The Shoeless Principal
Page 7/8

“Sure,” I said. “I get it, Stan.”
“My Uncle Jack drove to the Maine clinic the night of my undoing and slapped my face hard once, which stopped my weeping fits. Sure, therapy, Depakote, Geodon, and Cymbalta were essential, as well, but Uncle Jack’s strong palm brought me back in one way.”
“Everything you’re sharing with me here is pure gold, Stan,” I said. “Stellar material that will attract the interest of many creative people. These tales should be heard by thousands, or seen on movie screens around the country, or read in a best-selling book, or staged on some big-ass Broadway Theatre.”
“If only they were all open for business,” Sheila said.
“I know I signed my life away, guys,” Stan said. “Bender Institute paid me well. I’m fine with what I got in the transaction - I’m complicit in it, I know.”
“But it’s your goddamned life story, Stan,” I said. “Truth that needs to be aired, released into the atmosphere for appreciation and discussion.” 
“No, no, I don’t need any of that stuff,” Stanley said. “I was on the Today Show and had been fawned over for my empathic work with autistic teens – I won some awards, received various accolades before my flip out. But now I only want to do my work in the quiet of the classroom here in Middlesex County, Connecticut.”
“Right,” I said. 
“Give me a bunch of special need kids, a spot to teach them and I’m good, I’m solid. No need to bring cameras or lights or any recorders with you. We’ll call it even. Might sound anti-climactic, but that’s what I’m all about now, taking long walks along the Connecticut River for fun, and do my teaching with my kids.”
By then I’d finished my steak, and the sweet potatoes. Sheila and Stan’s dining room had lots of soft light, and several original watercolors by Sheila placed throughout the house, which were quite good - showing a comely family on a Rhode Island beach. Gorgeous orangey-purple sunshine falling on a matriarch in a yellow swimsuit reading the latest thing, a redheaded daughter patiently building a sandcastle with her younger, developmentally disabled brother. Off to the side sat the lifeguard chair and a young, college-age woman in her red suit, twirling her whistle around her tanned fingers. 
I excused myself to use the bathroom and felt my head buzzing with all the Scotch I’d imbibed. I’d been there for just under two hours, so I used the toilet, and washed and dried my hands, and stepped back into the foyer. A glowing sapphire and indigo anchor light was attached to the wall near the stairs, and for no particular reason, I reached out and touched it. 
“I like this,” I said. “Whatever it is, very tactile, arresting, and it jumped out at me, I had to touch it.”
“My dad felt at home on the sea,” Stan said. “We listened to lots of tunes on his Boston Whaler, you know? Gordon Lightfoot, Jim Croce, Jimmy Buffett Van Morrison, Christy Moore, Emmylou Harris and Mark Knopfler. Dad enjoyed the ocean, and fishing, and that damn anchor. Sheila thinks it’s heinous and tacky, but my dad loved it, so we keep it around the place, in remembrance, I guess.”
“Makes sense.”
“Are you up for something cold and sweet?” Stan asked.
“Sure,” I said, so Stan offered me more scotch, along with a bowl filled with two generous scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream with a spoon.