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CHAPTER TWO

Somewhat befuddled, but too proud to show it, I walked past Man A and into my bedroom that was located just an arm's length behind him.  You see, I live in a studio apartment in a four-story building, one that usually houses undergrad students at the local college.  It's July, so the college kids have mostly gone home, except for the orphans and/or hopeless ones...so there's not many occupied apartments for the time being; the silent stillness is intoxicating.  It only makes sense that this guy ruined my life and chose my place.

I enjoy living by myself, partly due to my own choice, you understand, but also because I'm broke. Well, not classically broke in the sense that I'm inches away from being face down in the gutter, nothing like that.  More like, I work 40-50 hours a week at twice the minimum wage for the federal government, yet I'm still struggling to pay off my student loan, car loan, credit card bills, etc.  So, at the end of the day, I'm living the dream.  Go to college, get a job, and everything will be alright...yeah, right.  So being broke ensnares all, yet I'm just in a different kind of trap.

Now, first things first; it's time to strategize.  Let's put that college-educated brain to work.  How do I get this dude out of here?  I could ask him nicely to vamoose, but then he'd think I'm a punk...or I could grunt, puff out my chest and hoot and holler like the average American neanderthal, but then he'd probably give me a fistful of dollars to keep the circus in town.  I could also wait until he's finished writing, but heaven knows that could take a year shy of eternity to be completed.  Overall, I have to establish that I'm the one in power, me, Reginald John, and he has no choice but to submit and do as I wish.

'OK Reginald, you get out there and give him the business.  You can do this!  No sweat,' I ponder as I look into my own reflection...Christ, this mirror is dirty.  Hmmm, I don't have any paper towels handy.  Let me go into the kitch---fuck...this guy's still here.  OK, get out there, man.  Man A, gone, then clean the mirror, and onto Japan's mecha-samurai battles we go!  I open the door into the living room/dining room and prepared myself to defend my honor.

I decided I'd start with the nice guy approach, and then hit him when he was least expecting it.

"Hey, man.  You hungry?  I can order us some pizza, I guess, to ummm, help with your writing, but then you're gonna have to---"

"Sure, I'll take a sandwich.  Roast beef, with provolone.  Don't forget the spicy mustard."

"OK, uh let me check if I have...any of that."

"You do.  Bottom shelf.  Everything you need is right in front of you.  Open your eyes."

"Oh, right."  Flustered, I crossed in front of him towards the kitchen, tiptoeing on whatever bare spot I could see, as if I were in a minefield of disorganization trying to avoid stepping on his clothes that would undoubtedly set the entire apartment up in uncontrollable flames of my very real anxiety.  The last thing I want is to aggravate this guy and coerce him into staying any longer than he needs to.

Opening the fridge provided an unfortunate chilling moment of clarity.  Our conversation.  I couldn't believe he drew first blood.  How do I get out of this?  I needed some help.  What would Hiroyuki Watanabe do to his adversary?  Hmmm, he'd strike back and hard...to end all injustices that came into his world.  I now knew what I had to do next, and I just hoped and prayed I had the chutzpah to see it through.

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CHAPTER ONE

"What are you doing?"

"I only write when I'm naked."

I suspect that's the truth, as he sits there with his red boxer briefs, gray slacks, baby blue polo shirt, and burgundy tank top strewn about the floor. Most of my belongings are in their respective homes: TV, Playstation 2, modem,...yet I can't quite explain why this man is here.   I assume he's a man of few words, but the simplest words often remain true as the night is dark...so I'm better off asking him...I suppose.  In this world of dark, nebulous answers, it's refreshing to have one be so light in verbal and physical delivery.  Plus, he's as naked as the day he was born...in fact, more than that...because of the indomitable sin that's surely cast due to his actions as an adult man.  His clear eyes suggest, and against my better judgement, that I should trust this guy.  So, I enter my apartment, close the door behind me, and I ask him...

"Why are you here?"

"That's obvious.  I had nowhere else to go."

Here, we clearly have an interloper, and Saki would surely be disappointed by this man's appearance. Man A, roughly in his early 30s, a bearded, working man judged by the numerous scars on his knuckles, hands, fingers, and shins, was sitting in my living room...naked as sin...I know more about his life than this man most likely would be willing to tell.  But, the more pressing matter at hand begs the question, how do I get him out?  I've got some Japanese animation to watch...

"So, guy...what do you want?"

"What do I want?  World peace, free tuition for those attending college mainly to create an equal playing field that benefits those in favor of the eventual destruction of capitalism in The United States of America,  especially one that would ultimately balance the competitive plane for groups of various ethnicities, a homestyle roast beef sandwich with provolone cheese, a thorough understanding of how to interact with our humanoid brethren in outer space and distant lands...whether those lands be on this planet or beyond means little to me, and a thorough explanation with bullet points, and hopefully annotations, for the wild popularity of Donald Trump's candidacy in the 2016 presidential election."

'Fuck.'

I am now involved in this odd situation of nudity, one that begrudgingly does not include my own participation.  As he sits there, with his furry balls resting on the brown leather cushion of my favorite couch, I stood there for a few minutes contemplating about the next course of action and wondering how this interruptor of my personal entertainment would respond.

Frankly, I consider myself an intelligent being.  Yes, I'm progressive enough to state that nudity doesn't bother me...neither in film nor in the third dimension...yet most certainly, I'd almost always prefer the female body, in all of its wondrous shapes and forms, to be nude compared to men, but now, I'm stuck...with this guy...and his sticky balls... peeling away from my couch like velcro...to respond to me intelligently to why he's here.

"Better question, how do I get you out of my apartment?"

"That's easy, you just have to answer the right questions."

'Fucking guy.'

Somewhat mildly surprised with such a profound response, and curious about where the next question's retort would take me, I thought of asking him another more pertinent question.  Does he know who I am?  Worst yet, would I be prepared for his response, and would it ultimately floor me like none has succeeded in doing so before?