An American Anger Story

By Paul Morris

An American Anger Story explores Stan, an 18 year old still growing up in the poor part of town, and the people that interact with him.  Circumstance and a charitable interest both cause Mr. Jackson, an upper class man living just a few miles away, to befriend Stan.  Suspense occurs initially regarding Mr. Jackson's intentions, a suspense that then spills into Stan's reactions.  Their relationship slowly grows until Stan begins requiring and asking for help.  Stan's perception of Mr. Jackson's rationale for refusing this help leads to an almost inevitable conclusion.  Though logical, the events surrounding this conclusion are difficult to predict.

 

There have been plenty of multicultural societies with diversity similar to the modern day United States.  But An American Anger Story describes the explosive nature of what makes ours so unique.  In Stan, a young mixed-race man from Missouri, we see promise and potential.  In Mr. Jackson, his older wealthy "friend" we see how a similar version of the promise sometimes gets fulfilled.  And in their unusual connection we observe why these relationships are so frustratingly impossible to achieve.  "Why can't we be friends?" they ask.  There is certainly this pervasive sense that of course they can't.  But why?  An American Anger Story offers a terrifying explanation with its implications for the tension, crime, and violence of modern America.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Morris
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223753261

Book preview

Chapter One

1986

Two kids sat on a crowded tenement’s front step in a midtown Kansas City neighborhood.  One passed a small box to the other.

Here ya go baby.  Hurry up'n opin it.  It was Elaine's sixteenth birthday.  Stan sat grinning with impatience, blinking his wide brown eyes, still staring at Elaine's nearly flawless face.  From somewhere close by came the cadence of glass breaking, rising for just a moment above the background din of voices and traffic.  Every now and then too a door would slam or a dog would bark or a persistent bird’s chirp could be heard.  He urged her on.

G'head aulready.  Watcha waitin fer?  A formal invitation?

I'm openin' it.  Calm down, now. The only movement in his otherwise still body was Stan's finger tapping the top of a straw.

Elaine paused.  She was often pausing, happily, as if to make the happiness last that much longer.  This just pissed Stan off, so she grasped at her boyfriend, clutching him in a playful embrace.  As usual, the emotions she felt were all distinctly discernible to Stan now.  There was humor at Stan's excitement, love for the boy himself, and that general expression she always seemed to wear that nothing in the world could ever, ever go wrong.

Her hesitation continued.  Elaine laughed.

Quit fuckin round! hissed Stan, though mostly playing, the words forced their way through clenched teeth.  Open it.

She wouldn't stop.  Elaine thrummed her hand across the small box's plain blue wrapping as she mimicked a realistic ripping noise.

Gawddammit, I really... he paused for emphasis, ... really hate it when you try ta piss me off.

Ah, you love ta be pissed off, 'n you know it.

Why would I love that?

I don’t know.  There’s no need for it.  Everything’ll be alright.

That’s easy for you ta say.

Gettin’ mad just makes things worse anyway.

If only one person’s gettin mad, yeah.

She rolled her eyes, so that Stan would interpret, in them that this topic was done.

Juss open thuh damn thang.  Hell, iss nothing anyway.  All you're doin' is building the suspense fer nuttin, like that, uh, whass his name... Al Capone, I think, when Geraldo opened his ol' tomb.

I don't think they opened his tomb.  I think it was more like a vault.  Or a safe.  Sum'n like that anyway.

Whatever.  I didn't watch it,  but I heard they didn't find anything.  Zilch.  Anyway, juss open the present before I decide ta take it back.

It was time.  Elaine quickly separated the gift from its wrapping and discovered a rectangular, white cardboard box.  She slipped that off to find a plain, light black, almost browned, jewelry box.  A slight fuzz gave it the appearance of a rotting peach.  Giggling slightly, she looked up at Stan, and asked him what was in the ugly box.

An angry expression was Stan's only reply.

Elaine laughed again as she finally revealed Stan’s present.  Inside was a thin, fake gold chain that held a small heart shaped pendant.  The thing glittered up at her, winking the sun's shine toward her receptive, bright green eyes.  The necklace was small and plain and insignificant, and Elaine loved it.

