Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2003 10:23:10 -0500
From: Taylor Siluwe <taylorsiluwe@earthlink.net>
Subject: "Grandma's Hands"  Part 6

Grandma's Hands
Copyright  2002 by Taylor Siluwe
Part 6

Sonny's head was spinning. Too much had happened much too fast . . .
too much to comprehend. As he walked out of the subway station into
the glare and bustle of downtown, he felt as if he was in a dream that he
couldn't wake up from.

People moved in their usual harried way. Yellow cab drivers careened
through the impossible traffic, honking horns, flipping the finger and
cutting each other off at the slightest whisper of a fare. A simple scratch
of the head would make one of the bright sedans cut across four lanes
of traffic and screech to a halt. A bike messenger barreled down the
sidewalk as if he owned it, his muscles standing out like cables. Sonny
paused and watched him slice his way through the crowd, jump the
curb, and maneuver against traffic as if in finals of the X games. It was
just a normal day in the city with everyone doing their own damn thing.
None of them, apparently, had a best friend happily stuck in fag mode .
. . or a senile grandfather who was suddenly a teenager again.

As the messenger disappeared, Sonny pushed his sunglasses back up
and continued on his way. Since he was a child, covering his eyes
always made him feel anonymous . . . almost invisible. He wanted to
invisible today, alone in a crowd. And Manhattan was the best place to
be if you didn't want to be noticed.

He turned down a side street and headed for the west side. A bum
accosted him demanding a dollar. Sonny ignored him, lost in his own
head, engulfed by the impossibility of the situation. He needed to get
away from home, from his recycled grandfather. It's just too crazy, he
thought, too fuckin' crazy. He thought of his mother, locked away in
that . . . in that nasty place. He was just a kid when they hauled her
away after his father died. He'd never been allowed to visit her
because, as he was told, it was no place for little boys. Maybe it was
hereditary. His grandmother once said that she, his mother, was always
a couple of peaches short of a cobbler. He didn't understand at the
time, but now that he was older and wiser, he suddenly began to worry
about his own mental stability.

He thought it had all been a dream. However, in the light of morning, his
grandfather . . . Zeke, was still young . . . looking just like Sonny. It
couldn't be true, but at the same time it had to be. The old picture in the
photo album under the sofa, the memories of his grandmother standing
in the window and the fact that Zeke knew things that only his
grandfather would know meant only one or two things. Either it was
true and the whole world had gone crazy, or it wasn't true . . . and just
he had.

Then again, maybe he was just having a really bad trip, like the time he
and Little Man had taken acid and Ecstasy in the park. Instead of
trickin' the homo's like they'd planned, they'd hid in the old gazebo,
because as Little Man put it . . . .

"We never done this shit before. Let's see how it affects us before we
get started."

Sonny agreed. He was offered the drugs as payment from a guy who
wanted to film him jerking off. Sonny wouldn't go that far, but by
promising to come back and try some other day, he got the drugs
anyway.

"I don't feel nothin'. You?" Little Man said, glancing over his shoulder
as he plowed his way down the familiar path. He paused as the thick
brush clawed at his bare legs, covered only by baggy white Nike
shorts. He stomped at the weeds with his Timberlands and proceeded.

"Nah, we only took the shit like fifteen minutes ago," Sonny replied,
already feeling a rush, but was pretty sure it wasn't from the drugs, ". . .
don't sweat it." He followed the glow of Little Man's white shorts in the
gloom. They stood out like a ghost against the smaller boy's ebony
skin. A rat, or some tiny creature, crunched lightly through the leaves
nearby.

