sea2

Johnny Carroll is a powerfully built man. Thirty years on the sites have seen to that. Theres no spare on him, no excess anything. He is functionally designed. His body is his story, one of toil and necessity. It is a tale of the jobs that people who work in offices think get done by machines these days. The call for strong men to strain their sinews and push themselves to a physical extreme for ten or twelve hours a day hangs on him like skin.
You are 13-years-old. Your life is still measured in terms of what happens within these walls, this family.
You like watching him shaving. He has no tattoos or blemishes. His flesh is milky white interrupted by shadowy definition. His torso is lean and defined like the grasp of a lash. His arms speak of buildings erected, bricks piled upon bricks, his shoulders whisper of concrete mastered and fashioned to mans will.
He comes downstairs with a white towel round his neck, one or two bits of shaving foam still behind his ears and where his neck meets his chest. A small square of toilet roll the size of your fingernail with a clotted bloody centre sits on his chin as if a tiny Japanese flag has been hung there and then forgotten.
Will you come out with me to the club tonight?
You have been sitting there praying hed ask you.
Your mother cuts in before you answer. Are you taking the girls as well?
No, just the men tonight, eh Johnny? The two Johnnys. And he laughs like he always does when he says this. You grin fit to break your face.
Do you think theyll put the game on the radio for us, Dad?
If we ask them nice, I dont see why not. Go on and clean yourself up if youre coming out with me.
The two Johnnys.