The Trespasser

The Trespasser By R.W. Clinger Mr. Gray needs a walk again. I’m the guy to get the job done: leash in hand, plastic poo bag in the back pocket of my jeans, portable water dish in the other back pocket. I’ve been his owner for the last three years. I rescued the caramel-colored greyhound from the tracks. At first he was a devil to care for because he didn’t know how to be a dog, having been abused by his previous demon-owners at the Oswald Racing Track. I don’t want to go into the nasty details of his animal abuse because you’ll never stick around for this tale, so I’ll move forward to a few months after he moved into my saltbox. We made baby steps together and much progress: walking, snuggling, playing with stuffed animals, eating snacks together, enjoying some ball, watching movies side by side, and going on car trips. Sometimes we would take runs together, which he always liked, and still does. Mr. Gray came around, and I did too. That’s why he’s a great dog today. We both look forward to walking like this evening, and almost every evening. Good for us. Fairmount is a small, liberal town by Lake Erie in Pennsylvania. A cutting-edge place where artists, poets, and the great thinkers of the world reside. Jack Kerouac spent a week here once, as did Alan Ginsburg. Tennessee Williams got drunk at The Glittering Elephant, a notorious gay bar. James Baldwin was seen once or twice before writing Giovanni’s Room. Prince and Melissa Etheridge passed through our little town. And rumor has it that Anderson Cooper frequents a certain special male-someone in these parts, but I’ve never spotted the handsome journalist and ridiculously rich celebrity. Famous people come and go. Some stay all their lives like me, and Mr. Gray. Neither of us plan to leave anytime soon. Fairmount has sucked us in and we’re happy here. “Evening, Grady!” Hal Luce calls out across Racin Street, two blocks from my saltbox. Hal owns The Glittering Elephant with his husband, Dale. The two just adopted twin boys from Korea. The boys’ names are Coyne and Doyle. Nice guys. Nice kids. Nice family. “Hey, Hal!” I give him a wave, keep walking. Mr. Gray doesn’t want to slow down this evening. He’s on a doggy mission of some sort, keeping to his business. What dog isn’t these days? The April evening is a play’s perfect melodrama, just the way I like it: purple clouds in the sky, a light wind, the scent of fresh springtime grass after a harsh winter. Apartment windows are open on Racin Street and people are out and about. Lucy Bellows sweeps her walk. Harry Dives smokes a Camel in front of his small grocery store. Killian McClare leaves his apartment for his next trick. And Fairmont life continues as Mr. Gray and I walk…walk…walk. * * * * He’s exactly where I expect him to be: seated near the top of the seven stone steps that lead up to another set of seven stone steps to his massive Colonial house with its many doors and windows and three porches at 773 Mason Street. He’s lived here for the last eight years. Maybe happily. Maybe not. I honestly don’t know what his fairy tale story is, but hope to find out, and soon. Such a handsome man at thirty-four with his I’m-a-quiet-quiet-guy-and-keep-to-myself. Everything about him screams that he likes to stay out of the public eye, even though he’s had his stories published in famous magazines like The Atlantic Monthly, Playboy, Elle, and others. He doesn’t cut his blond hair when he should; a look that causes him to be shaggy; he peers through the hair that hangs over his mysterious bottom-of-the-ocean-blue eyes and judges those he speaks to: me. The type of man who doesn’t work out, but he has natural definition and muscles; an appealing 185 pounds at six-two. Just my type. Rugged for the right reasons, which is why I steer Mr. Gray toward his house. Appetizing. Putnam Strand. Such a strange name, but an oddly handsome one, and very original. I know too much about him, having done my homework on the storyteller; shame on me. His youth grounded him to Long Island, and his education kept him there until eighteen. He attended Yale and lived in New York City for a few years. His first published story about body-shaming was called The Power of Bowerman and won him a Shirley Jackson Award. By the time he turned twenty-five, his other stories Bedside Behavior and Cartwheels landed him more prizes. At twenty-seven he published his first book of short stories with Knopf called Beast in the Grass, which landed him on the New York Times Bestseller’s list. His second book of short stories titled Falling in Her Lap was even a bigger success than his first book with Knopf. Between books, he discovered Fairmont and Lake Erie. I only assume he fell in love with the town and lake because he never left. Residing here, his success has continued, and Hollywood has knocked on his door. Big producers have developed two movies from his second book. Everyone has seen the flicks Turntable and Fire in the Hole. The award-winning films have landed Putnam quite the sum of money and have pushed him into the retirement zone of his life. Putnam still writes, though, no matter how much his checking account overflows. Screenplays like Dubious Boy and Pills add to its mass. More short stories are always published. And a very slim (153 pages), Pulitzer-winning novel called Lakeside Body has been his most recent success, which has rocked the book world in the last three months, skyrocketing him to more fame, and money. A thick, spiral notebook is open on his lap. It’s the size of a legal notepad. He uses a royal blue pen the size of a cigar, scrawling notes as Mr. Gray and I begin to close the distance on him. The writer has sharp posture: upright, shoulders straight, chest flat, n*****s and abs hard. He doesn’t lift his head, busy as a bee.