If you stick close to the pathways of  Winthrop Park you might never have seen Stanley Banach. I don’t think I ever actually saw him inside the park. But Stanley knew the park as well as anyone. He watched it like a hawk from his usual place across Nassau Avenue at Omar’s deli between North Henry and Monitor and knew it’s ways. He knew when the hawks were around and when a big branch fell. He could tell what the weather was going to be like by watching what the leaves were doing. Stanley was always  out in front of Omar’s, either standing or sitting on the door stoop. He smoked cigarette sized little cigars and coughed a lot. He spent a lot of time sweeping the sidewalks on that side of Nasau and hosed down Omar’s front windows regularly.

Stanley sort of got priced out of his apartment on North Henry where he lived for ten years after the landlord doubled his rent about a year and a half ago. He took to living in his beat-up old van which he moved every couple of days at the Nassau end of North Henry. When he ran out of gas someone from the block would help him push it across the street. He usually refused the offers of gas money that friends made. When the van wouldn’t start any more even with gas in it and the registration expired he still slept in it but worried a lot that someone would discover that it was illegal and haul it away. When it started to get cold last winter a neighbor insisted he take a place in his basement where there was a bed and a bathroom. Stanley came indoors unwillingly. He couldn’t get jobs because he couldn’t drive and Omar helped him out with food. Someone helped him junk the van. He didn’t like his situation a single bit.

About three months ago Sanley turned 60. He hated the idea of being that age. He couldn’t sleep for weeks before his birthday and complained often and bitterly that it wasn’t fair the way time worked. Speeding up when you got older just when you needed it to slow down so you could enjoy the little you had left. Stanley wasn’t one of the park drunks. Occasionally he’d have a beer or two and go across the street and sit on a bench just outside the park and have an argument with himself. But he always made sense. He knew a lot of history and although he was given to believing in gigantic world conspiracies he did seem to know how things worked in general.

Whenever someone asked how he was he’d answer “Oh, yako-taco.” It was his way of saying “Comme ci, comme sa.” He’d waggle his hand as he said it. “Maybe not so good, Maybe not so bad,” he’d sometimes explain.

About 10 days ago Stanley had a stroke in Omar’s backyard. He died this Sunday at 3AM without regaining consciousness. Stanley might not be missed by a  lot of people but he will be missed a lot by those who knew him and liked him and would love to hear him say “Yako-taco” just a few more times.