Stan's Parlay

"You know... people always amuse me."

"What? Who are you?" replied James. James was a man in his early forties, well built, a little above medium height. His black hair was starting to gray at the temples, but his beefy frame showed no apparent signs of age. James sat at a table at a corner bistro under an umbrella in the shade, alone until a moment ago, and he had been reading the newspaper in the relatively still air of early afternoon, sipping on his coffee.

"You can call me Stan, I guess," replied the rathert nondescript man who now sat across from him. Stan had on a plaid flannel shirt, black belt, blue jeans and work boots. His dress was rather out of place for the typical clientelle of this particular little bistro. James himself looked every inch the successful businessman.

"Stan-I-Guess, what are you doing here? I was sitting alone for a reason, if it hadn't occurred to you." replied James in a cool manner.

"See? There you go again, being so amusing. People always are. The intelligent ones, at least." said Stan.

"Are you a dedicated people watcher, then, Stan-I-Guess?"

"You know, in all my years, I never thought about it, but I suppose that's exactly what I am. Interesting that it should take such a comment to bring that to my attention. You'd think it would have crossed my mind a long time ago."

"Well I'm glad I could help you out. And now I'd like some privacy in which to read my newspaper." James responded with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"Privacy. That's an interesting thing you say. You want privacy, and yet here you are, sitting almost smack dab in the middle of a city, surrounded by what, two hundred eighty-three thousand, nine hundred seventy-six other people, and you find my presence an invasion of privacy. How interesting. That guy behind you is closer to you than I am, you know, but you're not telling him to go away so you have privacy." Stan grinned as he spoke.

James gave up. "Fine, sit there if you wish, but I am going to read my newspaper and relax."

He proceeded to do just that.

After a moment of silence, Stan spoke again.

"Has it ever occurred to you just how funny people are? I mean, people as a whole. They're so... stupid." Stan chuckled.

"You're contradicting yourself, Stan. First you said people are amusing because they're intelligent, and now you say they're funny because they're stupid." James said without ever looking up from his paper.

"I said both those things, true, but they are both true without being mutually exclusive. In fact, it is the stupidity of intelligent people that most amuses me, James."

James looked up. "Who said my name was James?"

"Well, isn't it James? You're James Letinthal Winthrop the Third. Plain as day to me." replied Stan.

"And how did you come to know that, Stan-I-Guess?" said James through slightly narrowed eyes, now sporting more than a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"Oh, I just know. I guess you could say I'm psychic." Stan looked nonchalantly off to the side at a red cardinal that had found a perch in a nearby ornamental bush. The bird met eyes with him and instantly fell dead with a small plop that James didn't notice. Stan, amused, let a grin play on his lips for a moment before turning back to James.

"Psychic, huh? More likely you clean windows at my office and saw my business card." James went back to reading the newspaper.

"I suppose that would be more likely in a mathematical sense. But I am not your average guy. So likely or not, it doesn't matter."

James was feeling something strange about Stan. He couldn't figure out what it was, though. Trying to figure it out, he just kept reading the newspaper.

"Ever listened to people talk about their faith?" asked Stan.

"On occasion," returned James, still not looking up from the newspaper he was too busy thinking to read.

"It amazes me how people - so many people, so many people of greater than average intelligence, can have such idiotic beliefs."

James looked up. "Idiotic beliefs?" he asked.

"Yeah, you know. All this bullshit religious crap people believe. God is a wise old man who can't decide if he loves you or hates you. Everyone has guardian angels, but they don't seem to do anything. The Devil is a red-skinned horned pitchfork-wielding maniac who lives in a barbecue pit and who wants to buy your soul. You know, all that stupid crap." Stan began gesticulating to emphasize his points as he made them.

"You sound pretty confident, Stan. You think you know how things really work, then?" James said, looking him in the eye. Somehow, for a split second, there was a flash of red across Stan's irises, and just as fast, then they were normal again. James blinked and looked harder, but there was nothing unusual about them. "Must have been a reflection or something," he thought to himself.

"Sure, I know how things really work. For one, God's not an old man. God's not a man at all. God is sexless, and believe me, God has no trouble making up God's mind about things. Humans are so clueless." Stan rolled his eyes.

"I see." replied James, thinking he was sitting across from an escaped mental patient now.

"I'm not a mental patient, James. I know that's what you're thinking."

Stan paused to contemplate his fingernails a moment.

"And the Devil. He does not have red skin. He doesn't have horns. He's not a maniac. And he hasn't ever used a pitchfork. No tail, either. Or scales."

"Uh..." said James.

"Nope. Lucifer is not any of those things. And I should know. But it's hilarious how people are so stupid that they wouldn't know it if they were sitting in front of him, the Devil himself, and having a conversation with him, James. You know what I mean?" Stan looked James in the eye with a meaningful look. There was another brief flash of red, and Stan winked.

James was silent.

"Can I get you another coffee, sir?" asked the waiter. James jumped.

"Uh, no, uh, thanks... would uh..." said James, looking back to Stan. But there was no Stan. Just an empty seat across the table, cockeyed as it had been when it was occupied.

"Did you see the man who was seated across the table from me?" asked James. "Plaid flannel shirt, bluejeans?"

"No sir," said the waiter. "We have a strict dress code, if you will recall. No such person could have gotten to the patio."

"Uh... yeah..." said James.

"Remember this day, James," came Stan's voice. "I don't make personal visits very often. Take a little time to think about things. They're not always the way you imagine."