Stan, still watching her carefully, needed both hands to lift a half empty Big Gulp.  As he studied the reaction on his girlfriend's face he took a long drink.  It was a warm day for early May.  Though not a summer heat, the warmth was plenty humid enough to parch Stan.

Well?  Tha thing cost me...  Squealing tires from down the street interrupted him.  After a moment, he continued. It cost me damn near fi'teen dollars, and you damn well better be able ta appreciate how much that kinda money means ta someone like me.

I love it, Stan.  I love it.  She paused, as if inhaling the moment.  Anyway, you're not supposed ta tell me how much it cost. Elaine giggled easily as she put the necklace around her thin neck.  Stan noticed, fringed now in the fake gold, a hickey that he pleasantly remembered causing the night before.

Hey bitch, joked Stan.  You gonna buy me another drink since I spent all my money on your birthday present, and plus, I'm thirsty as hell?

Yeah.  Less head on down there, I guess.  And I do love your present.  That was really nice of you.

Uh-huh.

No fooling.  I really appreciate it, Stan.

Uh-huh.

They began to walk, their nearest two hands interlocking while Stan used the corner of his eye to admire his prize.  Elaine was very pretty, full figured for having just today turned sixteen, and for being a white girl.  The context of the brown and aging facades of these buildings, among the most dilapidated of Kansas City 's east-central ghettos, highlighted the pleasure he felt at looking at Elaine's intense attractiveness, like finding a diamond in a garbage dump, a jewel that somehow was his despite the obvious questions surrounding her being here in the first place.  At every point that something could have gone wrong for Elaine, nature’s shots had gone astray.  The face, her eyes, the soft smoothness of her legs, her diminutive arms, slender fingers, brightly colored, often chipped nail polish, the hump of her profiled and alluring, allusive ass, her small ears, plump lips, perfectly round chin - Stan soaked in every inch.

He swallowed and guiltily looked past the girl, before noticing then in Elaine's background a cackling old black woman stooping to pick up something reflecting silver like lost change.  Lucky her.  Stan then swept his gaze across the other direction, away from Elaine, toward a familiar, ugly dog the hood had named Shitz, currently wobbling toward them.  It managed three dull barks, in turn inciting strings of barks from two other nearby dogs, before it bored and turned away.  Stan’s shifting scrutiny caught Elaine's eyes fixed happily upon him.

You're being awful quiet, she said.

Yep.

She laughed.  She was always laughing.  And then she always had something to say about it, like Laughter's the best medicine, or Smiling is contagious.  This time she instead said, Why?  And very blithely, as if she never could be mad, Oh, dammit, Stan; Why?  I didn't make the statement just ta, you know, shoot the breeze.  I was asking a question.  Why are you being so quiet, baby?

Oh...

They were still for a second, Elaine now impatiently waiting, and after a moment Stan finally laughed himself.  Juss relaxing and enjoying the bee-u-tiful comfort of my bee-u-tiful girl.  You know how tiz.

Stan looked again at her eyes.  They were the size of half dollars, huge and dark green, Elaine's most compelling feature, like no eyes he'd ever before seen. Elaine had mentioned once that she had some Native American Indian ancestors, either her grandparents or great grandparents - he couldn't remember exactly which - but the evidence of that sparse lineage still somehow existed in her slightly darkened features.

Quit staring at me!

Sorry, he answered before guiltily turned away.  I was just kinda zonin.

Elaine’s interruption came as the two continued walking, still hand in hand, at about halfway between their destined 7-11 on the corner of Cherry and 19th street and Stan's front yard, the point from which they had started out from.  A young woman screamed at another about her fucking asshole boyfriend, and the bunch uh shit, she was tired of taking from him.  She went on and on, but her redundancy allowed Stan to soon tune her out.  They'd been walking for about ten minutes of a journey that usually took fifteen or twenty depending upon how fast they were going.  What’s wrong with that Shitz dog anyway?

Stan stopped and looked at her as if she'd just asked him his opinion on what it is exactly that gives ketchup it’s tomato-ey taste - a question she actually had recently asked.  Elaine laughed, her perpetual good mood now starting to pick at Stan's nerves.  Well, she began, defending her question, Like does he have some disease, or is it just mange...

