Rugged Mann

Chapter 2: Ruddy Hill

Chapter 2: Ruddy Hill

March 28. Jason crosses his legs and writes in his leather notebook: Christopher Tarrington. Chris has been a patient with him for the last few months. The guy is twenty-nine. Looks like a young Harrison Ford. Jason reads: self-absorbed, single, selfish, non-drinker, no drugs. Eventually, he lifts his gaze from his notes and stares at the patient across from him. He listens.

“I drive past Bradbury’s house in my Nissan Leaf again. He can’t hear it because it runs on batteries. A quiet thing. Often too quiet. Up Ruddy Hill, near the strip club called The Man Place. The hill is steep. Twelve degrees. Nothing to mess around with. It’s a tricky hill, and you have to know how to swerve up its winding terrain. You don’t want to get stuck on it during a snowstorm, which you probably know. You don’t want to be spinning down it without brakes, out of control.

“This session isn’t about Ruddy Hill, though. Never will be. This is about Bradbury Dune. I know where he lives on the middle of the hill: 2928 Ruddy Lane. Two other bungalows sit on either side of his sky blue house. All three of them are small bungalows. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive. You’d think there would be more city trees around the threesome, but there isn’t. Instead, the bungalows sit behind an empty parking lot that has cracked asphalt and splotches of weeds around the turf. Ruddy Lane does a solid S-curve in front of the homes, leading up the steep hill.

“I know he has a small, red-bricked outside area, or what I call a patio, at the front of his bungalow: something like a courtyard with wrought-iron fencing that stands approximately five-feet high, two clotheslines form the letter X over three battered lounge chairs, a kiln in the far-left corner that he uses for his daily work, five-gallon plastic buckets filled with different clays. Spider plants, a banana plant, and rubber tree plants in terra-cotta pots create a perimeter next to the wrought-iron fencing. Too many green-white plants to count. Too many pots. It’s a busy place, but I like it. Sort of like home away from home.

“I drive past his property again…again…again and see Bradbury outside, lounging, bare chest gleaming in the sun, toes pointed at the blue-white-golden heavens of July, and oil smeared over his chiseled stomach and pecs. Sometimes, he reads a paperback while sunbathing. I can never make out its title, not that I care. Sometimes, he drinks iced tea with lemon. I can see the sliver of yellow-skinned fruit floating near the top of a tall glass filled with ice. Sometimes, he plays on his cell phone: thumbing its screen, maybe sending messages to his pals, gambling, or streaming a movie. Whatever he does with the phone, he seems to be enjoying his cyber life. Distant from the rest of the world, but so close.

“I park the Leaf in the lot behind the bungs, sneak up to his bung, and hide behind his assortment of tall plants and a wiry shrub that I can’t pronounce. I spy on him: both of us motionless in the summer sunshine, hot and sticky, calm. There’s over a hundred terra-cotta pots stacked around him: smooth baked earth finger-molded into hourglass forms, plump women, fishbowls, and a variety of other shapes. The pots are stunning, all different hues. There’s a radio near his right shoulder, and Pink Floyd is heard. The wind is handicapped, incapable of moving, creating a vat of moist and uncomfortable heat thick with stickiness.

“He sleeps, lightly snoring. His chest rises. His chest falls. Fingertips on his left hand roll down and over his stomach. Fingers and the palm land on the area between his legs. He’s wearing a bright red pair of Nike basketball shorts. The nylonayon/polyester material leaves nothing to my imagination as it clings to, and outlines, his privates: wide and thick junk, just how I like my men and personal finds.

