Camus, free coffee and Stanley

Man struggles to survive in an American Illiad

AN AMERICAN ILIAD

Albert Camus, Free Coffee, and Stanley Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken And many times confused Yes, and often felt forsaken And certainly misused But I’m all right, I’m all right. — “American Tune” by Paul Simon

Ahot coffee sounded good, but free coffee sounded even better. A Saturday road trip with my wife — free from the noise about Trump or Bitcoin — led us to a magnificent old warehouse building that had been expertly converted into a large grocery store. A sign on the door said, “Check out our Beer Cave,” which got my imagination going. After entering, we took a tour of all the wonders until we stopped at a large coffee section that offered more than 20 types to fresh grind you could purchase by the ounce. That’s when I saw at the end of the display a fresh pot of coffee brewing with small cups stacked beside it for sampling. That is also where I saw Stanley. He was the store security guard. I knew his name was Stanley because it was printed on a name tag located on his crisp white shirt. A young black man who appeared no older than 30, he wore dark blue pants with a stripe down the side in an attempt, I surmised, to mimic a policeman’s uniform. He met my gaze with a smile and said pleasantly, “I’m here for the free coffee, too.” I was in no hurry, so we fell into a pleasant conversation. I was immediately struck by his unaccented diction. (Full discloser: My southern accent is so strong, that when I venture northwards, I quickly get the inevitable question of “Where are you from?”) When I ask him where he grew up, Stanley smiled again and leaned into his story. “I was adopted right here when I was an infant by a white family of Polish ancestry. They named me Stanley. My dad was a stickler for language, so no slang or slurred words were allowed.” Stanley took another sip of his coffee and listened as I relayed my southern accent story. “I understand that all too well,” he chuckled. “Kids at school always wanted to know where I had been born and

couldn’t believe I was from right here in the south.” We refilled our small coffee cups, and Stanley went deeper — he had a story and wanted it heard. “My dad raised me not to be a black man or like a white man, but just an American. I was picked on by both groups in school, but then I learned martial arts and I put that to rest.” Turning serious he said, “I love this country. I was an Eagle Scout and tried to join the military, but my wife got pregnant so I stayed put. It’s hard to find a good job. My last name is Polish, and when I go in for a job interview, you can see the confusion on their face. They are just not expecting me. I lost my last job when I asked for a raise. This year, I have filled out 129 job applications and gone on 31 interviews. Nothing yet, but it’s tough getting by on $12 dollars an hour. My dream would be to teach martial arts and help young black kids be more confident.” With that he pulled out his wallet and proudly showed me a picture of his wife and 2-year-old girl. “My landlord is kicking us out now because I went to him to complain about not fixing our leaking roof. But you know what? Right is right, and I will not be silent. This is America, and I believe in it.” Just in case you think a person fits or identifies themselves with a common experience in the category of race, I would say talk to people in person and you might be surprised. We shook hands, and I wished him luck on his upcoming interviews. I was reminded what the philosopher Albert Camus wrote about preserving mankind’s deepest decency: “We must mend what has been torn apart, make justice imaginable again in a world so obviously unjust, give happiness a meaning once more.” For Stanley and all our sakes, I certainly hope so.