Itchy Whispers

His name is Stanley. Stanley Forbush. He's five-two, a hundred ten pounds in his socks. Coke-bottle, wire frame glasses, mousy, brown hair, mousy, brown eyes and a timidity that starts at the base of his spine completes Stanley's resemblance to Nibbler, The Looney Tunes Mouse. Moving through the world in a shy, meekly smiling way, Stanley gives one the impression that he is mimicking furniture: an ottoman, perhaps. It would be easy - and erroneous - to assume Stanley suffers from some sort of "Little Man's" complex. After all, anyone who's been mistaken for a sofa is bound to be the sort of person who takes offense easily and readily. Not so! Not so at all for our man, Stanley! Call it meekness, if you like. Stanley preferred to think of it as "pacifistic, non-confrontational conformity". Stanley's the poster boy for the path of least resistance. You may find this hard to believe, sweet reader, but Stanley Forbush, in his thirty-two years in this vale of tears, has never - not once - ever displayed the slightest touch of anger. At anything. Ever. Cool, calm, quiet, timid and meek: that's our Stanley. He's given every skinny geek in the world someone to look down on, every bully someone to pound sand at. So as the mental eye of narrative roves ever further and we see Stanley Forbush, thigh deep in brackish swamp water, wrestling, with flashing tooth and wicked nail, an alligator the size of an SUV, we may perhaps be excused our surprise. But we'll get to that in a minute. There's back-story to wade through, dear reader. The journey to this watershed - figuratively and literally speaking - started for Stanley in high school. More specifically, his senior year. The Prom was just around the corner, and though he had been polite and courteous to each young lady he'd asked, Stanley had yet to find a date. Flipping through his yearbook in later years, Stanley chalked his lack of success with his peers as being voted "Most Likely to Wear Sweater Vests and Become an Accountant." Stanley didn't really mind all that much. Dancing was such a sweaty, athletic activity! Then there was the whole process of dressing. A tux was expensive, and he was sure he'd get it on wrong. No, Stanley didn't mind going to the Prom stag - or, for preference, not going at all! But there were his parents to consider. Thelma and Bud Forbush. Good, solid, dependable citizens who wanted what was best for their only son, and were determined to pry him from his shell of meek goodnaturedness. Stanley had certain ideas about the Prom, and his parents had others. Namely, Stanley was going to the Prom, and that was all. Never mind that he couldn't find a date. Never mind that he'd never had a girlfriend. Never mind that he couldn't dance, his feet moved like cannonballs, and most girls laughed at him when he walked by. He was going to the Prom - as a red-blooded American lad his age should! - and that was that. Stanley didn't argue. He just nodded his head and said, "Yes, Mother. Yes, Father." It would be nice, of course, to find some pretty girl with a good smile to dance with - our man Stanley's not dead, just meek! - but Stanley knew where he stood, girl-wise. Still . . . someone who smelled nice, someone with grace and class, and a keen appreciation for actuarial tables . . . Well, a guy could dream, anyway. For Stanley that someone had a name: Laura Twerflinger. Stanley had a crush on her from the word "Go." Blonde, tall, leggy, and could she fill a sweater? Why, yes. Yes she could, and with "fillage" to spare! As the captain of the girls cheerleading squad for Stan's high school, she was eagerly sought after by every last one of Stan's classmates. She was currently dating Brock Hulkmeyer, a third generation genetic lottery winner. He had good looks, broad shoulders, and he was the captain of the football team. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but who cared? His father owned the largest car dealership in town, and he was rich, too. Stanley despised him with a passion that would've surprised Stanley's friends, if he'd had any. Brock didn't have the slightest idea that Stanley even existed and wouldn't have cared much if he did. So far as Brock was concerned, the Stanleys of the world tended to be classified as "Things that make noise when I hit them". In an honest, forthright fashion, Brock had the uncluttered sort of brain that made him perfect in later life for public office. As these events are being written, he's up for his seventh term in the United States Senate. Brock wasn't a bully, really. Nor was he particularly mean in any way, he just wasn't smart enough to realize that not everyone found atomic wedgies to be funny. Stanley, the recipient of more than his fair share of atomics, would've been happy to discuss this at length with Brock. While holding a lead pipe for emphasis. At any rate, fate brought them together again on the Friday before Prom. Stanley, after three sleepless nights, had finally mustered the courage to ask Laura out, and waited outside her homeroom anxiously. He was desperately hoping that the fluid he felt collecting in his palms and other crevices wasn't dripping in puddles around him. The bell rang. Laura walked out of her homeroom wearing a knee-length poodle skirt, a cashmere sweater the perfect green of sea grass, bobby socks, and saddle shoes. She wore her hair loose, and Stanley could swear he saw angels playing in it. Stepping boldly in front of her he loudly asked, "Laura, will you go to Prom with me?"