To Kenny, I’m Stanley. It’s been a year since I last tried to correct him. When he spots me in the neighborhood, he yells, “Stanley.” Sometimes he does a little dance. Sometimes he says he was hoping he might see me. He always carries his Bible with him. He always reads a verse, opening at random and reciting what he finds. He wants to make me a gift of this book. He wants to buy me an electric wheelchair. He wants to give me one of his oranges. He wants me to take the Mariners hat he just found. We share an orange. I wear the hat. The Bible is leather bound. I’ve  glimpsed a special inscription. I insist he save it for himself.

We agree to disagree on the electric wheelchair. Sort of. I assure him that I like being self-propelled. He thinks I’m wasting my energy. I brag about my athletic past. He thinks I’m wasting my energy. I show him my moves. I tell him how nimble I feel. I point out special features. He thinks I’m wasting my energy. “When I’ve got the money, I’m getting you an electric wheelchair, Stanley. That’s what you need.” On that point, Kenny is adamant. It’s a topic he raises with my wife, too, who he calls Miss Lorraine. She answers to that name as easily as I’ve claimed Stanley.

Kenny’s story is not mine to tell. I think he’s from the South. I believe he came to Seattle on a basketball scholarship. He mentioned an accident on a construction site. He talks about a family.

If I could will that Bible to open on command, I’d read First Corinthians to Kenny as a salute: “Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

I  feel blessed by Kenny. I love his generosity. I admire his happiness. Maybe I’ll try shimmying in public when people I like approach. Perhaps I’ll start sharing my favorite fruit. (Cherry season is upon us. Apricots aren’t far behind.) I should give away some of my baseball caps, though I can’t stand to part with a single one in my vast collection.

One day, if I listen hard enough, I’ll know what Kenny knows. How to bear and believe and hope and endure. In all things.