Date: Wed, 04 Jun 2003 19:27:07 -0500
From: Fredric L. Brothers <flbrothers@hotmail.com>
Subject: ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY (Man/Teen) - Part 1
A Disclaimer: If you don't appreciate gay, intergenerational love
stories (that means man/boy or man teen to the uninitiated or brain
dead), or you're under 18 years old, please leave this site now.
Okay? You have been warned. Enough said!
ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY
---------------------------------------------
By Fred Brothers
Copyright (c) 2003 Fredric Law Brothers - All Rights Reserved
NOTE CAREFULLY: The following is a copyrighted work and is intended
for private, individual use. It may not be reproduced by any known
method, distributed or posted on additional web sites without the
expressed written consent of the author.
--------------------------------------------------------
Yes, I know. It's one of the most popular devices/themes on these
archives - the perennial lawn boy story. However, I hope you'll find
this one entertaining, enlightening, endearing and just a little
different. After all, it's springtime again here in the northern
climes. Let me welcome the season with my own take on this genre.
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Moving time is trauma time. I loath hate it more and more every
time I am compelled to go through the process. Digging through the
old stuff, throwing away some cherished memories and leaving an area
I have become comfortable in, is not my idea of a good time.
Dredging up the long dead and recently demised past is not my notion
of fun and games, especially when my life has been such turmoil.
I'm Cole Avery. I was an independent computer software
developer and, as such, I found myself moving around the country
quite regularly. I've live in such large metropolitan areas as
Boston, New York, Washington DC, Chicago, Austin, San Jose and
Seattle, to name just the largest. But two years ago, as I passed
that age of ages, the big FIVE-ZERO, I decided I absolutely needed to
slow down. Not to come to a complete halt, but to take life a bit
easier, to slow down by gradual increments and to appreciate what I
had accomplished in the form of wealth - familial, physical, mental
and monetary.
So my thoughts traveled back to the places where I had lived for
the last thirty some odd years. I weighed the pluses and minuses of
each, including climate, health care availability (something not to
be overlooked in the face of rapidly approaching old age),
affordability (taxes, etc.), recreational benefits, cultural
attractions, closeness to family and friends, and a host of other
factors. It took weeks to arrive at the final answer, and when I
did, I thought something had gone terribly wrong with my methodology
and calculations. Chicago! Chicago?
The numbers pointed to Chicago! I rechecked them all - no
mistakes.
Okay then! Can't argue with the facts. Chicago it is!
Chicagoland here I come!
Part 1
The kid is rangy, redheaded and rather cute. He's standing at
my front door, holding onto a Cubs baseball cap. The gusty spring
wind blows his longish hair. He has a wonderful full smile and
dazzling white teeth. I peg him at being thirteen, fourteen at the
oldest. He's wearing the official uniform of the now teenage crowd -
baggie everything.
Without speaking a word, his great personality seems to shine
through. He radiates that unknown something special - call it
charisma or magnetism or charm for lack of better words. He
immediately launches into his spiel.
"Good morning, sir. I'm Clayton Ritchards, and I live rrright
here in your neighborhood. I was wondering if I could persuade you
to give my Ritchard's Lawn and Garden Maintenance Service a try." He
hands me a business card and a colorful flyer. I stare at them both,
then back at the kid again. "Since we are a locally rrrun operation,
we will always be here for you. Your complete and total
sssatisfaction is our only gggoal. Since you are new to our area,
the first cutting is absolutely fffree." He gives me a reinforced
smile. "So what do you say, sir?"
I stand there a bit open mouthed. His bright smile, great good
looks, winning charm and attractive demeanor have overwhelmed me, not
to mention his breakneck sales pitch. His rather high-pitched though
resonant voice is a delight to my ears. His speech impediment, the
dragging out of certain consonant sounds, has me a little stumped.
Maybe it's nervousness . or maybe he has a bad stutter and is trying
to control the effects.
"Well, I say I need a little more information."
