The Book of Stanley by Todd Babiak Page A

deserted. Stanley looked around.
    Alok did a 360. “I don’t see anyone.”
    Stanley took a short and focused breath, jumped ten feet into the air, and thrust himself into a backflip. In the midst of it, with sky and gravel, tree and distant condominium whooshing past, it occurred to Stanley that he should practise backflips before performing them. He knew, instinctively, when to stop spinning and straighten out. But as he prepared to land, Stanley leaned too far forward. His feet hit the gravel and he stumbled forward into Alok. “That wasn’t very graceful. Sorry.”
    For the next thirty seconds, Alok said nothing. The city hummed. Then Alok said, “Frick,” followed it up with a “Fuck,” reached back for something to sit on, and fell into a chain-link fence near some unused railroad tracks. “Moses. You are Moses.”
    â€œShh. Don’t talk like that. I’m not Moses.”
    â€œWhatever you say. Whatever you say.” Alok pushed himself off the fence and approached Stanley. Though Stanley felt uncomfortable, even frightened, he didn’t back away. He allowed Alok to lay his hands upon him–on his chest and shoulders, in a frantic and searching manner. Alok closed his eyes, and in one motion he dropped to his knees and took Stanley’s right hand and pressed it against his cheek. “Master.”
    â€œStop it. I want you to tell me what this means.”
    Alok adjusted his knees on the gravel, said “Ouch,” and looked up at Stanley again. “Master.”

 
    SEVENTEEN
    F rieda was not fond of Alok Chandra. Taking him home for cocktails or coffee was not an option. So after Alok had sat for half an hour on the railroad tracks, mocking the phony Buddha in Nepal and marvelling that God had chosen his new messenger here in Canada’s fifth-largest city, Stanley coaxed him back into the Oldsmobile.
    â€œMaybe that’s it, Stan. It’s an unlikely place and you’re an unlikely person. An old florist, sick with cancer. I mean, how dull can you get?”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œSay, can we stop at a liquor store? I could really use some Grand Marnier.”
    â€œIs it necessary?”
    â€œThis is a spiritual phenomenon on a global scale, Stan. I mean, I’m sitting next to the most important man in the world. That is, if you’re still a man. Do you feel like a man?”
    â€œAs much as I ever did, I suppose.”
    Stanley parked in front of a liquor store near Alok’s hotel. While his old friend waddled inside, Stanley watched a black-haired couple in ponchos spray-painting wooden panels on the sidewalk. A crowd stood before them, sucking up the aerosol fumes. The artists had some finished pieces around them, wet-looking fantasy scenes like three-breasted women on horseback, looking sufficiently thoughtful by the light of a bleeding moon.
    The idea that he was God’s new messenger was comical, and he already regretted flying Alok Chandra out. It would have been just as easy to walk into a holistic health centre and bookstore or the Russian Tea House during palm-reading hours if he had been looking for that sort of insight. And Stanley did not appreciate the “prairie rube” insinuation in Alok’s surprise.
    A homeless-looking man, dressed in soiled jeans, knocked on the Oldsmobile window. Stanley opened it. The man did not speak. Instead, he shuffled warily from foot to foot with his hand out. Normally, Stanley did not give money to beggars. He worried that sustaining their way of life with financial contributions could harm their chances for renewal. But tonight he felt different. He took out a change purse and dropped almost four dollars into the man’s cupped hand.
    The man stuffed the money in his pocket and looked at Stanley. Really looked. Stanley felt compelled to reach out and touch his arm. “You should really stop this. It’s not doing you any good. You