The fake plastic blue bird of happiness wired and screwed into my shoulder
I wrote this entry Saturday on my first day of work. It’s Wednesday, my third day of work. I’m reclining on a leopard chez lounger in front of a large stone fountain. A giant lion head anchored to the wall, is spitting water into a two tier bowl. The fountain is pouring out and recycling mountains of soap suds put in there on purpose by the owner. This is her solution so that the water doesn’t splash on the ground. Next to the fountain, and scattered throughout the spa are fake palm trees, with the occasional fake red parrot wired to a branch. Jimmy, the owner of the pizza place next door, is sleeping in one of the therapy rooms. Jimmy is an asshole.
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My first day at my job. It’s 4:00. I got here at 3:00. For the last hour I’ve been sitting at a table with a green plastic table cloth imprinted with a design of grape leaves. There is a red glass, mosaic candle holder in the middle. The other therapist and the owner were here, but they both left. The owner, Joanna, decided to go home and take a nap. The other therapist got a call from the Bellagio for a massage.
Fifteen minutes ago, in a sudden burst of activity, Joanna packed up her car with the tables and left over food from the party they had here last night for her Jehovah’s Witness sisters and drove away. The other therapist left shortly afterwards. A third therapist that was in the back taking a nap came out with her pet rat in a cage that was staying here for a few days while she moved into a new apartment. We met in the hall as she was leaving. She said, “Hey, great hair.” I replied, “I like your pants”. With that, a superficial bond based on fashion was borne.
As the owner was walking out of the door, she said, “you’re going to need a key.” She pulled one out of the desk drawer of her tiny, paper strewn office and put it on the table in front of me. She starts to walk out again, and as an afterthought, she comes back and shows me how to use the credit card machine, and transfer the phones to her house. She runs through it like a telemarketer explaining the benefits of a newspaper subscription. She asks me if I understand. I say yes, even though I don’t, because, I can see, she’s not a very patient woman and I think she has a hangover. On her way out, she says, “If you get a client, just put this sign on the door that says all therapists in session, and lock it behind you.” And then she is gone.
I’m praying to god that no customers come until the other therapist gets back.
Fifteen minutes later…..a customer walks in.
I don’t know where the client intake forms are. I can’t get the phones to transfer. I lock the door before I put the sign outside. As the lock turns over, I think, I’m alone in this building with a strange man, and I’m locking the door behind me. The thought was only for a second. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I judged this person as a harmless client in search of a therapeutic massage. And, since the self defense class….I’m just waiting for a chance to kick someone’s ass. So either way, it was going to be fine.
During the session I notice he has lower back pain and I ask him about it. He says he went to a chiropractor and the chiropractor told him that his was the only back he could never adjust. I said, “sounds like and excuse from a bad chiropractor.” I then mentally kick myself for ripping on this guys chiropractor that is probably his brother-in-law or best friend. But, I can’t stop. I launch into a diatribe about his flat feet and protruding tibias…all ending up with low back pain. I tell him all about the importance of good shoes as a beginning foundation. When I am done, he doesn’t say anything. I feel like in my nervous panic, I have barraged this client with tons of annoying information he isn’t the least interested in. After a minute of silence, he says, “That’s funny that you mention it, I have noticed that my back hurts more or less depending on what shoes I wear.” In my head, I let out a sigh of relief. When he left, (thankfully paying cash, so I didn’t have to deal with the credit card machine) he asked for my schedule and said he would be back next week.
Now, It’s almost six and I’m back at the green plastic tablecloth, a fully initiated professional massage therapist.
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