Sebring Stan

It wasn’t a sunny afternoon, but the top was down in his convertible.

The sky looked like it was going to take a nice, steady annoying piss. But somehow, it couldn’t find a port-a-potty along the great highway of love we weren’t drifting down.

I had met him at a happy hour right after another convention. His name was Stan. He pointed his index finger at the waitress every time he ordered a drink. Kahlua and Coke.  If she was breathing, she might get lucky and get the trigger finger too. One time, he winked at an older woman who gave him the finger impressed in his butternut soup.

Stan was the man.

Thrice divorced and a dodecahedron of bankruptcy, somehow, he still had charm and pizazz.

His cubic zirconia bracelet would sometimes catch the lights on his grill. Oh ya. He had one. But he only wore it when we went to get Chinese. He talked to the waitress in Ebonics after his hot and sour soup. No one bought it except for him. And that’s all that mattered to Stan. He was surely no rapper, no 2Pac, no 50, 60, or event 70 Cent, but he had it goin’ on. Bertie Higgins blarin’ with the top down, Key Largo on our minds. It didn’t matter that he was fifty or sixty something. His baggy, drop-down Bugle Boy jeans over his fringe-tasseled Cole Haan’s (with no socks, of course) were the real deal. To me, he had more game than Super Bowl Sunday.

s-l300

Stan’s faves

His combover was what blew my mind. It almost seemed to sway to the same easy, smooth jazz station he paid for on XM and Sirius for his ride. (He paid for porn too, even in 2015).

Charlene. That was the name of his 1996 tan Sebring. It used to be platinum, but he had to have it painted in Jersey before he moved out here to the Gold Coast. They only had tan, and that was just fine with Stan…

His favorite food? Everything Sizzler. Except of course for Peppermill, where just for a moment, he could imagine that he was not white, but Black. Black like he liked his ladies. But the ladies of all colors and creeds, they didn’t really like him. And that didn’t matter either.

Because he would always have Charlene.

And me.

Me and my Stan.

The man everyone forgot, but I remember, or at least I think I can.

 

Copyright 2015 Dilara Esengil, All Rights Reserved

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