"Excellent sir, that's what I'm here to provide. What would you
lllllike to know?"
"First, would you like to come in to discuss this business
proposition? I'm in the middle of my morning coffee. And it's a
little gray and unsettled out here. I prefer the comforts of my home
rather than speaking here on the porch."
"Um...okay, that'll be fffine...um...if it's okay with you."
I could not understand his seeming hesitation on being invited
into the house. But he enters and I steer him into the breakfast
area. I think I detect a slight limp in his walk but dismiss any
thought of him having a handicap. He seems just too healthy and fit
in that marvelous, mid-western, All-American way.
I've been waiting for the onslaught of lawn boys coming to my
door. It's happened every spring in every neighborhood. But here,
in this town, this kid is the very first to show up. Maybe the town
is so upscale that the kids don't need to work for extra money -
mother and father provide everything.
He looks around rather timidly, poking his head into the various
rooms, including the hall bathroom. "This place really looks great,
sir," he enthuses. "Awesome! You did wwwonderful things with it.
It looks like you made some exciting changes."
"You're familiar with this house?"
"Oh, yes sir. Mmmy friends Kevin and Jon used to live in here
in this house. Before their ppparents split and they went off with
her." He shakes his head. "I've been here mmmany times, even
ssslept over a few." He looks around for a few minutes more, even
taking time to gaze out of the French doors leading to the rear deck
and the terraces. "Yes. The colors in this room and the wallpapers
you chose are very, very complimentary to the architecture."
"Thank you. Can I get you something to drink Clayton?" I ask.
"I'm having coffee but I have just about anything you'd want."
"Nnno. No thank you, sir." He settles on the chair offered -
sitting forward in that eager teen attitude. He puts the ball cap on
his lap. That's when I notice his right hand. I suppose I'm staring
at it rather directly. Clayton realizes where my gaze is resting.
He flashes a rather sad grin and holds up the hand - or rather, the
stainless steel split hook positioned at the end of his arm. "Please
don't wwwworry about this, sir." With his left hand, he rotates it
slightly. "I have a more heavy duty prosthetic that I use when I do
the lawn and garden work. I assure you that I am very cccccapable
and very able to do all the work exactly as I've said in my flier."
I swallow hard and nod. "I'm sure you are." He lets the hand
drop onto his lap. My eyes, however, continue to follow the metal
hand until he covers it completely by the cap. "How old are you,
Clayton?"
This time the boy giggles slightly. "That's the first thing
everyone asks me. I look about thirteen don't I? Right! I know.
That's wwwwhat most people think...or say." He sits forward slightly
and removes his wallet from his jacket pocket. "But I'm actually
sixteen." He removes his driver's permit and hands it to me...
holding it in his hook.
I take it, look at it, and hand it back. "Thank you, Clayton."
I give him a slight smile. Again, I am drawn to and stare at his
prosthetic hand. "However, you do look about thirteen...or even
younger."
"But I'm too tall to be twelve or thirteen. Right?"
"Right," I respond. "Definitely too tall."
He gives me a big smiles...and I find my insides going all
mushy. I don't know why I find him so tremendously attractive - I
just do. There's just something there. He has such an easy way
about him...so charming...so self-assured...and so incredibly cute
with that beautiful red hair, those freckles, the outrageous blue
eyes and the tall, very slim, seemingly fit body.
"Let me assure you, Mr. - uh - I just realized that I don't know
your name, sir."
"I'm Cole Avery."
"Well, then let me assure you Mr. Avery, that I am a
responsible, sober and even tttempered ttteen. I will do an A-one
job for you - each and every week . or how ever often you want mmme
to come around."
My eyes fall on a wall calendar and something dawns on me.
"Shouldn't you be in school now, Clayton?"
"No, sir. We're out on spring break right now."
"If you don't mind me asking, what school do you attend?"
"I go to CBA...uh...Christian Brothers Academy? In Evanston?"
"Good school?"
