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his and unforgettable.
    Equally unforgettable (and there is no genteel way to relate this), he strutted a simply fabulous ass. As he leaned in front of the sofa to place his portfolio on the coffee table, I was treated to a full, unobstructed view of his muscular, khaki-clad butt, a sight that actually made me gasp. Parker didn’t hear me—he was saying something at that moment, God knows what—but Neil picked up on my reaction, and, in fact, he shared it, mouthing an exaggerated, silent Wow!
    My mind was in a momentary spin, caused not only by the unexpected, delightful display of Parker Trent’s posterior, but also by a memory that it triggered. Many years earlier, when I was a mere boy, at the very onset of my sexual awakening, I had experienced a similar rush upon viewing a similar sight. In a boy of nine, these new feelings were confusing and a bit frightening, but, most of all, thrilling. It had happened at Christmastime, during my first visit to Dumont. In the Chicago loft with Parker and Neil on that Saturday afternoon last fall, Dumont was very much in the back of my mind. I was planning the career move that would take me there. Clearly, it was my subliminal preoccupation with Dumont that fired my powerful response to Parker’s physique.
    Parker said, “I’ve brought along some tear sheets of my better work—editorials, extended series, special features. Ultimately, the work itself will tell you more about my background than a resume can.” He unzipped the portfolio, flopped its cover open, and began sorting through a pile of full-page newspaper samples, handing them to Neil and me.
    Sitting in a cluster around the coffee table, we began a quiet discourse of the various samples, Parker explaining the background of each project, Neil and I voicing our approval. While Neil was more interested in the design of the pages, I focused on their content and the solid research that backed each story. We both agreed that all of it was first-rate, and I grew steadily more convinced that Parker would make an outstanding managing editor for the Dumont Daily Register.
    When Parker finished with one stack of pages and prepared to make room for another, Neil rose, offering to get us drinks. Parker asked for juice or tea, and I had no taste for alcohol yet—it was still before five—so Neil stepped away to the kitchen, promising to concoct some sort of herbal infusion that he felt would suit the autumn afternoon.
    Parker and I thanked him; then Parker turned to ask me, “May I bore you with some more of my samples?”
    “I’m not the least bit bored,” I assured him. “What else have you got?”
    The coffee table was by now covered with the sheets of newsprint. “Let’s see,” he said, “somewhere here I’ve got a three-part series on a funding controversy at an upstate AIDS clinic. I didn’t do the actual reporting, but I dreamed it up, assigned it, and provided the hard research. I’m proud of it, Mark. I think you’ll agree that it’s good, solid journalism. Ah—here we are.”
    He made a clearing on the table and spread the funding series before me. As I leaned forward to study it, he gathered together the various pages I had already reviewed and glanced about for somewhere to put them, mentioning, “Let me get these out of the way.” Vacantly, I told him, “Anywhere’s fine,” already engrossed in my reading. With one knee on the floor, he picked the stack of clippings off the table and reached away to place them on the carpet, bending away from me, his rump aimed squarely in my direction.
    That broke my train of thought. I found it difficult to continue reading—hell, I couldn’t even focus on the type. Instead, my eyes were again glued to Parker Trent’s beautiful khaki ass. The sight of him kneeling there, bending over, with those sharp creases running up the back of his thighs, reminded me of my boyhood visit to Dumont.
    My mind spun back thirty-three years. It was several days before