The Trespasser

Chapter 3

“Animal abuse is a horrible topic. Pick something less cruel to the heart.”

“How about survival?” he asks, pets the dog between its ears again, and winks at me. “He survived, right?”

“Barely. Survival is cliché.”

“But he did survive. Right? That certainly is a human theme. Is it not?”

“Yes. He did. And yes, it is. It doesn’t make him special, though. We all have to survive, every day. Earth is hell; the living planet; at least for most of us. It sounds pessimistic, but it’s true.”

He winks at me. “There’s a story in there somewhere about him, and what you’re saying.”

“I suppose,” I say.

“There is. It’s about—” He stops in midsentence. A cell phone goes off in his rear pocket, which he pulls out and views. He apologizes and says, “I’m sorry, but I have to get this. It’s my agent.”

“No problem. We’ll chat again soon.” And off I go, with Mr. Gray, down Mason Street, continuing our walk…walk…walk…walk.

How quickly our conversation ended. But how interesting it was. Short and such a wild kick. A burst of energy between us. Full-fledged chatter about struggle and the will to overcome. Both were topics in his dull book Lakeside Body. Used material. Issues that he has already covered before.

As I walk…walk…walk…walk, I wonder if he was humoring me during our brief talk. Was he playing me, I wonder. Did Putnam simply bring up familiar topics to discuss just to keep me in his presence until we were interrupted by his ringing cell phone? I think so, beginning to comprehend his gig, play…whatever. No matter what his performance or show detailed, I think him attractive, exciting, and most interesting as Mr. Gray leads me astray in the neighborhood.

* * * *

Something unexpected and crazy happens with the weather in Fairmont the next day. A shift in the temperature. It goes from the mid-seventies in the morning to ninety-five in the afternoon. Instantly! I have to wonder, among other lakeside residents, if the sun isn’t heading directly toward Earth, crashing into our planet, committed to destroy us all. A planetary suicide mission. Sayonara, baby!

Mr. Gray decides not to go for a walk; a common choice on his part since he loves his home time. Sleep is more important. Greyhounds are like this, of course. First comes food. Second comes sleep. Third comes a good walk, or run. There’s always the exception to the rule, though: if it’s ninety-five degrees outside, screw the walk. Mr. Gray’s skin is far too thin for such heat. He’ll burn to death if he’s outside too long, at least this is what I tell him. Of course, he seems to agree with me.

Because of the heat, I go for a walk without the pooch. I tell him, “I’ll be back soon,” and throw on a baseball hat, shades, a skin-tight tank, shorts, and a pair of Nike running shoes. It’s around four in the afternoon, hotter than a freaky-f**k outside, but I don’t mind. The heat’s never really bothered me. I’m comfortable in all weather conditions: rain, sun, snow, wind. I’m like a pigeon and can survive any kind of weather.

I walk down Racin, make a right on Dixon, go down Dixon two blocks, make a left on Wish, then a right on Mason. Putnam’s on his bottom set of steps again with his notepad and cigar-like pen. He’s in a pair of jock-shoes and no shirt. I can’t help myself and drool over his dented shoulders, massive pecs, and hard n*****s, lined and popping abs, tight navel, and string of blond hair that falls into his Luka workout shorts that leave nothing to my imagination. Excitement roars inside me as I study the defined outline of tube between his legs: his deflated and cut d**k underneath the thin material. Do I lick my lips? Maybe. Yes. Unfortunately so. I have no dignity whatsoever. For shame.

Does he notice that I lick my lips? Christ, yes. Unfortunately so. Damn.

Often, these awkward situations create the most opportune doorways to conversation, which is exactly what happens.

“You again,” he says, checks me out from shoes to ball cap. Doesn’t seem to cringe at what he studies. Doesn’t take his eyes off my chest for a second…two seconds…three seconds. Concentrates on me as if I’m a sidewalk painting or something cheap, yet desirable. Something…eye-rewarding.

“The one and only, Mr. Grady Nelson,” I remind him.

“A nice sight to see. Sunshine on this lurid day.”

It’s an interesting comment since there’s plenty of sunshine. And quite strange coming from him since we honestly don’t know each other. A comment that comes across as being overly friendly. But interesting, nonetheless.

“Where’s Mr. Gray?”

“He stayed at home in the shade. He’s doesn’t want to burn to death with his thin skin.”

“Smart pooch. Some of us should make such decisions. The sun is an evil ball of death. It will murder you if you’re not careful.”

He can be my smart pooch, I think, eyeing up his V-shaped chest covered in light perspiration. My gaze takes in a drop of sweat that hangs on his left n****e. By damn, it’s the sexiest thing I have ever seen: transparent liquid, tear-shaped, an accessory to the perfectly-shaped n****e. Why doesn’t he write about such a succulent, sun-drenched topic? Instead, he wrote boring words about a dead body next to Lake Erie. I would be more interested in reading 153 pages about his n****e than his Pulitzer Prize piece.

He catches me gawking at his chest: a concentrating gaze fixed on not one n****e, but both now. He wipes a palm down and over a creamy pec. This can be on purpose, or not; I’m really not sure, but I do find it shamelessly enjoyable. “It’s hotter than f**k out here. The temperature is rising by the second. Scorching. Bubbling. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing on these steps.”