It was so hot that night. The air was thick and heavy; it was like walking
through a steam room . . . with weeds. Sonny was not in the mood to
be felt-up by a bunch of old perverts but he'd grown accustomed to the
feel of crisp new Benjamins in his pocket. His grandfather's pension
barely covered expenses like rent and shit. He needed much more. He
needed things that gramps wouldn't, or couldn't pay for . . . like
designer clothes, top-of-the-line sneakers and a never-ending supply of
weed. Gramps never understood why he needed $120 dollars to buy
the new Jordans or the latest Sean John gear. Forget about the
necessary extras, like heavy diamond-cut silver chains which added the
final bling-bling to his `young upwardly-mobile thug' persona. He never
understood that in order to survive in this urban jungle you had to have
a certain look. It didn't matter whether you could afford it or how you
got it . . . as long as you had it. If you had to suck a little dick to get
what you wanted, then so be it. He knew that women used sex to get
what they wanted out of life since like, forever. Why couldn't he?
Gramps really wouldn't understand that. Sometimes, old people didn't
know much of anything. Sonny wondered how they managed to live so
long knowing so very little.

As soon as they emerged from the brush into their cozy spot, Little Man
removed his `wife-beater' tank top and tossed it on the table. He stared
at Sonny for a moment, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight that seeped
through the trees and the holes in the gazebo's roof, and said, "I feel
somethin'."

"Yeah," Sonny said, ". . . what's it feel like?" He'd never done acid or
X before so he was eager to feel it too. There was a strange sensation
in the pit of his stomach, almost as if he'd swallowed a large goldfish
and it was still squirming around inside him.

"I don't know. I just feel . . . ," his hands spread across his chest and
slid slowly down his torso to just beneath the waistband of his shorts, "I
don't know . . . I feel different." He glanced around. "And everything
looks brighter." He stepped closer to Sonny, smiling. "You look
different too, bro."

"Really? How?" Sonny smiled too, but he didn't know why.

"I don't . . . you just . . . ." His words trailed away.

Standing so close, Sonny could see Little Man's body tremble a little,
as if he had a sudden chill or, as his grandmother would've said,
someone just walked over his grave.

"My heart is beatin', like, really fast and shit. Am I shakin'?" He asked
Sonny, holding out a hand which was trembling visibly.

"Yeah, kid, you are." Sonny grabbed his hand to steady it. The goldfish
did a back-flip. Things did look brighter, sharper. Little Man's eyes
seemed unnaturally lit, like there were tiny amber fires smoldering inside
his head.

Little Man placed his other hand over Sonny's heart.

"Yours is racin' too, bro." Little Man announced. Then he looked up at
Sonny and kissed him without warning, his pink tongue squirming into Sonny's mouth with the speed of a side-winder across hot desert sand.
The goldfish was now doing the `running man', like a tiny MC Hammer
with fins. Sonny put his hands on Little Man's shoulders and tried to
push him away, but found that he couldn't. Little Man's thin arms had
weaved themselves around Sonny's neck with such intensity, which
combined with Sonny's effort to escape the sudden embrace, threw
them both off-balance. They crashed back into the table. Sonny tried to
speak but his dueling tongue was being subdued. He wanted to make
him stop, but a tingly sensation, which must be the drugs, had taken
over his nervous system . . . and also his hands, which gripped Malcolm
all over at once. He felt so . . . weird . . . so out of control. He didn't
know if it was the X or the acid or whatever the fuck. It didn't really
matter which as they staggered about, tongues locked in mortal combat.
Finally he managed to come up for air.

"Malcolm," he gasped, as forcefully as his breathless lungs could
manage. Little Man pulled him closer again with one hand while the
other went straight to Sonny's crotch. Up until that moment, Sonny
didn't realize that he had a raging hard-on. But now, with Little Man's
hand gripping it painfully and his mouth almost gnawing on his neck,
Sonny began overwhelmed by sensations and pushed him away
forcefully. Little Man crashed to the grimy floor.

They just stared at each other, panting like puppies, eyes wild and
excited as if they'd just discovered King Solomon's mine. Neither
spoke for a moment. Making no effort to get up, Little Man was the
first to break the silence.

"What's wrong, bro?" he asked.

"Nothin'," Sonny replied, his voice an airy whisper. And it was true.
There wasn't anything wrong, except for the fact that he'd just pushed
his best friend in the entire world to the ground like trash. He'd known
Little Man as long as he could remember, but he never realized how
much he needed him until now. Standing there in that dilapidated
gazeboolittered with condom wrappers, vines and all sorts of whatnot,
surrounded by trees older than them and nasty men who only cared
about getting their wrinkled rocks offohe realized that he was staring
into the face of the only person on the planet who truly understood him.
He felt like he was seeing him for the very first time.