"Oh, yes sir. It's excellent. It has mmmany programs for those
students deficient in certain areas...uh...and..." His voice trails
off when he seems to realize that he has given me more information
than I expected. "Yes, sir, it's a very excellent school."
"Good. I'm glad to hear that." I take a long pull on my
coffee. "Are you planning on going on to college...you know,
continuing your education? I mean, most guys your age are already
thinking hard about getting admitted and going off to college."
Clayton shakes his head. "I'm nnnot one of them, sir. I love
gardening and lllandscaping work too much and that's what I want to
continue doing. I want to get a job with some big outfit. Maybe
I'll take some classes sometimes...you know, to study about
landscaping dddesign and things like that."
"Sounds interesting - if that's your desire. I'm sure you've
noticed that I've got plenty of lawn and garden work to do around
here. It looks like things are very overgrown."
"I know. They let the garden go to pot. The kkkids...uh...you
know, my fffriends, they didn't want anything to do with anything
when their ddddad mmmoved out."
"I'd been planning to spend my mornings reworking the grounds
and redoing the landscaping. Maybe you can help me?"
"That'd be great...but...uh...I go to school `til four o'clock
every day. So I wwwon't be able to give you much help there.
Sorry."
"Yes. Well, maybe you'll be available on the weekends?"
"Oh yeah! That'd be wonderful, sir. You know, I've got a small
gggreenhouse in our backyard. And in the basement. I love growing
things. And my gggramma's always ragging on me about all the plants
I've got in my room...and all around the house. It mmmakes things a
little crowded." He laughs lightly.
I smile broadly. "I can imagine it does. You take care of them
all?"
"Oh, yes. Watering, pruning, transplanting, fertilizing, taking
cuttings and rooting them...I do everything."
"Let's take a look at the back area. I know there's a lot to be
done there."
We walk out onto the terrace, then down the steps to the
terraced gardens. Clayton definitely has some trouble walking on the
uneven steps and the bumpy sod.
"Gee, this all looks so familiar," he says. "But it's been a
few years and...well, it's looking pretty crummy. Everything's
falling apart."
"It is. I'm thinking of having a contractor come in to repair
these stone and brick walls."
"Yeah, that's okay. But...well, I'd..."
"Do you have another idea?" He nods. "I'd like to hear it."
"I don't like brick in a garden. Looks to...to artificial...and
phony, if you know what I mean. I think stone is great...and so is
wood. The more natural stuff."
"Hmmm. You've got a good point."
"Let me . um . let me make a few sketches and I'll show them to
you. Okay? It'll take about a week. Okay?"
"Sure! That's wonderful. Of course, I'll pay you for your
time."
"That's okay. No need. I love doing it." He walks around some
more, and I get the feeling that he's absorbing the layout of this
garden. His mind seems to be clicking away, trying to determine the
best solutions to the problems he sees.
We walk back to the house. Again, Clayton seems to have some
difficulty negotiating the steps and he stumbles once.
"May I have a glass of orange juice, sir? If you've got some, I
mean. I'm a little thirsty."
"Fresh squeezed, Clayton. Only the best for my own private
landscape designer."
He lets out a beautiful, high-pitched giggle, and again warms me
with his most stunning smile.
"What do your parents think about your incredibly green thumb?"
I ask as I hand him the glass.
He quickly looks down at the glass and starts fingering the rim
and fidgeting with it. "My parents...both of them...are...are decea-
uh...they're dead." He's speaking very haltingly. "I live with my
my gggrandparents...uh...my father's folk."
"I see. I'm sorry, Clayton. Very sorry." I remain quiet for
about a minute, until he looks up at me again.
"Yeah. They die in the car wreck." He lifts his hook. "That's
how I get this." He taps on his right thigh. "And this."
I'm rocked. The almost hollow sound of the tapping makes my
stomach lurch. "Your leg? It's...it's...also a...a prosthetic?"
He nods his head, never taking his eyes off of my face. "Yeah.
Uh . yes. They had to cut off my arm just below the elbow and...and
...my llleg above the knee...when we crash."
