grill for you, my friend. Plus, I’m just getting warmed up with my own real-life tales, I got numerous ones.”
“Is that right?” I asked.
“Oh, sure,” he said, before the three of us drank a quick toast to vaccines, to the possibility of herd immunity, and to exceptional health for everyone, as Stan continued, unabated, for at least another hour. 
“We’ll call this one, ‘The Shoeless Principal.’”
“I’m all ears,” I said. 
We moved inside. Despite their spacious living room with a sofa, love seat, and comfortable armchairs, we sat in the dining room, chatting away, legs stretched out under their sturdy wooden table. The dining room was clearly the heart of this home. Rusty was at my feet, sniffing my sneakers, and Scargo was relaxing on top of the television across the room, exhaling his toxic breath.
I noticed Stan had a great touch with a yarn - the cadence and rhythm of his Boston accent, and timbre of his voice was pleasant, benign. He was explaining, “my life-mentor, Ellis, reminds me of a charismatic football coach from a century ago mixed with a modern-day oracle—all fervor, focus, and patience with inspiring, crystal-clear insight. He oozes a vitality and warmth that’s contagious. I feel I can accomplish anything with him beside me.”
“Sounds more like a talented shrink,” I said. 
“Maybe so,” Stanley said. “But I prefer the term, life-mentor.”
“Fair enough,” I said.