I sit on a stool facing the car, but my eyes are drawn towards him. Another bend at the knees, and I can tell that he didn't pull down the waistband - the shorts conform to his ass tighter and bunch in his crack as he simply pulled up a shorts leg. Not hard to do in those - they're almost skimpy on him. But that means he's gotta be hung, if he's just going out the shorts leg... and he's certainly not piss shy, as I hear a heavy stream immediately hit the plastic and gurgle. I can't believe this... make conversation.

"Old lady, you said? Married?"

"Divorciado. Cuatro anos. Crazy bitch. Make babies, then I dunno. Something happen in her head." A pause in speech, but the piss still flows. "Not something I did. She took off, went back to Puerto Rico, took bambinos, money, everything." Another pause. "I not think it was me - I loved her, with all my heart. Mi bambinos - Maribel and Juan, the apples of my eye. Never wants to talk. I think she did not like the winter here, and knew I not want to move, mi trabajo." I hear the same emotion come through as he had shown about his grandfather and the car. Enamoring. This is too much.

"Sorry to hear about that too, Marcos. So you're alone now?" I cringe at myself for saying that. Stating the obvious. Fishing this early.

The flow trails off, then a few heavy prostate pumps to empty. A heavy sigh. "Sí. Solamente." I think I can almost hear the air being displaced as he shakes his dick. His back still to me, the material of his shorts relaxes, he adjusts again with both hands, but this time he walks all the way around the GP to return to his spot at the workbench. I have the Millers opened, and we toast and drink up. Marcos takes a pull that drains half his bottle, sets it down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, raises eyebrows, adjusts hat, sighs again and belches, gets back to the task at hand. "Has not been bad now. I married early, had babies, always working. Never any time to have fun. Grandfather dies around same time as divorce, says to me, 'you get El J, my boy. Have some fun with her'. So I do. When money left over from child support," as he shrugs and rolls his eyes.

"Wish I could say I feel ya, but I've never married." He's a feeler. Very open, I know that much now, within all of what? Fifteen minutes? Trying to tell me something this early after having just met me? Maybe it's the neighbor thing. Maybe with his divorce, he's opened his horizons. Not hard to do in this town. During this, the tiny clink of a jet falling onto the counter.

"Ai... Hijoeputa!" The cadence, the art of his cursing is... arresting. All I can do is to smile.

Looking up, thumping his chest a few times with a fist, he says "It hurts me here to think my fault, but I have to stop. Move on." He looks at me. "You not missing anything. A free man. You have a woman?"

"Not at the moment, no."

Marcos' eyes both squint and brighten almost imperceptibly, focused on the carb. I do my best to control myself and look down at my beer, then at the carb on the workbench. I change the subject with "So what you doin here? Tweakin jets?"

"Sí. El J pull like a moterfucker off the line, but problem, eh... bomba del acelerador. Accelerator pump. Double pumper too much. Got this E-dell-broke off a guy for hundred dollars, gave it a try with new... eh, many fold. Mira - if you look - headers, too."

I step over, lean over the fender and under the long hood, and sure enough - powder coated. I see Ram Air IV heads, too. I turn my head to look at him to ask something - and I knew it. He was looking over his shoulder, checking my ass out. He thought I'd have my head buried for a minute, but when I turned my head and said "455?", the directness of my voice pulled his eyes away from my ass to my face. I turned back to the engine bay. He was just checking out my ass...

"Sí. Treinta over, now 462. I make change so it look stock from outside, much as possible."

"Nice..." Now I was getting a good rise on. Good thing I had worn a jock for moving day. Beefy, Puerto Rican, handsome as all hell, into cars, seemingly available, close to home... non-verbal hints already... too fucking good to be true. "Ram Air heads... cam, too?"

"Sí." Just as I had thought earlier I could hear Marcos swinging a big dick to shake the last drops of piss, I now thought I could hear a big calloused hand slowly rubbing nylon. I resist the temptation to look back again.

"Wow... I can see just how well you've made this into a sleeper." I bet you're one in bed, too. But this was moving way too fast, even for a neighborly first meeting. I straightened up, and Marcos was already turned back and seated at the workbench. He's hiding his hard-on, I deduce. Probably what he's been trying to do this whole time, with the walking around the car after pissing bit. Time to back off a little.

Pulling another stool into a safe, new-neighbor-meeting position, I was about to ask if he raced it at all, what El J's trap times were - though his was built up a bit, GPs are still heavy cars, but without looking up, Marcos says with a low, even voice: "I seen you, the day you came looking at panadería... I was off work that day."

I kept quiet. He continued, "I been watching, seeing who was looking, so maybe I could get garage space for mi troca."

Uncomfortable silence. So I say "And...?", pulling on my beer.

Still looking down, engrossed in changing jets. But smiling faintly. "And I see you move in today. Happy that someone cool move in. I see your place from mine - big window in back, arriba." I hadn't gotten a good look at his place, other than what little I could see through the access door. I stand up, lean into the doorway for a look - veggie garden up one side, big arbor vitaes up the other, impossibly lush grass for a city lot in between, a small staircase and deck, and smack dab in the back of his tall A-frame, upstairs - a three panel picture window, the storm panel of which must be that one here in the garage. I turn to look, and could see that it reflected a good portion of the alley. I could see my three garage doors in it from here.

Some mental calculation told me he also had a straight shot from that window upstairs, over the neighboring garages, to view my roof, possibly the doors to the garage in the alley, and probably a good view into the big windows of the master suite and office on my second floor. Which didn't have any blinds or curtains or anything yet. "Looks like a nice place you got here."

Marcos looks up at me, big heavy shoulders hunched still. His diction suddenly crisp and slow, he says in a low voice with a wrinkled brow and half-scowl, "I hope you not think I spy on you." A little boy's face asking forgiveness instead of permission.

"Naw, man... it's good, in a way, I guess... neighborhood watch, y'know? After all, you were here first, and I know neighbors don't approach each other that quickly... 'cept when they have cool cars."

Marcos' face brightened again - so fucking precious, it is. His diction and tone returns to what it was. "Well, the peoples living there were pendejos. Never once say 'hola' to anyone, live there cinco anos. Let the place go to shit. I think, drogas maybe, but what kind?" he shrugs. "You know?"

"There are some weird things - paint colors, bad rehab, plumbing, electrical. Who knows. Whatever drugs were involved, they must not have been very good."

Marcos chuckles and says "Sí. So glad to have you here then. What you do? For work?"

"Graphic design for retail advertising. It's a living. But I have some side business, freelancing. Package design, magazine layout, photography, whatever comes my way for cash."

"I see. An artist."

"Of sorts. Shadetree mechanic, too."