So, I was right about his limp and the problems he had walking
in the garden. They were both caused by...by this boy being crippled
...missing his leg. In addition to missing his arm. Christ!
Almighty! "When did...did all this happen?"
"About eight years ago now."
We sit in silence again. I look at Clayton. He looks so
forlorn...like I have forced him to dredge up memories that best
remain dormant.
He sits slumped forward on the chair. He size seems to have
shrunk. He looks like a young boy...like a young, lost boy...waiting
...but waiting for what? I just want to rush forward and put my arms
around him...to comfort him...to sooth away his cares and frailty...
and his feelings of helplessness. This vulnerable boy...this
beautiful, seemingly irrepressible child.
He slowly reaches for the glass and drinks the juice. "Thanks,"
he says in a low voice while continuing to concentrate on the glass.
I know I must break the heavy gloom. "You like the Cubs I see."
He nods. "Yeah. I do. Except they lose all the time."
I laugh. "Spoken like a true Cubs fan. Do you have any
siblings, Clayton?"
"Huh?"
"Brothers or sisters. Do you have any?"
"Nah. Sorry, no. I don't. Just me. I'm an only child.
Gramma says I was so wild as a little kid that my folks thought one
was enough." He laughs. It's sort of an ironic laugh. "I don't
believe that. I remember mom and dad always fight a lot. I think
that's why I'm an only child."
"Only child or not, you seem like the kind of young man who
should be given the opportunity to prove himself . and his abilities
...and I want to do just that. I mean, you seems so enterprising,
forthright and...well, I feel you have so much going for you that you
should be...uh...challenged in everything you do." I just nod and
smile at him. He returns it. "So let's give it a try."
"Great, sir! That's great!" he exclaims, his face change almost
instantly from a look of dread to one of glee. He gives me a broad,
heartfelt smile.
I write my telephone number, address and email address on a pad,
tear it off, fold it and hand it to him. "Are there any items I
should buy and things I should be doing before we start?
He looks at the information I just handed him. "I'll sssend you
an email in the next few days to let you know what's needed - you
know, what you need to buy and do...uh...before we start any work.
All my info's on my business card. Okay?"
"Excellent. I look forward to our working together."
"Thank you sir. Me too. Thank you. I know you'll be very
happy with my work. Very happy. And I know I'll be very happy
wwwworking with....and for...you." He stands and extends his right
hand and I move mine to shake it. He quickly pulls the hook away and
drops it to his side, as if he's realized that he's done something
wrong. He blushes adorably. His whole face turns red, almost
matching the color of his beautiful hair. "I'm...I'm so, so sorry,
Mr. Avery. My mistake. I have trouble remembering...some times...
some things, you know."
I'm confused. "What's the matter? I don't understand."
"Well, I presented my . um . my hook to you?"
"So?"
"Well, Brother Dommmminik, who's my ethics teacher and also my
science teacher? Well, he says it's rude to present my hook to
anyone. He says it's a show of dissssrespect?"
"Disrespect? Why?"
"He says I should ssshow a person a real hand when we shake? My
left hand? You know, real flesh and blood...um...not sssteel and
cold. Like this." He raises his left arm.
I continue to stare at Clay and at his hook. "Not to criticize
any of your teachers...I don't want to do that...but I don't think
it's a show of disrespect. I mean, your prosthetic is part of you.
It's a replacement for something you're...uh...missing. So when you
present it, it's a natural and logical procedure."
"Thank you, sir. Thanks a lllllot?"
I give him a warm smile. "No problem, Clay. None at all." I
continue to hold out my right hand. He looks me directly in the
eyes. A wisp of smile flickers across his face. He slowly raises
his arm and puts his hook into my hand. I grasped it firmly and we
shake. The smiles on both our faces grow wider.
The End of Part 1
Note: If you have any comments about this story or
any previous story of mine, please send them to me at
flbrothers@hotmail.com I appreciate all emails - ALL!