I decide that I've cooled off enough and am not totally smelly, so I can pass on a shower. Two more fresh cold beers, key check, and I'm wrestling and locking the wrought iron gate again. I can see the GP's garage is still open. Good.

I approach the GP's garage as two smiling, laughing Mexican kids on a BMX bike swerve with imbalance in my path. I side-step them with a "whoa!", park the beers on top of a garbage bin, look into the garage, and see the hulking figure from earlier, standing at a workbench, backlit to almost a silhouette from the light over the bench. The GP's hood is up again, the air cleaner off, the carb removed. The figure looks up and back with a sideways glance at my "whoa", as I stand on the garage's apron.

"Wow... sweet Grand Prix, man. '71?" I know I already know the answer, and I'm certain he knows, but it's the usual stranger car talk thing guys do.

"You know it. Modelo jota." Meaning it's a Model J, one of the option levels for second-gen GPs.

He turns sideways from the workbench, his attention now half devoted to the carb in one huge hand, and I kinda wish he hadn't turned so I could have kept looking, but I turn my attention back to the GP. Huge would have been a fitting descriptor for any one of his body parts - from the white and black beat-up Reeboks on his feet in white ankle socks, up thick, hairy legs to the beefy ass stretching tight a pair of dark brown, old style nylon gym shorts - as he turns, I see the white "MC" logo on one thick leg, meaning these were probably original for a local Catholic high school alma mater. Broad, thick shoulders with a halfback roll, encased in a worn-thin light gray t-shirt, which again upon his turning reveals a Puerto Rican flag, looking small and stretched across an expanse of meaty pecs. A similar tattoo of the same flag surrounded by a stylized flaming sun peeking out from under the t-shirt sleeve on a big, well-developed but not overly ripped bicep. I had averted my gaze before I could get a crotch shot in the fading afternoon light...

But in the few seconds I had to assess him, the guy was looking to be about 6'4" and somewhere between 250-275 pounds. Somewhat of a gut, but worn well overall on one powerfully and naturally built beef fuckin cake. In his mid 30s. Dark caramel skin tone. Lots of unruly, wavy black hair sticking out every which way from under a dirty black baseball cap. Bright, almond eyes, slightly wide set. Boyish face with a smallish, turned-up nose, unshaved and scruffy, and that smile - totally electric in its whiteness, almost as broad as his shoulders, bookended with vertical dimples. Not a pretty boy. Killer looks. No wonder I had seen that smile all the way from four doors down.

"Man, this is nice. All original?" I'm noting original, intact black leather interior, well optioned for a Model J, with buckets and console, gauges, power windows, factory tinted glass, even the original 8-track.

"Sí... was my granpai's car in Puerto Rico. Bought new. Ship here with my family. 1980." The smile wanes. "He died, four year ago. I keep it... for his memory."

I had stepped inside a few feet and stooped to check the car better. By this time he had moved to turn on the overhead fluorescents, and then stepped closer, shifting the carb from right hand to left, wiping his right on his shirt, ostensibly to shake - but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the hand drop to give a quick pinch n roll to his crotch.

Ignoring this, I straightened up to look to his face to convey my condolences, as his voice had shown his loss. "Man, I'm sorry to hear that."

"S'OK. He in a better place now. With mi granmai up there, too," as he points skyward.

I stick out my hand to shake. "Name's Dan. I just moved in down there today," pointing a thumb back over my shoulder with the other hand.

His huge dirty paw grabs my hand firmly and pumps. "Marcos. Ya I seen you. You buy the old panadería." He grins evilly. "Crazy place, mon. Hope you gots muy dinero, Danny."

At this point I see we stand eye to eye, but Marcos has got to have a good 80 pounds on me. And then I see something about those eyes - deep dark brown, but with hints of hazel - like dull glitter. No hints of contact lenses, though. I turn back to the GP to avoid too much eye contact. The immediate default to the friendly "Danny" doesn't help. I like him already.

"Ah, well, you know... I'm broke, now that I bought it." Wish I had enough left over to buy this car, but knowing a bit of its history already, I know enough not to say that. Instead, "Wish I had enough left over to buy a car like this. I ain't rich, but I needed a place with some space. It's got that three car garage, so maybe, someday..."

"So maybe you rent one garage to me? - I park El Jota there, leave space open here for mi troca? Or park troca by you?" A slight bend at the knees, and another crotch hike. Don't look. Not yet. New neighbor. New really fuckin hot neighbor, too.

I turn my attention back to the GP and chuckle softly. So that's what the peeking was about - he was scoping the new owner of the biggest garage on the block, in a neighborhood short on street parking and garage space. "Hey man, you never know. I might need the money. You got a truck?"

"Sí." Marcos turns to return the carb to the workbench, where I see he has a box of metering jets open. "I work for electric union, but no room in here, I have to park on the street, have to bring everything inside, cada noche. Fooking drag, main." This little bit of mocking American profanity lights up his face even more, which in turn has me grinning, too.

"Say Marcos, you want a beer? I have a couple right... here..." - or at least I thought I did. Walking back out of the garage to the garbage bin, they're now missing.

"Ha ha... you should know better. Cabritos en sus bicicletas? They drink cerveza right now... heh!" Which was probably true, as they had been up and down the alley several times since I had walked up, but were now absent, as were the beers. "And shit - you new to the hood, I offer you one. Cerveza friá," motioning to the small apartment-size refrigerator in the corner.

"Cool man, thanks." While pulling two High Lifes, I notice a foot or so gap between the fridge and the wall - a closer look reveals what looks to be a makeshift urinal stall - a crotch-high length of PVC pipe with a plastic gallon milk jug cut away to catch the flow stuck in the top, and the bottom stuck in something I recognize as a five gallon industrial carboy, sitting on the floor, with about a gallon of piss already in it.

"So, uh, Marcos - you spend a lot of time out here?", motioning with my chin to indicate I had spied the urinal.

"Oh man... my ol lady complain about me pissing in alley, and going in and out of the house, dirty feet and hands and shit. Also complain about neighbor lady, see me shakin mi bicho in alley, she think 'bellaco'! Ai... nice hood anyway, so I stop. Good idea, no?" as he looks towards it and mutters "Tengo que miar, antes de echarme otra cerveza..."

Marcos puts down a screwdriver, and with a hand on my shoulder and a quieter "excuseme", he scootches his bulk between me and the back bumper of the GP to step to the urinal. I note on his passing that he gives me the crotch, and feel his package brush slightly against my ass. I remember in the movie "Fight Club", where the Tyler Durden character makes the "do I give you the crotch? or do I give you the ass?" speech on the plane. I just got the crotch, and I haven't even given it a good look yet... I also note that his hand seemed even more thick and heavy on my shoulder, with a slight squeeze, and the contact on both my shoulder and ass leaves both places tingling. I can't believe this is so... quick. He's not interested...? Already he's game?



He can't be...