“I stay here for over six minutes: watching Bradbury, studying him, letting him be my newest find and secret friend. He grunts in his sleep. He laughs. There’s something about the laugh that causes me to believe that he’s somewhere inside a dream, having drinks at a summertime beach party with me: forty or more chiseled men with red Solo cups in their hands, eighties dance music erupting from invisible speakers; all of these men mingling, smiling, and having an exhilarating time together; Bradbury alone with me near one of the beach hall’s exits, brushing his chest against mine, kissing my neck, and making me his boyfriend; Bradbury slipping one of his fingers along the top rim of my too-tight Speedo, pulling the material away from my skin, and saying, ‘What do you have hidden in here? Maybe we should leave this party and find someplace alone. I know you want me because you wear your desire all over your smile.’

“I do want him; everything about the man. But he stirs awake from his afternoon nap, and I slip away from his property, back to my Leaf. On my drive home, I’m uncomfortable between my legs, firm and horny. I think about jerking off while driving home to my flat, but don’t. It’s too unsafe.

“I spy on him two more times. He naps in the sun. I gawk crazily at his form and listen to his snores, grunts, and laughter. The wrought-iron gate is open, and I can sneak inside the area where he naps. If I want to, I can easily find myself positioned near his bung, able to study him closer, eyes wide open, intrigued. I stay put, though, concealed behind his green plants

“Once, only once, he catches me. Bradbury stirs awake, sits up, looks from his left to right, back to his left. ‘Who’s there?’ he says, which sounds like something out of a B-rated horror movie. ‘Don’t f**k with me. Who’s there?’

“He stands, catches me. ‘Who are you?’

“I tell him my name.

“‘You’re watching me.’

“‘For a few weeks now.’ I begin to ramble about being an artist, about painting, and how I can’t prevent myself from watching him. I sound like a madman. Do I care? Not particularly.

“He invites me inside his red-bricked and private area because he, too, is an artist, proud of the terra-cotta pots he creates. ‘Sit down. Have a drink with me. Know that I like my alcohol.’

“I accept the drink, his smile, and the interest he has in me.

“He pours us two orange-colored beverages near his lounge chair and stirs in tequila. He hands me my drink. ‘You obviously know me. Maybe it’s my turn to get to know you,’ he says. ‘Or maybe I should call the police. What is your choice?’

“‘I’d prefer you get to know me.’

“He looks older up close: specks of gray throughout his hair, tiny wrinkles around his eyes, and a single, narrow roll of fat near each armpit that tells me he’s in middle-age. Mature and still attractive. Something I like in a man. Always have. ‘Let me get this straight, you like to watch me sleep?’

“I nod and say, ‘And I like your pots. You’re an excellent artist. I respect your work and who you are.’

“‘Thank you, but they’re not all that. Would you like to see my figurines? I have them in the bungalow.’

“I’ve heard of the terra-cotta figurines but have never seen one in person. They sell for fifty thousand dollars each, or more. Twelve-inch replicas of a naked Hercules. Each figurine in all; each sports an erection. Some crazy women think they are aphrodisiacs if rubbed. It is said that if you are female and take a Bradbury Dune figurine and rub it against your stomach, you’ll be pregnant in less than four weeks. It’s bullshit, of course, but interesting nonetheless. Plus, the folklore of Bradbury’s art helps his terra-cotta pieces sell, which means he can afford to nap his afternoons away.

“‘Yes, please. I’d love to see the Hercules figurines.’ He catches me staring at his bare chest. My eyes scan his n*****s and pecs. He sees me lick my lips, obviously learning that I’m attracted to him.

“‘How old are you?’ he asks.

“‘Twenty-eight.’

“‘A pup. You’re still wet behind your ears. Do you like older men like me?’

I nod again and take a sip of the strong drink of tequila and an orange-flavored punch. It’s not a bad concoction, providing me with a buzz.

“‘Why do you like older men as opposed to younger ones?’

“‘It’s all about experience. I’ve never had a rotten time with an older man.’

“‘You do know I’m married, right?’

“Another nod. I tell him, ‘To Vlad Champlain. Six years. He’s in Arizona right now, finding you a special type of clay you can use in your next series.’

“He laughs, arrogant, rather cute, and dismal. ‘You’ve done your homework on me. Nicely done. Kudos.’

