On Stanley

The houses were distinctly un-distinct.

“If this is our dream home,” Stanley said, his family moving into their dream home, “do the neighbors have the same dream?”

“Well,” Stanley’s mother said. “I suppose they do, in a way.”

“That’s nice,” Stanley said. “Good to be on the same page.”

His mother agreed.

“But,” she said. “We’re on the same page of a different book.”

Stanley nodded, as if to say, ahh, of course, I understand. In reality, he thought, ahh, what, I’m confused. He retired to his new room and wrote the riddle on a post-it note. He knew that one day he’d understand it.

In the meanwhile, Stanley wanted to explore. His backyard opened up entirely into wood, and Stanley stood there and put his hands on his hips and said, “Gee, this is like Thoreau, just like Walden Lake. How nice. The air’s nice.”

Stanley did not know who Thoreau was or what Walden Lake was. It’s just something he heard his dad say once and made him think, that’s nice.

Stanley walked through the threshold out back, his portal into fairyland. Where wolves walked on hind legs, and cabins blew out ashes of little kids. Stanley giggled. He liked the idea that those things were out there. He knew how they worked; he could outsmart them.

So, he ran off chasing butterflies, thinking they’d lead him off into some tree-hole that opened into another dimension, or a cave infested with humanoid bats. Maybe an abandoned pit full of pig-men from the stars.

Stanley was a mile in when he found an adventure worth his fancy - a little astronaut man with a fishing pole by a lake.

“Cool,” Stanley said. “Lake Walden.”

Stanley came closer to the lake and to the little astronaut. He hid himself behind a tree.

“Probably an A.I. from Mars. Gosh. That’s nice.”

Stanley grabbed a rock and threw it at the lake, ducking away.

He held his breath and dared not to look. His curiosity, however, got the best of him. He peeked. The astronaut looked his way. Stanley ducked back again.

“Goshdamn. It’s just a boy.”

Stanley collected himself. He strolled over to the boy in the astronaut costume by the lake.

“This Walden lake?” Stanley said.

“No,” the boy said.

“Oh,” Stanley said. “Well, what is it?”

“It’s Honey Lake. On account of I’m Honey and this is my lake.”

“Oh,” Stanley said. “Wanna be my best friend?”

“Okay,” Honey said.

So the two boys sat next to each other. Honey taught Stanley all about fishing. His knowledge on fishing was all wrong, but Stanley didn’t know that. Honey claimed to have caught a fish this big, stretching his arms as if he held a watermelon. As they sat, however, no such fish was caught.

“They’re not biting today,” Honey said.

“It’s Sunday,” Stanley said. “Must be at church. That’s nice.”

Honey agreed. “You wanna make pancakes?”

“Does moss grow on trees?” Stanley said.

“…,” Honey said. “I don’t know, does it?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Let me show you.” So he did.

Stanley explained the growth pattern of moss, Honey grabbing his chin, nodding like an art critic.

“Yeah, that’ll work,” Honey said. “That’ll be good texture for our pancakes.”

“I thought it would,” Stanley lied. “What else do we need?”

Honey mulled it over, then waved him deeper into the wood. They ran off together, foraging for all the ingredients and tools they might need, like:

• large flat rocks
• a pocketful of dirt
• bundles of sticks
• exactly five little marigolds.

“For seasoning,” Honey said.

“Of course,” Stanley agreed.

“If you use more than five,” Honey said, “it’s too much. It’ll taste crap if you use more than five,” Honey said.

“I’m not an amateur, Honey,” Stanley said. “I’ve made pancakes before.”

He hadn’t.

So, the boys sat near the river again, make shifting a faux fire, mixing in the dirt and the moss and the marigolds with a splash of water to make batter, stirring the batter with their little sticks.

“SSSsss,” went the pancakes.

“Yum,” went the boys.

They ate by ripping little bits off their soily pancakes and throwing them behind their heads.

“You know,” Stanley said, between bites. “I might just have to hire you for my wedding.”

“You’re getting married?” Honey said.

“Well, we all do one day, right? It’s one of those things everybody does.”

“Oh,” Honey said. “How come?”

“I don’t think anybody really knows how come,” Stanley said. “I guess it’s kind of like getting into your dream neighborhood. We all have to be on the same page so we share dreams.”

Honey nodded.

“Different books, though,” Stanley added.

“Of course,” Honey said. “Why would it be the same book?”

I must be slow, Stanley thought. Honey never doubted for a second that it’d be a different book.

Honey, meanwhile, thought that Stanley was one of those Gee-Tee kids, because that was nonsense to him.

“Hey, hold on a second, Stanley. You didn’t hand me peanut-oil to make these pancakes, did you?” Honey said.

“Well, of course I did. Why would it be any other kinda oil?” Stanley said.

“I mean, the flavor profile of peanut-oil is immaculate,” Honey said, recalling an episode of Rachel Ray. “But I’m allergic to nuts.”

“Uh-Oh,” Stanley said. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, Stanley. It doesn’t. If I eat nuts, I die.”

This troubled Stanley. Stanley wasn’t usually troubled.

“Oh gosh, Honey, I didn’t mean it. You’re my best friend.”

A shadow crossed Honey’s face.

“I know, Stanley. I know. But that means you killed me and the cops don’t like killers. I’d know, my dad’s a cop. If this were to get out, I mean, who knows, Stanley. I’m done for, but you still have a life to live.”

The thought churned Stanley’s stomach.

“What am I supposed to do, then, Honey?”

