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. 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.” “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.”