The Trespasser

Chapter 2

As Mr. Gray stops at 771 Mason, sniffing a garden gnome that resembles Harry Potter, preparing to release a doggy piss, I study the writer’s bony ankles in leather sandals, well-worn jeans, and his somewhat thick calves. My stare takes in his broad shoulders, the muscular portions of his lined chest in its sky-blue tight tee, and his tapered waist. There is nothing fatty or unfit about the man. Nothing weak or meager. He is steel art on the steps, more like a masculine jock than a studious artist. Much younger than his physical age, of course. Healthy.

I know he doesn’t go to Ron’s Gym on Haggin Street four times a week to work out. And nor does he hang at Barbells on Third Avenue. I don’t see him running around Fairmont, exercising. A certain physical fitness trainer doesn’t slip into his Colonial to train him. How Putnam stays fit is a mystery. Somehow, someway he keeps his muscular build: the V-shape of his chest, his thick thighs, three pumped and vertical veins along his neck; and the biceps that inflate the T-shirt he sports. Clearly Putnam Strand is doing more than writing stories in his abode. The man obviously cares for his body daily, stays healthy, fit, and is physically beautiful. And one (me…me…me) can deem him handsomely teasing and god-like. Eye candy.

* * * *

“I remember you,” he says after lifting his head from his notebook. A half smile settles on his face. “And I remember your dog. The two of you walk in these parts every day.”

“His name is Mr. Gray,” I tell Strand, standing at the bottom of his steps, taking in the denim-covered mound between his legs that is half concealed by his notebook.

“And you’re his faithful walker.”

“Guaranteed and with a smile.”

“What’s your name?”

“Grady. Grady Nelson.”

He snaps his fingers. Shakes the blond hair out of his blue eyes; it’s sexy and refined; not an expensive cut, but looks like it; the action provides me with a delectable romantic shiver that I crave when he’s not in my presence. “That’s it. You live on Racin Street. Am I right?”

I feel nervous. Shake all over. Chatter teeth. Feel my heart race. Can barely stand. “You are.”

Mr. Gray begins to climb the steps. He wants a sniff of the famous author just like me, or at least the man’s sandals, maybe his notebook or crotch. Hell, I want to sniff his crotch, too. Wink. Wink. The leash only goes so far, though. His sniffing is cut short.

“Nice dog. Friendly. Cute. I’m sure you’re giving him a solid home.”

“He’s not abused anymore. Dog racing is hell on earth. He has tattoos in his ears.”

“I can’t imagine what he’s been through. I’m glad you saved him.”

“Trust me. He saved me. Mr. Gray’s a lot of company. He’s my best friend. I can count on him being there for me. Always.”

“The old phrase is true. A dog is man’s best friend.”

Strand can be my best friend if he wants.

I want to change the subject and tell him that I hated every word of his book Lakeside Body. I want to say something like: It’s inane how the point of view of the book is from the dead body. Plus, the thing is long-winded. Too many words for such a short book. Did you ever hear of something called dialogue? Can you ramble anymore? I think the book could have been a ten-page story? Could you bore me further? I want my twenty-two dollars back, and my time.

I keep my opinion to myself. Bite my tongue. There is no reason to make a complete ass out of myself. Instead, I say, “Mr. Gray is my best friend.”

He sets his notebook and pen aside, stands.

Such a beautiful man. Handsome from toes to head. Muscularly chiseled. Chest. Legs. Jaw. Huge crotch. He swings hair out of his eyes again as he makes his descent to the sidewalk. “Let me introduce myself.” Once at the bottom of the seven steps, he holds out his massive, right palm. “Putnam Strand. Nice to meet you, Grady Nelson.”

“Likewise,” I tell him, shake his bear paw.

He studies me like the writer he is: up and down, sideways, making a visual assessment, taking notes of my height (six-one), my weight (175), my eye color (mint green), my hair color and cut (red buzz cut with narrow sideburns), my waist size (32 inches), my shoe size (10 inches), my d**k size (currently limp: four inches and positioned to the left), clean-shaven face, and the freckles that line the bridge of my nose. I become a character for him. Someone he might write about. A paper person. A tool. Something or someone he can work with.

Our handshake ends. He asks, “How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Same age as me.” He eyes my pinkish and narrow lips. Or at least this is what I think he’s looking at. “You Irish?”

“One hundred percent. My mother’s maiden name is O’Roarke.”

“I’m Danish. Strand means shore.”

“Nelson means champion.”

“Interesting. I’ll keep that in my memory bank,” he says. “We all need to be champions in this f****d up world we live in.”

I blurt, “Are you taking notes on me for your next story, Mr. Strand? I’ve read you before. I know you’re a writer.”

He lets out a casual laugh. “My secret is out. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Trust me. I’m not that interesting to write about.”

Mr. Gray sniffs the package between his legs. Putnam gently pats the dog’s head between its upright ears and pushes the canine away. “I’m sure Mr. Gray here has quite the story to keep me busy as a writer.”