The Book of Stanley Read Online Free PDF Page A

sprinted to the nearest wall, ran a couple of steps up it, and executed a back-flip. He landed hard, with his legs straight, took a couple of bracing steps forward, and turned to face Dr. Lam.
    Dr. Lam had stopped twirling his pen. “Can you…”
    â€œDo that again?”
    â€œYes.”
    Stanley did it again, and this time he landed it solidly.
    â€œCirque du Soleil!” said Dr. Lam, applauding. “Bravo. Now, what am I thinking?”
    Stanley listened. Dr. Lam was definitely thinking of fly-fishing, in the mountains. “Fly-fishing.”
    â€œBravo!” Dr. Lam stood up and clapped some more. He smiled and said, into his tape recorder, “Patient just read my mind. Just read my… effing mind.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo,” said Dr. Lam, as he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his forehead.
    â€œSo what do I do? What does this mean?”
    â€œI am going to study you, how about that? And I am going to write a paper about this, and we are going to be famous. More than famous, Mr. Moss. I don’t think there is any sort of model for what we’re dealing with here, not with peer review, anyway. Can I call you Stanley? Stan, even? Cognac?”
    Earlier that day, before he heard the voice in the backyard, Stanley had read in the newspaper that city pools were open until midnight as part of an initiative to combat childhood obesity and youth crime. The change room bustled with youngsters, their slick torsos and metallic voices, pushing each other and cackling about girls. They were boys, not men, the chubby boys of the new millennium, video-game champions, all of them too young to enjoy the nightclubs of Old Strathcona on a Friday night. Some took their post-swim showers, carefree with expletives, while Stanley took his pre-swim shower. They bumped him and did not apologize.
    Stanley walked into the echoing hall of water and found the two lanes designated for laps. The giant clock hung directly across from him, its red second hand moving through another minute, and another. When the second hand reached twelve, he dove.
    Despite his awkwardness on ice skates and in football cleats, Stanley had a sort of grace underwater. Though he had not been in a pool since the 1970s, he remained an elegant swimmer. Now, Stanley was also a powerful one. At the end of one hundred metres he stopped and turned to the clock. Forty-three seconds had passed.
    â€œWhat the ass?” A young man in a red shirt, the lifeguard, stood over Stanley. He had crumpled a white hat in his hand. “What the sweet mother ass was that, man?”
    Stanley sniffed, pretended to be out of breath. “Water’s fast tonight.”
    â€œThe world record for one hundred metres is just under forty-eight seconds. Some Nordic guy. You just slayed that.” The lifeguard glanced at the giant clock, accusingly. “Dude, you were under forty.”
    â€œNo, I wasn’t.”
    â€œYou so were. I watched the whole thing.” The young man lowered himself to the slick deck as though he had become faint, and put his head in his hands. His hat fell into the water. “This is so messed up.”
    â€œIt must have been a minute.”
    â€œShut up. Let me process this. I feel sick sorta. How old are you? I mean, who are you?”
    Stanley understood, as the young man rocked back and forth like a madrasa student, that it would be prudent to be more careful in the future. Several thoughts came to him. He might continue lying to the young man. He could pretend to be a great swimmer, visiting from California. Or he could kill the lifeguard, destroy the living memory. “I’m nobody.”
    â€œDude, you are not nobody. I train sixteen hours a week and I can’t even approach that pace. And you’re like, fifty. I don’t understand.”
    â€œActually, I’m sixty-two.”
    â€œCan you do it again? I want to grab some other guys. No one’ll believe