“‘I’d like to think I have. I don’t consider you a waste of my time.’

“‘So let me get this straight. You cross on private property, watch me nap, and now you want to sleep with me. I can’t be your aphrodisiac. I’m not a cheating husband.’

“‘I never said I wanted to sleep with you. I have a boyfriend. His name is Glenn. He’s an optometrist and…’

“‘Come with me,’ he interrupts me. ‘I’ll show you my figurines. If you want to see them. You deserve it after watching me.’

“I set my drink aside, stand, and begin to follow him inside the bungalow. My mind races, and excitement builds within my chest. My heart thumps wildly and relentlessly. I can’t wait to see the clay figurines. I can’t wait to be inside his bungalow, with him.

“This session isn’t about Bradbury Dune. Never will it be. It’s about the figurines. Maybe he’ll let me touch one. Maybe I can have one, if he’ll let me. Only time will tell as I follow him inside the bungalow, the two of us alone, mixing.”

Chris becomes silent.

“Are you finished?” Jason asks.

“Does it sound like I’m finished?”

“I’m not really sure. You tell me.”

He nods. “I’m finished. He shows me what I want to see. We don’t sleep with each other. We have another two drinks together. It becomes a pleasant time with him, and the conversation is smooth.

Jason asks, “Have you seen him since?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know if I want to. I saw what I wanted to see.”

“The figurines?”

“Yes. I’m sort of done with him. I’ll find someone new to watch.”

“Interesting,” Jason says, scrawls some notes down, and realizes their time is up. The session comes to an end.

* * * *

Jason has one more client before he takes a ten-minute break to grab a cup of coffee across Third Street. He’ll die without some java before noon. Bless his soul. In the meantime, he has a few minutes to himself between clients and checks his text messages. The number three in bright, alien green flashes on his phone’s screen. All three texts are from Gillian, his fag hag:

Some big-mouthed cow-cunt cut me off on Route 29. Almost hit her. Deserved it. But didn’t hit her. Too much insurance s**t to go through. Pissed me off, though. You have no idea. No idea! None.

Don’t forget the dinner party this evening. Dillon will be broken if you don’t bring him. He loves my dinner parties. Please don’t forget him. If you do, neither of us will hear the end of it.

Almost forgot. Stay by your phone. I might need you to pick up something for tonight. A last minute item or two or three. Small things. You know how crazy it gets when you’re throwing a dinner party. You can’t tell me you don’t know.

He reads the texts again, starting with the one about driving. Bottom line: Gillian’s one of the worst drivers on the planet. No joke. Jason knows that she probably cut the cow off on Route 29.

As for the dinner party at Gillian’s flat, he’ll be there. But Dillon has to work, attending some mandatory meeting about safety gun use. He did tell Jason this morning, “If the meeting ends early, I’ll try to make the gathering. Otherwise I probably can’t make it. You’ll have to calm Gillian down for me.” Fair enough.

Regarding staying by his phone, Jason can’t. He has patients to tend, listening to their situations, problems, romances, and personal whatnots. The last thing one of his patients wants to see is him playing on his phone. So there’s no way he’ll be keeping it on and at his side, checking for texts from Gillian about things she may have forgotten for this evening’s dinner party, etc.

* * * *

This everyday life of sleep, work, sleep, and work. Thank God he has Dillon in his world. Someone who balances the monotony. Every day becomes a blur when he’s not around. The cop releases him from his chains, or handcuffs. Dillon makes it all better for him, the humdrum of life, the break in the boredom of his life, the immediate right turn when Jason supposed to go straight. As an artist, which Dillon isn’t because he honestly doesn’t have an artistic bone in his body, his would paint his canvases with a thick gray. Smog. Or fog. The blur of life. The everyday nothingness of sleep, work, sleep, and work. Dillon’s the color of life. The brightness. The glitz and glamour. Gold. Something iridescent.

Thank God.