Alan Stoner. Yes, if you didn't know him the name might bring a laugh. But it was his real name. He was one of the most influential teachers in my life, and one of the last. When I took his class at Appleton East High it was called "Modern Problems." It was a class designed for dumb jocks, malcontents and future criminals. I don't know where that left me. I was not a jock and, dating a blond on the pep squad, fairly happy with my life.
But let me back up a minute to set this in its historical context. Around the beginning of my Junior year my father delivered the news that we were going to be moving to another town in Wisconsin. The day finally came and, as strangers, my brother and I walked down the hallway of our new school. Appleton East. Our first stop was the guidance office for a meeting with a woman with half glasses, the kind that perch on your nose and she looks over them at you. Observing my brother with hair down to his mid-back and mine desperately trying to catch up, she made a quick field evaluation: underachievers.
Next came our curriculum. As she went down the class list for my 4th period her pen stopped. A smile crossed her prune face. My fate was sealed. She wrote down, "Modern Problems." Taught by Alan Stoner. "What's that?" I asked. "Never mind," she replied. "It's a class where we put students who really don't fit into any other class." Great. Move to a new town and instantly get lumped in with the rejects. The losers.
What did this say about Alan Stoner?
When the day came and I walked into Mr. Stoner's class I was first amazed by his appearance. Although he was wearing a shirt and a tie, his shirt could barely contain his muscular chest. I would guess, knowing a friend who looks a lot like him now, that he had at least a 55" chest. He looked like one of those Scottish guys who throw logs. Mr. Stoner was cut. He was ripped. This also told us, without words, that Mr. Stoner could deal with you if the time ever came for discipline. That, fortunately, never came. No one I know ever forced the issue. If they did they would have found out that the real Mr. Stoner was, in fact, a pussycat.
He was also self-effacing, funny, goofy, intelligent, challenging, wonderful.
The next thing that I wasn't expecting was that Mr. Stoner was a radical of sorts. An anarchist, in all the positive meanings of the term. Certainly when it came to teaching. No textbooks. No pre-printed syllabus. Just heated discussions about every hot button topic of the day. You name it. The Viet Nam war. Abortion. Race. He even brought in a black radical who told us he was going to burn down our city when the revolution came. It was that type of class. I soon looked forward to 4th Period like no other. I felt my mind stretched, my values challenged and even, on occasion, my heart touched. By the end of the semester I found myself forming opinions, speaking out and being comfortable in my own skin. I think everyone in the class experienced this, except for maybe the dumb jocks. (They were off pursuing a ball, never mind the shape, and just needed a course credit)
Finally, Mr. Stoner wanted us to make films for a final course grade, which he had all but guaranteed was going to be an A anyway. (This of course drove the front office nuts. It wasn't until many years later that I discovered Alan was as much at war with the school administration as with anything else.) So I got my start in filmmaking from Mr. Stoner. Like or hate the films I do, he gets the credit.
Over the years I would not consider a trip back to my old town complete without a visit with Mr. Stoner. And, as time moved on, we sometimes even found ourselves on opposite sides of an issue, cause or candidate, which we would nevertheless discuss in a civil manner. And no matter how right or wrong I was, or he, I always felt his understanding, respect and unconditional support.
Alan even loaned me $1500 once when I was flat broke.
This brings me to the bench. Not more than 10 years ago Al and his wife Vira visited me in Los Angeles. Not just any part of LA, but a fairly expensive, exclusive part. Now north of $2 million a house. For legal reasons I probably shouldn't mention the name. Anyway, we lived across the street from a very nice immaculately groomed park that was, much to my shock when I discovered it, a rendezvous point for drug dealers. And once I realized this, it made perfect sense. Why not do a deal where it is safe and no one will even notice from behind their manicured hedges and secure walls? Yet I worried about the type of crime happening so close to my home and my family.
I began to study the problem, wondering how I could solve it. At first I contacted the Police and developed a nice relationship there. But a call to them at best brought a response way after any transaction had taken place. I even yelled at a dealer once out of sheer frustration. "I know what you're doing! Everyone knows what you're doing! Get out of here!" From a safe distance, of course. And in the company of my two Rottweilers. I even bought a 2 million candlepower light and would shine shady dealings, but long term nothing seemed to work.
Then one day I heard something that gave me an idea; a course of action. I heard a guy in a brand new black pickup truck with tinted windows say on his mobile phone, "I'm at the bench. See you soon..." It hit me. He didn't say, "I'm at the park." Nothing about this park was distinctive except for a single bench. An inviting bench. A landmark.
While Al was out visiting me, we discussed this. I postulated a radical yet simple solution; by removing the bench we might remove the problem. Al agreed. And even if he didn't, he sure was game. So in the middle of the night two grown men, one a former teacher, the other his former student, put on mostly dark colors, got Vira's car, put a quilted moving blanket on the roof, and TOOK THE BENCH. We strapped it to the roof of the car, each second seeming like an hour, and took off. And we couldn't stop laughing. Lest you think we were heartless thieves not thinking of our fellow man, we donated the bench to a park several miles away where, presumably, it would be used for its original purpose.
Well, I'll conclude this like a teacher would conclude their lesson. Three things were accomplished. First, the problem of the drug dealers literally vanished overnight. No bench. No landmark. No rendezvous point. No drug dealers. A modern solution to a "modern problem." Second, as if we needed it, it cemented our relationship even more, for all time. We accomplished something together. I would even suggest we accomplished something great. Finally, third, we had a story to tell. In the intervening years, when Alan and I got together, even up to just months before his passing, he never failed to mention the bench. He took so much joy from it. And that gave me joy.
I think the next time I am near that bench I'll put a little plaque on it, small, something barely noticeable, stating: The Alan H. Stoner Memorial Bench. Very few, if any, will know what that means or even see it. But that's okay. I'll know and that's all that matters.
Alan, very few men would show up in the dark of night to help a friend in need and I love you for that. Thank you for being my teacher, my mentor and my friend.
And fellow bench thief.
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