The dog iz juss like that.  Juss that’s the way it’s always been.

She studied his face for a moment; then began, Well...

Elaine quickly leaned in on Stan and forced his lips to melt warmly over hers.  On the four lane street behind them, one car with a seriously impaired muffler roared one way, passing another similarly handicapped car now going the other way.  Stan tried to slip Elaine some tongue, but as the worm-like bulk of it slipped across her mouth's threshold, she pulled back.  Stan frowned, a happy frown.  She smiled again as if remembering how much of this life of hers yet remained.

They continued their walk toward the convenience store, finally within sight of its familiar green and red when the growling sound of a well known car approached from behind.  Driving an aged, but near mint conditioned black Buick, was Elaine's often ostentatious older brother Kevin.  Stan actually liked Kevin.

Say, Stan turned to Elaine. What happened to your brother's other car?

Elaine hadn't been paying any attention.  She had quickly made her way over to the open window of Kevin's passenger side, where she leaned in.  Stan couldn't hear what the two were talking about.  A moment later Elaine returned.

C’mon Stan.

What for? Where ya goin'?

My dad's home.  Attempting to feign mischief, Elaine's eyebrows seemed attached to marionette strings being pulled up and down exactly three times.  And he's got birthday presents.

He usually managed to find some excuse when Elaine offered her family's hospitality, but this time there seemed no escape.  Stan hopped into the Buick's back seat, and in fifteen minutes the three were at Elaine's large, beautiful home.

Here Stan renewed an earlier disgusted sort of amazement.  There was a pool in the front yard.  A pool, not for swimming, but with little statues, and flowers growing from beyond extravagantly large lily pads.  There were three floors.  Each one, according to Stan's calculations, had at least several rooms.  His memory of this house, having been there two times before, converged with this new sight, and reminded Stan how completely different were the lives of people who didn't really live very far away.

Elaine, blurted Stan, pulling on the girl's sleeve as she followed Kevin up the long, spiralling set of steps which led to the front door.

Yeah?  What is it Stan?  she jubilantly returned.  I got presents waiting for me, you know.

I wuz juss gonna ax why you got such a huge house for.  I mean, you only got, what... he thought for a second, and went on, ...four people in your family.  There must be a hundred rooms in tha house!

It ain't that big, Stan.  C'mon!  She tugged on his jacket with her young, pink hands.  Elaine was even happier than usual, and now Stan couldn't help but to laugh at her joy.

Whatchew expeckin' ta git?

She stopped halfway up the steps, turning around.  She looked to all sides as if there really was a chance of someone else being close enough to hear her.  It's my sixteenth birthday, she hinted, motioning with her hand, hoping to motivate quicker movement from Stan.

You gonna git a car? Stan asked, a little loudly for Elaine who responded immediately with a Shhh, while putting her finger to her full lips.  Her smile had grown bigger than her eyes.  Maybe.  It is my sixteenth birthday.  Now, c'mon already. At the top, where double-hinged swinging doors were approached from a distance by the bulking mass of marbled steps, stood Elaine's father.  He wore a pale yellow sleeveless sweater, over a pale pink button-down shirt.

C’mon in son.  Whatcha waiting for?  An earthquake to come along and knock you in?  Not gonna happen in this part of the country, I’ll tell you that.

Slowly, Stan walked in, having already been beaten by Elaine by such a wide margin that she managed to disappear before Stan made it past her father.  Kevin was gone also, Stan noticed after entering.  Being alone with this man was in no way Stan’s preferred situation.  He attempted to casually glance around a foyer that was about the same size as an entire house in Stan’s neighborhood.  Everything was spotless.  There was none of the clutter of miscellaneous things not put away, or various black dots framed by various hairs on the floor, or stains on the walls and lights.  There was no stench, nor even a slightly lingering smell mixed from other faded smells, and not a single thing seemed broken.

So how are you Stan?  He looked around.  Where in the world did she run off to so fast?

I think she said she had to go to the bathroom.

I see.  Well... How've you been?  It's been quite some time.  They'd met once before, perhaps six or eight weeks earlier.

I've been pretty good.

Are you still doing well in school?  You were a great student last I remember.

