The Hands of Men.
The Hands of Men.
You can tell who a person is by his hand. What kind of life they lead, what kind of work they do, if they are spoiled, if they are hurt. If eyes are the mirror to your soul, your hands are the reflection of your body: rough, soft, small, big or with broken nails and tremors and endless freckles and scars.
You can never change your hands. And I can tell who you are just by holding it whether you like me, want me or just plain hate me. Your hand is how I know you and get your affection and I want it. So:
"Lend a brother a hand?"
*
"Lend a brother a hand?" I lay on the ground and extend my hand to him like a black hole, begging for some attention. His. The ground was cool, wet with the tears of the early mist. I didn't mind it soaking into my clothes so I laid there, foot injured and hand held up in his way, luring him in in this little patch of nowhere where farms and the sun are the only thing that matters.
He does not lend his hand. Nor does he spare the slightest of glances towards me. He was a man. He does not bend even if he is broken. And he will certainly not bend for another man. He will not bend for a hand so calloused and bigger than his, rough and knobby. He looks straight ahead and, with a pronounced abruptness, he says: "Ya have feet, don'cha?"
His growl, or attempt at one, sounds shaky and juvenile, lacking the stoic purr of adulthood. I smile and keep my hand up along with my hopes.
"You ain't gunna lose yer tiny balls if ya help a brother out," I repeat my plea and look up at him, his lanky stalk-like limbs, burgundy hair and sunburnt skin, making him resemble every bit of the growing man-boy he is. A teenager so damn ensnared with his image of manly that he's a shame to himself. If he can't have the mane, the body, the image of a man, he can do away with the voice. The cloak we cover with our insecurities, whether with anger, with venom or with lust.
"Fuck you," he mumbles, pushing away at the tall blades of grass, attempting to forge a path throughout them to get away from me until I manage to get a good grip on his leg. He mutters more insults as he wrestles my hand and his urge to inflict damage that he knows will be useless upon my much more developed body.
"What's yer name, boy?" My hand is bigger than his ankle.
"Fuck you. An' don't you go callin' me 'boy', ya ain't that old. Ya ain't a man," he retaliates while feebly trying to unlatch his leg from my much stronger fingers.
"Well, Fuck You, ya ain't much of a man either, turning down a gentleman in distress."
"Ya have legs." He doesn't succeed in getting away this time either.
"You have arms, Fuck You."
"Stop callin' me that!" his voice becomes shakier, cracking with uncertainty, fear and boyhood. The cloak of maturity slips as fear finds its way into his throat.
"Would ya prefer Fuck or You, then?"
"Jedd. Name's Jedd. Now leave me alone!" By now he has decided to use that baby-growl of his again, trying to salvage what's left of the man he's trying to be. He's struggling to find which tone sounds more intimidating as he sounds like a different boy with each syllable. Not even a man.
"Then just help me." I find it entertaining and endearing at the same time. Yet, I do not let go. I don't nurture his need to be a man or humor it.
"There ain't nothin' wrong with ya!" he yells. And he's right. I laid on the ground just to be helped by him. There's nothing wrong with me; this pretend-injury in my leg is simply that. Pretend. The only thing that's wrong is that I want you. To touch your freckled overworked man-boy hand. Except that, there's nothing wrong with me at all.
Jedd can't read my mind, the mind of a man so enamored with hands as much as he is enamored and entrapped with the illusion of masculinity. So he is frightened, using that silly pretend-man voice of his to ward me off. It doesn't work. Instead, it brings me closer to him and his flailing arms and up his pant leg.
"Well, Jedd-boy, lend me yer hand an' I promise I'll leave ya." His untrusting eyes flicker for a second with justified reluctance before he gives in.
And he lends me his hand and it's softer than the soil, the dewy earth of the morning, underneath my own.
You can never change your hands. And I can tell who you are just by holding it whether you like me, want me or just plain hate me. Your hand is how I know you and get your affection and I want it. So:
"Lend a brother a hand?"
*
"Lend a brother a hand?" I lay on the ground and extend my hand to him like a black hole, begging for some attention. His. The ground was cool, wet with the tears of the early mist. I didn't mind it soaking into my clothes so I laid there, foot injured and hand held up in his way, luring him in in this little patch of nowhere where farms and the sun are the only thing that matters.
He does not lend his hand. Nor does he spare the slightest of glances towards me. He was a man. He does not bend even if he is broken. And he will certainly not bend for another man. He will not bend for a hand so calloused and bigger than his, rough and knobby. He looks straight ahead and, with a pronounced abruptness, he says: "Ya have feet, don'cha?"
His growl, or attempt at one, sounds shaky and juvenile, lacking the stoic purr of adulthood. I smile and keep my hand up along with my hopes.
"You ain't gunna lose yer tiny balls if ya help a brother out," I repeat my plea and look up at him, his lanky stalk-like limbs, burgundy hair and sunburnt skin, making him resemble every bit of the growing man-boy he is. A teenager so damn ensnared with his image of manly that he's a shame to himself. If he can't have the mane, the body, the image of a man, he can do away with the voice. The cloak we cover with our insecurities, whether with anger, with venom or with lust.
"Fuck you," he mumbles, pushing away at the tall blades of grass, attempting to forge a path throughout them to get away from me until I manage to get a good grip on his leg. He mutters more insults as he wrestles my hand and his urge to inflict damage that he knows will be useless upon my much more developed body.
"What's yer name, boy?" My hand is bigger than his ankle.
"Fuck you. An' don't you go callin' me 'boy', ya ain't that old. Ya ain't a man," he retaliates while feebly trying to unlatch his leg from my much stronger fingers.
"Well, Fuck You, ya ain't much of a man either, turning down a gentleman in distress."
"Ya have legs." He doesn't succeed in getting away this time either.
"You have arms, Fuck You."
"Stop callin' me that!" his voice becomes shakier, cracking with uncertainty, fear and boyhood. The cloak of maturity slips as fear finds its way into his throat.
"Would ya prefer Fuck or You, then?"
"Jedd. Name's Jedd. Now leave me alone!" By now he has decided to use that baby-growl of his again, trying to salvage what's left of the man he's trying to be. He's struggling to find which tone sounds more intimidating as he sounds like a different boy with each syllable. Not even a man.
"Then just help me." I find it entertaining and endearing at the same time. Yet, I do not let go. I don't nurture his need to be a man or humor it.
"There ain't nothin' wrong with ya!" he yells. And he's right. I laid on the ground just to be helped by him. There's nothing wrong with me; this pretend-injury in my leg is simply that. Pretend. The only thing that's wrong is that I want you. To touch your freckled overworked man-boy hand. Except that, there's nothing wrong with me at all.
Jedd can't read my mind, the mind of a man so enamored with hands as much as he is enamored and entrapped with the illusion of masculinity. So he is frightened, using that silly pretend-man voice of his to ward me off. It doesn't work. Instead, it brings me closer to him and his flailing arms and up his pant leg.
"Well, Jedd-boy, lend me yer hand an' I promise I'll leave ya." His untrusting eyes flicker for a second with justified reluctance before he gives in.
And he lends me his hand and it's softer than the soil, the dewy earth of the morning, underneath my own.
♠ ♠ ♠
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