Lumberjack

Chapter 3

The lumberjack next door rested, silent. His annoying and random chopping had stopped, and I settled inside the cottage’s quiet and spent a marathon of writing at my laptop. Two thousand words turned into twelve thousand words. Lickety-split. The stillness and serenity around me caused a creative flare to burst from my fingertips and imagination. A day passed like that. Two days. Three days. Simple quiet. Aloneness in my writing world. No irritants from next door. Pure bliss.

Then I ran out of food. My survival didn’t look too hot without needed provisions. Unfortunately, the cupboards at the cottage were empty. The pantry, a slim space with three shelves, had turned hollow. Spiders housed there: big-bodied, bushy, and with ten beady eyes, each. How did I let running out of food happen? I didn’t have a clue. Maybe I became so trapped inside the flowing chapters of Lost and Beguiling that I lost all track of provisions in the cottage. Or maybe the silence was to blame.

None of the details mattered, except for my grumbling stomach and its wash of light pain. What mattered detailed stocking up on food. Some basics like bread, milk, and eggs. A few vegetables. A small bag of golden potatoes. Chips. Iced tea. And coffee. I couldn’t forget the coffee, even if it had no nutritional value whatsoever.

The drive to Winter Mist Village Grocery could have gone smoother. Because of a fresh snow and packed ice on Shrater Road my Mercedes swerved left and right. My skills behind the vehicle had improved over the years, but I still lacked the skill of a driver on Ice Road Truckers. Fortunately, no automobile accident kept me from my afternoon errand.

After leaving Walnut Pass it had taken me approximately twenty minutes to land at the grocery store, unharmed. I pulled into the gravel lot and parked. Three four-wheel drive vehicles sat in the parking lot around me. The two-floor cabin with its front of ice-covered windows looked like a building out of a fairy tale. Snow decorated its front stoop and two lumber doors.

Once inside, Gerry Randy, the owner, and his partner, Quincy Roshdell (two astute, light-skinned African American sweeties with dashing good looks), waved at me and smiled from the single cash register area. I waved in return and added a warm smile. Thereafter, I grabbed a cart and kept busy for the next seven or eight minutes, filling the shopping cart.

Low and behold, who did I see? The lumberjack who lived next door. Jack Manwood, or whatever he went by. He carried a red plastic basket with a black handle in his right fist. Because he wore a wool and red jacket, and a matching beanie hat, he resembled Little Red Riding Hood’s twin, Alpha-male brother. Inside his basket he stowed away a plastic canister of protein powder, a bag of pink lady apples, steaks, and a box of instant hot chocolate.

Although I spotted him, he didn’t spot me…at first. Keeping hidden from view I watched him scale the narrow aisles: baking supplies, jarred spaghetti sauce, beer and wine, breads, more steaks, and dairy. He snatched his provisions from the shelves and added them to his overflowing basket. Nothing regarding his supplies stood out that seemed shocking. I didn’t see a tube of KY or box of condoms. I didn’t see the latest gossip magazine or romantic paperback novel that he would pay too much for. Instead, I deemed his shopping quite boring. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He lumbered to the left of the store with his basket and I pushed my cart to the store’s right in search of produce, which was out of season for Pennsylvania but still needed. After putting apples, bananas, and a bag of oranges inside my cart I ended up at the end of the aisle. And to my surprise, Jack crashed his left hip into the front of my cart, rocked it, and looked up and over its metal frame. Then our eyes connected.

I admit here and now, as a queer god in Rainbow Heaven is my witness, he had the most amazingly handsome eyes and crisp jaw line. Lakeside ruggedness came to mind. Again, I took in his broad and tall frame. Again, I checked out the plumpish curl of goods between his legs. And again, I verbally crossed the line and said to him, “We meet again, Jack…or whoever you are. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

I swear he wanted to shake my hand. Being friendly, he reached out his right hand ever so quickly, and slightly, but quickly pulled it away, having a second thought regarding a handshake. During that sudden action, he told me, “The snowstorm’s moving in quickly. I needed a few things. We’re supposed to have seven inches of snow before midnight”

I looked at the plastic bottle of protein mix in his girlish basket. “You’re a beefster.”

“A beefster?” He lifted his right eyebrow, questioning me. “What’s that?”

“Someone who works out more than he needs to. A musclehead. A meathead. A gym monkey. Someone with more brawn than brains. That’s you. I think you get what I’m saying.”

He dropped his view from me to his left bicep, then his right one. He placed his basket on the tile floor and flexed his arms. “You have a problem with a guy who works out? You don’t like these guns?”

I didn’t hide my attraction to men. Winter Mist Village and its surrounding towns had turned liberal in the last ten years. A remarkable Blue wave had caused prejudices and bigotry to be frowned upon. “On the contrary, Jack, I rather find beefsters attractive. And to be nice, you have nice guns.”

He didn’t blush. Nor did he smile. Rather, he lifted his head ever so slightly and asked, “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Trumble?”

My manly goods between my legs hardened ever so slightly and bounced, excited by him. I think a bubble of pre-spew leaked inside my boxer-briefs. “I could be, Jack. Maybe not. It depends how you want take my kind chatter.”

His kindness took an immediate and unexpected turn. “You’re not as flattering as you think you are, City Guy.”

The insult hit me like an arrow, and I would feel pain for the next few hours. Even lumberjacks could be mean. Brutish. Tyrants. How dare I thought otherwise.

He continued, “And you’re writing isn’t worthy of any prize. You’re not that good at it.”

That hit me worse than his comment about my flattering. Obviously, he knew of my books and had read them. Jack could have lunged the tip of any sword in my chest and it wouldn’t have stung me like his opinion of my written work. Numb and speechless, I simply stood there with an open mouth, immovable. Surprised. Bitten. Confused. Jelly on legs.

He ended our brief encounter with a humph sound and: “I thought we could be kind neighbors together. Guess I was wrong. My suggestion: take your fag fancy ass back to the city as soon as you can.”

I watched him walk away with his basket, obviously unharmed by our encounter. Part of that was an aphrodisiac for me. Bye, bye, Brute. We’ll meet again…soon.

Frankly, between you and me, all I could think about was rather selfish as he walked away: damn, he has a sexy ass in his tight jeans; something I want.