Yeah.  I'm doing all right.

Good!

Stan looked around casually, hoping Elaine would hurry up.  You know, uhm, I, uhm...man, I wuz gonna say something but forgot.

I’ll be right here when you remember.  He was quiet for a moment, before starting up again.  This is a very old house, Stan, the older man suddenly beamed.  You wouldn't believe it at all.  Go ahead and guess how old it is.

Naw, man...

Oh, go ahead!

The pressure Stan suddenly felt began in his chest and quickly spread to his stomach.  I'd say uh... ninety years old.

Mr. Jackson's smile disappeared.  His countenance gave every indication that Stan's guess was incredibly right on the nose.

Naw...

Stan, oh! No!  Mr. Jackson laughed at himself, enough to make some small spit fly.  No, no it's not quite that old.  While straightening, Mr. Jackson continued, It was built in 1929 if you can believe that.  It was started before the great crash, and finished about a month into this country's depression.  The owner was the mayor of Kansas City himself.  He was a boss, but not Pendergrast.  Second in command I believe.  At that time the people not affected by the depression were politicians and the people who were already out living on the streets.  And they just loved to hear the snap, cr...

A pause was forced into Mr. Jackson's story here as Elaine returned to the scene.  It was like all of Stan’s emotions reset.  Her return seared an incredibly coveted imprint that could only be reinforced by her actual presence, setting her apart from every other pretty girl.  She continued into the room exploding, a mass of vibrant energy, gliding upon bursts of words and gestures of impatience straight from the setting of some southern romance.

What’s going on?  What are you telling him, Dad?  She walked over, Mr. Jackson bent down, and she kissed him on the cheek.  Elaine then directed her next question toward some invisible audience:  What did he say?  And then directly to Stan, she continued,  Is he asking you a bunch of questions, or did he try and give you some advice like he always does?  I mean to tell you, Stan, that's all this man ever does... ask questions and gives advice.  She looked from Stan to Dad and then, from Dad to Stan.  He tells stories sometimes too.  That’s all he ever does.  Tells stories, asks questions, and gives advice, she repeated, trying to spread her joy through the mere use of expression. That's all he ever does.

And what's wrong with that, little girl?

Nothing. she giggled.

Say.  What took you so long? Stan asked.

Nothing.

Stan thought with annoyance, It was definitely something. While weighing alternatives for extending the conversation, he then noticed Mr. Jackson strolling in a half casual manner behind his daughter, not caring at all to hide the fact that he was up to something sneaky.  And sure enough, he was.  His hand stretched up towards Elaine's hair, attacking with a clumsy swiftness that beautiful hairdo which Elaine had earlier advertised as taking two hours every morning to achieve, an assertion Stan could not doubt.

Dad!  Sure, the hand had achieved its target, but it seemed to come back worse than the hair itself.  The hair was stiff with hairspray, and if Stan's perception was any indication, it was no different than before.

My hair!

Fuck your stinkin' hair! Stan thought, now looking at the walls of the room sprayed with paintings, insert surrounded vases, the piano, the gilded mirrors, and the CD sound system with speakers larger than Stan himself.  The ceiling also contained decoration - a lavish chandelier set amongst swirls of intentionally faint paint.  Even the floor held its own, with several luxurious rugs and carpets coloring the shiny wooden floor with gaudy swirls and oriental eddies.  This room had to be worth more than all the houses on Stan's block together.  He tried to remember what it was that Elaine's dad did for a living.  Something to do with real estate or investing.

My hair takes forever!  Dad!  You don't understand the seriousness of what you've done.  Her hands were on top of her head.  Mr. Jackson was smiling, looking everywhere except at anyone, as if he'd done something devious.  Elaine's head was aimed nose first toward a large mirror occupying almost half of one large wall.  Again, Dad!

Forgit yo' stupid hair, Elaine! Stan snapped, immediately cringing at his harsh self.  Elaine's face whipped back to give Stan a glance not quite the same as the one Stan had expected.  The look showed disgusted humor, as though someone had belched loudly.

Excuuse me!  She said, turning back again to mold one particularly stubborn piece of hair.  Fortunately it was nearly impossible to piss that girl off.  Stan quickly and sincerely apologized for his outburst.

