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I had been outside mowing my lawn when the moving van had come to the vacant house next door. I watched rather enviously as load after load of expensive furnishings were unloaded and taken inside. I briefly caught a glimpse of the new owner when he was talking with the movers but other than that I had not seen him. He had been in the house for about a week when I decided to take a chance and introduce myself to my new neighbor. The young man who answered my knock was quite good looking. Under his fitted clothing he was well-toned and his hazel eyes beneath a head of dark hair gave him an irresistible charm.
“Um…hi, I’m your next door neighbor Darryl.” I said as I nervously extended my hand in greeting.
“Hello Darryl. Would you care to come inside?” He seemed friendly enough. I had expected dust and cobwebs everywhere but instead was greeted by a very clean foyer. “Please have a seat.” He ushered me into a well-appointed parlor.
“Thank you Mr.?”
“Pardon my manners. Please call me Mark.” He must have sensed my discomfort and did his best to make me feel at ease.
I found Mark to be an intriguing young man as we carried on a conversation. Despite my shyness we bonded quickly and soon were chatting like long lost brothers over snifters of a very fine brandy Mark brought out. I was so comfortable with him that I hadn’t noticed the time slipping away until the grandfather’s clock in the foyer chimed midnight. I said my good nights to Mark and promised to come over tomorrow to help him finish what remained of his unpacking.
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Staring out the front window of the art gallery, Simon Blake noticed the two studs as soon as they emerged from the surf. It was hard not to notice them, with their nearly identical gym-rat physiques and their swimwear color-coordinated with their hair. The one with slicked-back black hair was perhaps an inch taller than his companion and wore square-cut black trunks, while his pal with abundant red curls sported a red Speedo. Both had now slipped on their flip-flops and were toweling themselves dry as they walked across the sand.
When he had his job interview, Simon had found the location of this fine-art gallery peculiar. Although the beach certainly attracted its share of upscale visitors, Simon thought the shop would be far more successful if it were located slightly inland, among the other prestige boutiques which were frequented by the moneyed classes, rather than along the boardwalk with its t-shirt stores, hot-dog carts and Sno-Kone stands. Even so, Simon didn't think it was his place to question the gallery owner's business sense, and it certainly seemed unlikely that such second-guessing of his prospective boss's wisdom would be helpful in getting him hired.
Once he started working at the gallery, Simon discovered just how right his instincts were. The place got almost no foot traffic. Tourists in tank tops and baggy shorts occasionally peeked through the windows or, on rare occasions, swung open the front door and glanced around before quickly realizing that this wasn't their kind of place. Simon could go hours or even days between serious customers. Frankly, Simon had come to appreciate the peace and solitude of the job. Inside the store's undisturbed cocoon, he could munch on his packed lunch of fruits and veggies and listen to Mozart all day, drowning out the moronic hip-hop which was as ubiquitous in the air outside as the salt in the ocean's breezes. As a former art history major, Simon was relieved that the less sophisticated passersby didn't bother coming inside, as it meant fewer times he would have to educate the yokels on why some of the artwork on the walls merited a five-figure price tag. Since Simon was paid a salary and didn't work on commission, he really didn't care that the gallery might go a week without a sale. How to keep the doors open on such little income was the owner's problem. If the owner hadn't found some sucker with no life like Simon to waste his days here, the place would likely have gone belly-up months ago. But having so few customers sure made the time drag.
Simon spent most of his days gazing out the floor-to-ceiling front windows at the passing parade of humanity. It was like watching a never-ending episode of "Baywatch" on the world's largest hi-def TV screen. He once tried to estimate how many square feet of exposed skin he saw on the average day. Unfortunately, the most out-of-shape tourists often chose to conceal their bodies the least. A decent share of those walking past were attractive young women in bikinis, but their assets were wasted on Simon. The two buddies strolling off the beach were much more Simon's type...aesthetically, if not intellectually.
Simon operated under the assumption that anyone who spent that much time perfecting their body was not spending it developing their mind. On the few times he had dared to try chatting up a particularly well-built hunk, they proved to be dumb and/or straight, seemingly dooming Simon to a life of being attracted only to men he didn't want and/or men he couldn't have. Simon just wanted to find one hot guy with whom he shared one crucial common interest -- that being an interest in getting Simon laid.
