A call for the prejudice of love

For some years now my wife and I have used the services of a local odd-job man named Stanley. Minor electric work, some gardening, a cupboard restored or a drawer fixed. Call Stanley. We trusted him utterly, and if we were out we would leave the door open for him and his cash payment on the kitchen table. He didn’t charge much, did first-class work, and was a kind, intelligent, interesting man. He was, I suppose, almost part of the family in that the children all knew and liked him and we rather relied on him.

In mid-January a light bulb became stuck and broken in its fittings and my efforts were only making it worse. I was out for the day giving some lectures so my wife called Stanley for help. In a break between lectures I received a text from her. “Mike, Stanley has died. Four weeks ago he became ill, it turned into pneumonia, and he has passed away.”

I was stunned, both at the news and at how shocked I was. And at how sad. I actually felt tears in my eyes, and then realized that I didn’t even know Stanley’s surname. This good, fine, unassuming man had been to my home dozens of times and I didn’t even know his name. My grief became tinged with guilt. Apparently some mutual acquaintances had been trying to contact me but Stan’s phone couldn’t be unlocked and I am not listed in the telephone directory.