So Stan.  How old are you now?  Mr.  Jackson put his arm around Stan's shoulder.  Stan was surprisingly glad to receive the gesture.

Fifteen.

Fifteen huh?  What do you want to do with your life?

Daddy!  Elaine squealed.  Quit being so nosy.

Mr. Jackson ignored his daughter.  Do you like school?

Yeah, alright I spose.

I mean, are you planning on going to college?  Do you like school enough that you'll want to continue with it for at least four more years?

Yeah, I defin'ely wanna go ta college.

Stan is smart, said Elaine coming back from her job at the mirror.

Well...

You was bragging ta me, Stan, on it.  And if you can brag to me, you kin go ahead and brag to my family.

I wuz juss kiddin' `round Elaine, man, Stan slowly wagged a sheepish smile while avoiding any eye contact.

So he's smart huh?  Mr. Jackson smiled, pleased.  He's gonna make a lot of money someday?

Daddy, Stan here is in nothing but advanced classes at school.  Next year, he's gonna be bussed out to that magnet school - the one specifically for the smartest people in the city.  What's the name of that?  She asked herself before looking at Stan, hoping he would provide a quicker answer.

Lincoln.

When was the last time you made a grade lower than B in anything at school?  Elaine went on.  And don't be a shy guy.  Be proud of your accomplishments.  There were times, such as this moment, that Stan genuinely wished that this was his own family.

I made a couple of B’s last year.  I made a few in eighth grade, but that was so long ago...

Everything else A's, huh?  Like I was saying, Stan is practically a genius.  Elaine poked Stan lightly in the ribs.

Ain't nothing to it, really.

That's really quite impressive Stan, said Mr. Jackson.  He looked around casually.  Where is Kevin?  he asked.  I'm about ready to give you your presents.

Kevin walked in then, as if on cue.  Kevin was a year or two older than Elaine.  Stan had been around him enough to know what he was like; he just couldn't think of the right descriptive words.  Something about how he had a lot, but deserved it, while just barely managing to avoid sticking it in other people’s faces.

Where's Mrs. Jackson at? Stan asked, suddenly remembering Elaine’s mother.

She's visiting her mother.

I see. There was this tone that suggested Stan should avoid pressing the subject.

Well, let's get to the gift giving, shall we?  Elaine asked.

The family all hastened into the den then, a room styled in colonial decor.  There were a number of flags - in paintings on the walls, sketches carved into wood, leather flags, ivory flag statues, silver flags, and inlets laid into chairs, tables and a large mahogany desk.  Eagles, bald and grand statured, stared from behind stars all colored red, white and blue.  As Stan entered, he tried to repel an instant anger.

This is quite a room, Stan said.

My wife.  Mr. Jackson answered.  She has every room of this house with some sort of queer motif.  Sort of like the White House, I guess, only very strange.  Like the clown room for instance.

You have a clown room in this house?  Stan and Mr. Jackson simultaneously smiled at each other.

Uh-huh.  We sure do.  That's nothing.  We also have an owl room.  An owl room, for crying out loud!

Stan laughed, and so did Mr. Jackson.

What's so funny about that?  asked Elaine.

I wonder, said Stan.

Hey, now, don't get personal or nothing.  You don't know my mother.

She's probably a great lady.  Stan still smiled, trying to be ambiguous over the sincerity of his comment.

She is, said Elaine, simply stating a fact which she truly believed.  Let's get to the presents now, shall we?

Sure!

As Elaine opened one present after another, Stan sensed an increasing dread.  Though it made no sense, he quit trying to quell it.   Elaine giggled throughout, obviously overwhelmed with sheer joy, constantly and quickly throwing aside another package's wrapping.  He found himself forced to smile as Elaine said, Look, Stan!  It's absolutely fantastic!

Stan looked at a new ring which quickly found its way to Elaine's finger.  Elaine had to have known the envy that thing would inspire.  Even Stan could tell how highly this ring compared to others.

Nice, he said.

Soon came the final present.  Sure enough, Elaine opened a small box that had concealed the keys to a new Mustang.  He followed the others as they rushed to the back, where the dark green thing irritated Stan's eyes with it's brilliant new-car shine.  The group clamored and reveled in the happiness afforded them by Mr. Jackson's wealth; of course oblivious to anyone else’s feelings.

