They watched him from the shade of a palm thatched roof. Their legs were draped in colorfully dyed, loose harem pants, their feet bare and covered in a mat of callouses. They wiped their sweaty hair out of their eyes, ninety degrees and sixty-two percent humidity.
"He's kind of odd," one said to the other. "Does he ever talk?"
The other sunk their feet into the warm sand, "I dunno. He's never talked to me."
They called him the Turtle. He was pale, turning slowly brown with a glow of red burn in the hot Thai sun. He was hunched, his shoulders up by his ears and back curved over his inwardly tucked chest. He was a tortoise shell of a man on endlessly long legs of yoga toned muscles thrown into intermission by knobby knees.
He would wander the beach, shuffling through the sand to a person and sitting down with them. Without a word of warning, he would reach out and start giving them a massage. A good deal would clam up, obviously, though a good portion of them would quickly melt back into his hands, head lolling forwards and into their own turtle hunch.
Today, he wore an enormous, floppy, hot pink sun hat to keep the sun out of his face. And turtling over to a young couple, he eased himself into a seat on the sand next to them. Then he reached out to massage the tanned back of the man. He jerked twisting around to look at the owner of his hands. Then, upon seeing who it was, he was a bit more relaxed. While a good deal of people DID find him creepy, everyone on the island knew the Turtle, and his magic hands.
Truth was, Jonathan was a nice young man. Built upon a childhood of thick glasses and sunlight replaced with the glow of a computer screen. He was quiet, introvert, and never quite fit in America.
Going to this tiny, sunny island in the waters of Thailand, he found a place where people didn't care if he was a bit quiet, or awkward. He just found peace in wandering around the sun drenched sand, and finding contact in people by kneading their tired muscles into submission. Eventually, his meek voice, a bit too high and cracking with the strain of communication, would address you, always kind and with a smile on his face.
"He's kind of odd," one said to the other. "Does he ever talk?"
The other sunk their feet into the warm sand, "I dunno. He's never talked to me."
They called him the Turtle. He was pale, turning slowly brown with a glow of red burn in the hot Thai sun. He was hunched, his shoulders up by his ears and back curved over his inwardly tucked chest. He was a tortoise shell of a man on endlessly long legs of yoga toned muscles thrown into intermission by knobby knees.
He would wander the beach, shuffling through the sand to a person and sitting down with them. Without a word of warning, he would reach out and start giving them a massage. A good deal would clam up, obviously, though a good portion of them would quickly melt back into his hands, head lolling forwards and into their own turtle hunch.
Today, he wore an enormous, floppy, hot pink sun hat to keep the sun out of his face. And turtling over to a young couple, he eased himself into a seat on the sand next to them. Then he reached out to massage the tanned back of the man. He jerked twisting around to look at the owner of his hands. Then, upon seeing who it was, he was a bit more relaxed. While a good deal of people DID find him creepy, everyone on the island knew the Turtle, and his magic hands.
Truth was, Jonathan was a nice young man. Built upon a childhood of thick glasses and sunlight replaced with the glow of a computer screen. He was quiet, introvert, and never quite fit in America.
Going to this tiny, sunny island in the waters of Thailand, he found a place where people didn't care if he was a bit quiet, or awkward. He just found peace in wandering around the sun drenched sand, and finding contact in people by kneading their tired muscles into submission. Eventually, his meek voice, a bit too high and cracking with the strain of communication, would address you, always kind and with a smile on his face.