If he was trying to figure out the reasons for his near-constant celibacy, a quick look in any mirror should have given Simon a hint. His work uniform of a blue dress shirt, khakis and brown shoes didn't differ much from his usual wardrobe. On the job, he was required to wear a necktie, but he seemed incapable of making the skinny end shorter than the fat end. He typically rolled the sleeves of his shirt above his elbows, exposed thin, bone-pale forearms which could scarcely be termed an asset. He completed his nerd/preppy look with a pair of gold-framed glasses and a haircut so tidy and unmoving, it resembled the plastic hair you might stick on a Mr. Potato-Head.
As Simon's eyes lingered on the two studs' muscles shifting and bulging as they walked across the sand, he assumed they would eventually veer off to buy smoothies or something, but they continued on their course straight for the gallery's front door. When SImon finally realized that the one with the red curls was gripping the door handle, he rushed toward the entrance with the sad realization that he would need to turn them away.
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| Arlene, Larry, and Alice |
How do you fancy a break away from home, work, your life even your body; And on return have a completely new body and outlook on life?
That was the parting comment from my business partner of four years. He was the type who lived it up big style. Partying, vacations, girls even guys on demand. Sure he worked hard for it, we both did. He spent his cash; I invested it. But somehow he had it all. Little did I know of his secret to staying looking, sounding and feeling youthful.
I explained that we couldn't both take a holiday, but he was adamant that it would all be left in very safe hands and no one would notice any difference. I have to admit a 16 night vacation to Japan sounded bliss right now and was just what the doctor ordered!
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| Arlene, Larry, and Alice |
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| Arlene, Larry, and Alice |
I rounded the corner and searched the faces in the crowded mall. Milo's voice grated across my mobile, "Find him, FIND HIM!" I gritted my teeth, and ended the call. This was the gang's turf, and Antonio was trespassing. My mobile rang again--Milo. I hated him, what he'd done to my family, the advantage he had on me.
I heard shouting, the others had spotted Antonio running towards the exits, he hadn't seen me and I ducked back around the corner to head him off. I watched him running towards me, a look of panic on his face; our eyes locked and he shook his head, almost begging me to step aside. I looked away for a split second, and saw my kid brother taken away by one of Milo's guys--just a distant memory. I had no choice, and stepped into Antonio's path and tackled him to the ground. Seconds later the others were lifting him to his feet, dragging him to one of the quiet corners of the mall. Reluctantly I followed knowing Milo's plans for poor Antonio.
Milo sauntered up, cocky as ever. He was ruthless in his greed for power, but still small fry in the district. Six months ago, I'd been careless when I'd borrowed the identity of one of his men--they'd seen me. News got back to Milo, and he tried to recruit me into his gang, I wasn't interested. This really twisted him into a rage, he yelled threatening my life--but he didn't scare me. Then he went quiet, and the others shifted nervously. I had the impression that this wasn't a good sign. He pulled one of his guys to one side and muttered something in his ear, I swallowed when his eyes flicked towards me, and then his goon left.
He walked up, looking up at me; although he was short, his demeanour was that of a wild and dangerous animal. He smiled, corners edged into a sneer of a predator that's just cornered its prey. An hour later, he had my kid brother and to keep him alive I found myself working for Milo.
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We crowded around Antonio, holding him in place. We waited, Milo waited until he'd said his piece, threatening that his brother would kill us all. I knew his brothers background, Milo was small fry in comparison. I discarded the thought and focused on my own brother. Milo picked at Antonio's sunglasses, but had his hand slapped away. His hands balled, and he mustered himself as the smile returned. "Let's see how valuable you are, I want to extend my 'hood--" he prodded at Antonio's chest, "now I've got you, I don't think your brother will stand in my way."
I watched Milo make a FaceTime call to Antonio's brother--Raymond. Antonio started to struggle again; I leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "Stop moving, otherwise you’re a dead man."
"You know my brother will come for me," he muttered to Milo.
"So what if he does, I got all the cards," he replied with a sneer.
Raymond's face appeared on the screen. "You! What the fuck as you calling me for you weasel."
"I want you to give me the south district," Milo grinned.
"You're an idiot, don't waste time."
"Have you lost anything?" Milo lifted the phone and showed Antonio. "Look what I've found, on my turf," Milo sneered. Then he dropped the facade, "I don't want your shit stinking up my 'hood."