It's beautiful!

It's wonderful!

I'm so happy!

And I'm happy for you.  But I gotta get going.  Can you take me home?

Hmmmm....Huh?  Oh yeah.  My dad can.  I can't yet, because I don't have my license.  Tomorrow.  I will definitely be getting it tomorrow.  Right dad?

Right you are, little girl.

Wow, stated Stan.  You got a frickin' new car.

Elaine was already inside pushing buttons and pretending to turn the steering wheel.  Her facial muscles began twitching slightly, tired from all the smiling. 

***

Mr. J?

What is it Stan?  They were alone, Mr. Jackson driving Stan home.

You feel pretty good about that, huh?  Givin' Elaine that car. 

Well...  For once, he seemed to be uncertain of what he wanted to say.  She deserves it.  She's a great girl.  A truly good person.

I'm thinking we oughtta be friends.

You are friends.

I meant you and me.

Well, we're friends too.

No, I meant for real.  Anybody ought to be able to be friends.  Any two people.  Like us.  With his ideas that always seemed to be irritatingly surpassing his expression, Stan now, too, flailed to convey how he really felt.

They spoke about ribs and baseball, before Mr. Jackson circled back to friendship in general, with his revelation of the sheer amount of life’s topics ensuring some common bond between any two people.  And with Stan agreeing, he was surprised at how quickly that ride’s dissolving time seemed to slip him home.  From the tip of his driveway, cracked with its web of weeds, he looked back at Mr. Jackson's limited edition, handsomely rugged Buick Reatta and it's elegant leather upholstery, highlighted interior, and conspicuously sleek exterior - Mr. Jackson's putt-ing around in, vehicle - and Stan, after feebly waving, swung his gaze back toward his own house.  He noticed it now like never before, from its dull decaying grey and orange warping wood to the stained brown brick.  Here nothing shined or sparkled.  It seemed nothing was clean or picked up, and nearly every nearby yard already needed mowing.  The house seemed smaller now.  Confining, it's two stories contained no more than a few rooms, stacked upon themselves so that, once inside, one was never more than a few feet from anyone else also enclosed within.

From across the street a kid howled.  A motorcycle roared down the road behind.  There were three boys, ages ranging from five to seven, playing with Hot Wheels in the yard next to his house, and in the group Stan picked out his little brother Freddie.  Freddie enjoyed a level of ignorance significantly higher than most other five year old children, which always bothered Stan at lot more than it bothered Freddy.  Stan recognized the other two boys as the neighbor kids, Broderick and Andre Griffon.  They were mean kids, having been raised by mean parents, but they were Freddie's only friends.

Hey Freddie, said Stan walking up next to the boy and the Griffon twins.

Hi!  Tan!  Freddie waved and smiled, excited to see his brother.  But then he stopped.  Fwaykin in-ide, he whispered.  Stan hadn't heard him, but he could read the boy's lips enough.  You nunu tay twass.  Stan repeated the phrase in his head, and a second later realized it's meaning.  He forgot to take out the trash before leaving that morning.  Franklin, his mother’s current boyfriend, had already yelled at him several times before about forgetting the trash.

Thanks Freddie.  Andre had crawled up to Stan's brother, and as soon as he was sure Stan had walked past, he slapped the boy on the top of his bald head.  Stan heard the sound, spun, and asked, What tha fuck you do tha' for?

No reason, answered the little boy, who was part black and part Chinese or Eskimo or something, Stan could never tell.  I didn't do anything.

Don't gi' me tha' shit!  You juss a'mitted it man. To some extent, Stan was partially stalling for time, afraid to go intside. 

I didn't do nothin’, an' what if I did?  You gonna kick my ass?  Fuckin Stan think you all tough an' shit?  I kin take you out anyday, fuckin shitty queer pussy!

How old you, you little fuck?  Seven or eight?

Seven and a half, answered Andre with both defiance and pride.

Man!  You think ya kin honestly kick my ass?