"Then why you lookin' at me like that? And suddenly I'm Malcolm
now? You ain't called me that since, since . . . shit, I can't even
remember." He lowered his voice. "So, what's up, boy?" Little Man
persisted from his position on the ground. Propped on his elbows,
oblivious to the trash and twigs around him, he smiled as if he knew the
answer. A beam of bluish moonlight illuminated his face as if sent down
specifically for that purpose.

That smile.

It was a magnetic smile . . . very real, not like the one that charmed
horn-dogs out of their money and their hearts. This smile was as natural
as the trees that shrouded them and also, Sonny believed, reserved just
for him. Sonny stepped closer without meaning to. Malcolm's two front
teeth were a bit longer than the rest and overlapped ever so slightly
(Sonny had never noticed this before) . . . his lips curled up at the
corners causing long dimples to slash his cheeks and his eyes turned up
at the corners also like they were laughing (Sonny had seen these
before, but never like this). He'd stepped even closer at some point and
now was standing between Malcolm's legs. He extended a hand. It too
was trembling.

"Nothin' . . . c'mon, that floor's nasty, get ya skinny ass up . . .
Malcolm." He took his hand and Sonny tugged. Malcolm didn't budge,
however his dimples deepened. Sonny felt himself being pulled
downward and he laughed, "I ain't gettin' down there with you, kid. I
love you . . . but fuck that."

Malcolm's dimples, laugh lines and smile melted away but his grip
tightened and he said, "I love you too, Sonny . . . for real."

Sonny wasn't sure if he was pulled down or if he went down on his
own. He wasn't even sure if it happened before, after, or during
Malcolm's statement. But down he went. He watched himself doing it,
as if having an out-of-body experience. First to one knee, then both . . .
and finally, he was pinning Malcolm against the littered floor. They'd
been in this position before, but never like this . . . it had always been a
hushed and frenzied moment in the dark. Now he was suddenly
oblivious to all the trash as his vision tunneled into that beam of
moonlight and onto Malcolm's face. He looked like an angel. He felt
like an angel. This time . . . he felt right.

"Yeah . . . I know, kid," Sonny whispered as if one of the empty bottles
might overhear, "I uh, I meant it too."

Then they kissed again, slowly this time, never closing their eyes. The
beam of moonlight moved away and still they kissed. At various points
they heard voices and noises and sometimes even music but they never
stopped doing what they were doing. Maybe someone was watching
and maybe not. Maybe it was just the drugs kicking in. It didn't really
matter. They never looked around. They never lost eye contact.
Nothing else existed until the sun tinged the horizon sending carroty light
through the trees and holes in the gazebo.

       ----------------------------------------------------------

Sonny woke up suddenly, feeling disoriented and wondering why he
was naked on the picnic table. A sweaty little arm was draped across
his chest. A condom wrapper was plastered to his thigh. His head hurt
and his mouth was dry and tasted like something died in it.

"Uhhmmrrggll," the arm muttered.

Sonny looked to his left and saw a shiny-faced Malcolm drooling on his
shoulder. He pushed his arm away. "Yo, Little Man," he said, then
lowering his voice and looking around he continued, ". . . wake up." He
wondered where their clothes went. Then he noticed various items
scattered about the gazebo: his sneaker . . . his jeans . . . Malcolm's
shorts . . . his other sneaker . . . his boxers, looking strangely shredded.
A memory flashed through his mind . . . a ripping sound following by
hysterical laughter. "Oh shit." His head throbbed.

"Umnnffolitty," the sweaty arm returned.

"Dammit Malcolm! Wake the fuck up!" Sonny shoved him harder this
time.

Malcolm teetered on the end of the table, nude and still asleep, with one
arm and one booted foot dangling over the edge. He mumbled, "No
Fiona, I don't wanna touch your titty!" then he crashed to the dirty
floor.

