The Man's Hands

The Man’s Hands

His hands are old, bony, calloused pads and knuckles. Pads from hard work, knuckles from martial arts. Liver spotted. He holds a knife and a small block of wood.
A piece of another planet landed on the coast north of Sydney, the locals call it Bongon Heads. Its blow-holed and uncannily crafted sculptured forms make us feel right at home, these two aliens in our own land, sometimes aliens in our own heads.
I watch him start to whittle at the wood, seemingly paying little attention to what he is doing, while we discuss the fantasy novel he is writing. To his irritation I lose track of the conversation, concerning locations and setting, fascinated to see a propeller emerging from the block of wood. He sands it smooth with a piece of rock and attaches it to the model plane sitting next to him.
“Will this work?” I ask.
He looks around gravely.
“Nah, elves prefer forests.”
Oh, be the way, when we tried it out later that plane flew perfectly. He had carved by eye to tolerances under a millimetre.
I loved him dearly despite our friendship being fraught with misunderstandings and the lurking violence of his nature. We met at a pub, playing pool, he started to reminisce about the sixties, which I missed, being too young. He said we needed to start a movement, a return to the times of peace, love and happiness. Feeling no pain myself, I agreed enthusiastically.
“Right” he said. “You run the movement, I’ll be the guru”
“Fuck off” said I. “You’re not my guru.”
Bang! A fist landed on my jaw and I landed on my bum. Somewhat startled and not in a lot of pain I laughed and he did too. Only later did I realise it was an affectionate tap. If he had king hit me my jaw would have shattered.
We became friends. I met his son, who shared a passion for Dungeons and Dragons. I went to their house and met an elf who, when she came of age, became my lover. To his wife I was “Number Two Son”. They were my “Shameless” other life. The Murphy’s knew how to party.