I kin blow yo fuckin ass away iss whut I mean, man, fuckin peel your ugly ass cap, man, I'll peedee roll you no time flat, fucker, n you... you betta be fuckin watchin' yo'sef too man.  Piece a shit.  I juss dare you mess wit me!

What?  Aw fuck it, man.  Kick his ass then.  I don't care.  I got shit ta take care of inside.

I thought you wuz nutin' butta pussy.

Yeah.  I'm a pussy alright.

Stan turned around and walked up to the house.  From outside the closed front door he heard his mother and Franklin taking turns screaming.  After considering his ability to reconsider, he walked in.

Chapter Two

1989

Stan exited slowly from his car, then turned and softly closed the door so that it didn't quite shut all the way.

Shit, he mumbled.

He dug for a moment in the right pocket of his good pair of pants, before withdrawing his keys.  This time he did the thing right, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud.  Stan turned and looked at a church, its white congregation milling in contemplating conversation toward the front door.  Guided by habit, he ran his tongue across his front teeth  before suddenly remembering that he'd forgotten that morning to brush them.  Still, on he went.

The morning was bright and clear and uncomfortably warm, regardless of it being only April.  A brilliant spring sun seemed intent to bake Stan in his used suit, as if grilling him until he would burn and burst like overcooked popcorn.  But Stan was a sweater. The large amounts of the salty substance thoroughly drenched his clothes, his hair, and everything else attached to or a part of his body. The mere feeling of impotence Stan felt about this sweat cycle would swell the worry regarding the sweat, which increased the sweat, increasing the worry, and so on.

Along the sides of the walkway leading to the front of the church he saw the rows of potted flowers, all in full bloom.  Yellow, red, pink, and white with an assorted purple here and there.  He knew none of their labels more specifically than flower.  Behind these flowers were small evergreen trees decorated with ribbons and balloons.  Though Elaine’s wedding was supposed to begin shortly, people were still socializing outside.  Valet parking attendants, whom Stan had wanted nothing to do with parking his own car, were taking off in black stretch limos, BMW's, and other unrecognizable cars, as rich folk continued their ambling, smiling, talking march toward the organ music that was slightly muffled by the church's walls.

Stan headed into the church praying only that it would be cooler inside.  With just minutes remaining before the wedding was to begin, he walked into the waiting room, signed a book, and allowed himself to be escorted by Elaine's cousin through a white lattice archway, decorated with tiny white lights.  Between each light, crepe-paper flower blossoms bloomed from fake ivy winding to an inner room.  Below Stan's feet he noticed a white sheet of some sort which ran the length of the church.  The sheet was made up of a fabric which was strangely soft, yielding comfortably under the well worn soles of his only work shoes.

Elaine's cousin was a small, smiling, thin-haired boy whom Stan couldn’t have ever talked to more than a couple of times.  The boy, about twelve years old, immediately recognized Stan and re-introduced himself.  George showed Stan to his place in a middle pew.  As he sat down, Stan looked around and noticed a multitude of open and inquisitive eyes, most looking at him.  The others seemed to have just finished.  The heat continued inside nearly as intensely as out.  Stan sighed, and tried to put himself at ease, knowing the task almost impossible, but necessary if he was to quell that sweat.

With each cry after extended cry, the organ scratched at Stan's ears while murmurs from the church's constituents added to an incessant buzz.  Surrounded by stained glass, Stan struggled to remember the windows of his own church.  As he continued to survey this scene, Stan calculated an estimate of the enormous amount of preparation and work which had doubtlessly preceded this moment.  There were varied flowers in practically every available nook and cranny.  These were used as accents on all of the tables and pews, also completely covering a side wall, and partially concealing the area behind the altar.  Also on the pews were golden spray painted plastic lace bells, with silver ribbons tied neatly to them.  A large floral bouquet served as a centerpiece that dominated the area of the church facing the guests.  Behind the bouquet were thick, colored candles, newly lit, with the exception of a conspicuously unlit dominant middle candle in the middle.  And there were balloons, all in the colors of the wedding's theme:  black, light blue, and white.  The ceiling was draped in them, giving the impression that the ceiling was about to fall.

As the organ's music ceased, a sudden onset of high pitched singing brought Stan's attention to seven children to his