When he popped up, hair wild and looking confused, Sonny was
slipping into his jeans and frowning. Under other circumstances, the
half-eaten Now and Later stuck to Malcolm's forehead would have
been funny as fuck. But Sonny didn't want to laugh. Now he just
wanted to escape.

"What happened?" Malcolm said, swiping at the strange sticky growth
on his forehead.

"Nothin', nothin' at all." Sonny kicked at his tattered underwear, an
ugly reminder that it definitely had been something.

"Where you goin'?"

"Where you think? It's fuckin' morning almost. Grandpa must be
trippin'." Sonny said as he slipped into his shirt.

Malcolm yawned, "Ol' dude prob'ly ain't even notice." He stretched,
came over and leaned against Sonny, snuggling into his chest. "Last
night was cool, right?"

"Not right. We shouldn't a . . . I don't remember." Sonny pushed him
away, angry at Malcolm for being naked, angry at the rush of memories
that suddenly swamped his mind. "Will you get dressed?! I'm out."
Malcolm stood there in silence looking hurt and strangely erotic, naked
down to his Timberlands.

"Are you comin'?" Sonny asked, growing more annoyed by the view,
and angry with himself because he kept looking. Malcolm did not move
for a moment, and then he grabbed Sonny in a tight embrace but still
said nothing. "C'mon Little, stop fuckin' around."

"Okay," Malcolm mumbled into his chest, ". . . gimme a minute." He
looked up at Sonny. "You really don't remember?"

A bus groaned somewhere in the distance. The trees rustled. Sonny's
eyes darted about. It was fully light now. The gazebo, which only last
night had seemed like a magical oasis, now could be seen for what it
was . . . a heavily littered scene of numerous sexual crimes. He needed
to get away.

"No, I don't. We were high, Little Man, just forget about it." He tried
to untangle Malcolm's arms, but his hands were locked in place.

"I said I love you."

"Let me go." Sonny tensed.

"You said it too."

"Get the fuck off me." Every cell in Sonny's body just wanted to leave .
. . to run away as fast as he could.

"You know you remember, just admit it."

Sonny exploded. Malcolm went flying to his ass. Sonny bent over him
pointing a trembling finger into his shocked face. "Look, you little bitch!
I'm not a fag like you. I do it for the money, that's all."

"Since when?" Malcolm responded.

Sonny slapped him as if that were the only answer he needed to give.
The sound seemed to echo through the trees. "I do it for the money!
Remember that!" As Malcolm sat there still in shock, holding a hand to
his face, Sonny went over to Malcolm's white shorts, rummaging
frantically.

"What are you . . . ?" Malcolm began. Then Sonny retrieved what was
in the pocket: a crumpled twenty dollar bill. He held it up.

"You still owe me thirty. Nobody rides for free." Sonny dashed down
the path, leaving Malcolm Jacobs . . . a.k.a. Little Man . . . a.k.a. his
best friend on the planet . . . stunned, hurt and naked to his boots on the
gazebo floor next to Sonny's torn Joe Boxers.


That night had been like a dream too, because in the sobering light of
morning, he felt dirty about the things they'd done and confused about
what was said. It wasn't just a bad trip. And although he finally
convinced Malcolm never to mention it again, he still remembered every
single detail about that night. It had been real, and as incredible as this
situation is now, it too had to be real. Zeke was either his grandfather,
or Sonny's evil twin.

Sonny walked faster as if to get away from it all with his brow in a knot,
dodging strange faces oblivious to his pain and the insanity of his world.
He needed to get somewhere . . . someplace where he could forget all
this shit . . . someplace where he could just fade away. When he got
there, maybe he wouldn't come back.

He arrived at the nondescript building and rang the buzzer. When he got
no answer, a sick feeling gripped his gut and he pressed the buzzer a
few more times. Maybe he wasn't there. He would have called but he
threw the number away after the first time. But now he needed to be
here. He had no other place to go. He sat down in the doorway and
decided to wait.

Just then the speaker crackled and a metallic voice asked, "Who is it?"

To be continued ...

* * *

      Stay tuned for more. Coming soon. Email me your
thoughts so far.

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