“You ever seen Sponge Bob?” said Honey.

“Does moss grow on trees?” said Stanley.

“It does. You just taught me, Stan. Anyway, they kill the health inspector in one episode, right? And they have to dispose of the body.”

“What are you saying, Honey?”

“I’m saying that I’m a dead man, Stan, and you have to dispose of me if you wanna live a long life. Plus, it’ll help my soul move on.”

Stanley wept for his friend, and the two boys embraced.

Honey collapsed on his back and clutched his throat dramatically.

“I can feel it setting in, Stan. I’m done for, Stan.”

“No!” Stanley said. “I can’t do it.”

“Of course, you can,” Honey said. “Go get a shovel.”

And Honey splayed himself, tongue sticking out.

Stanley wiped his tears on a sleeve, and ran as fast he could back home, to his front yard where his mother swung on the porch swing. Stanley took a second to catch his breath.

“Mom,” Stanley huffed. “I need a shovel.”

“Jeez, Stan, what for?”

“I’m digging a grave for Honey.”

“Because the bees are going extinct?”

“No, because my Best Friend Honey is going extinct. We made killer pancakes and now I need to dig a grave or I’ll rot in jail.”

“You have a killer imagination sometimes, Stan,” Stanley’s mother said, laughing. “Why don’t you imagine one of those shovels, huh? You’d be good at it.”

“No, mom! A real shovel,” Stanley said.

Stanley’s mother blocked the sun with her hand and scanned the neighbor’s yard. The neighbor was gardening.

“Go ask the neighbor if you can borrow his. It’d be a good way of meeting ‘em, I think. And bring Honey home for dinner, okay?”

Stanley shook his head gravely.

“Honey isn’t ever eating dinner again.”

Stanley’s mother erupted in laughter. Stan didn’t understand that. Best-friend-icide was no joke. He marched to the neighbor’s yard and asked about the shovel, making sure not to mention Honey to the stranger.

“Well, sure, kid. I don’t see why not. Just be sure and bring it back. You’re my boy’s age, you should come over some time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stanley said. “I’ll need a new best friend soon.”

Before Stanley left, he grabbed a box that seemed just the right size for a casket. Upon Stanley’s return, Honey ducked his head back on the ground and closed his eyes.

“Thanks for waiting, Honey,” Stanley said.

“Of course,” Honey said. “The dead can’t walk.”

Stanley agreed.

Stanley picked a spot for the grave and dug. The earth in the wood was fertile and soft, so it took little effort for Stanley to dig a plot about 2 feet wide and 4 feet long and 3 feet deep.

“Do you need me to take a turn?” Honey said.

“No,” Stanley said. “It should be me.”

*

Stanley dragged Honey’s body into the grave where he had set the box, and settled him in nice and soft.

“I’d like to say a few words,” Stanley said. “Honey was the best friend a boy could have. He was an astronaut and a master fisherman and a chef, all at the age of…at the age of…”

Honey opened an eye, whispered, “7!”

“All of these wonderful things,” Stanley said. “At the age of seven. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

Honey agreed. "Throw a marigold on me when I'm gone, Stan," Honey said. Honey's dad had done that at his grandmother's funeral.

*

This isn’t nice, Stanley thought. Stanley was deep under his sheets at home, but couldn’t shake a chill that clawed him cold.

He stared into nothing, same way his mother did when she met his dad’s friend Stacy.

Red-and-blue lights whirled outside Stanley’s window. There was a knock at his front door. His mother answered.

“Oh, gosh… no, I don’t… what’d you say the name was?... Honey?....”

Stanley felt like the time he had fever and saw things that weren’t there.

There was a rustling and Stanley’s mother entered his room. The neighbor was with her, but she asked him to wait in the hall. His mother closed the door behind her, and sat on his bed.

“Stan, that boy you talked about earlier. The neighbor is looking for him. His name is Guillermo but they call him Honey.”

I’ll have to change the tombstone, Stanley thought.

“He didn’t come home tonight, Stan. Do you know where he is?”

Stanley was confused. “I told you earlier, mom. He ate peanut oil and died. I buried him so I don’t go to jail forever,” Stanley said.

“What!” the neighbor said from the hall.

“Hold on!” Stanley’s mother said.

“Stan, stop playing,” she said. “Remember, right now, where you last saw Honey.”

“I’ve already told you,” Stanley said.

She hunched over Stanley and grabbed his hands. “Did you really bury that boy?”

He didn't need to answer. Stanley’s mother rubbed Stanley's hands, feeling the blisters. She pulled his fingers close to her face and inspected the dirty nails. She recoiled from him, as if he'd turned into a bug. It scared Stanley.

“Let me in!” Stanley’s neighbor said. He tried the door, but Stanley’s mother had locked it. He shook it with a great violence.

"Why'd you do that, Stan," Stanley's mother said. It wasn't even a question. She moved to his desk and squeezed her own head.

BOONK. The neighbor kicked at the door. “I’m gonna strangle you, ya little psycho! You used my shovel to… my shovel...,” His speech dwindled off. He broke down in the hall, hollering and wailing.

Stanley was numb. Stanley'd accepted that he’d go to jail forever. Stanley's mother, on the other hand, began wailing like the neighbor, the two of them a horrifying chorus. It reminded Stan of his note. We're on the same page of a different book.

BANG! The door blew off its hinges. The neighbor stalked toward Stanley and there was murder on his face.

“Throw a marigold on me when I’m gone, mom,” Stanley said.