Services Rendered

Feeling tense and achy on Saturday morning, I make a last-minute appointment at a massage parlor in hopes of getting some relaxation. On the way over, my new sandals cause my feet to start bleeding (a fairly common occurrence), so I remove them before the situation gets too bad, and then put them back on before entering the spa. I want to hide the fact that I have sores because I want to be viewed as a classy lady who spends leisurely weekends at the spa and not a street urchin who walks around barefoot and bloody. Unfortunately, when I arrive at the spa, this means that I can’t protest when I am asked to walk up four flights of stairs due to an elevator outage and thus by the time I arrive in the masseuse’s room, I feel more as if I’m in torture chamber rather than in a house of rest.

I try to remain pleasant with my masseuse April, a small 50-something lady with graying hair, who instructs me to change clothes and lie face-down. I’ve only had tw massages before and since she uses the word “change,” I assume that she means that I should put on the robe in the corner and then lie face down.

April laughs at me when she comes back to the room.

“You’re the first person who’s done that. I could give you a massage wearing a robe but it’d be completely different. You’re actually supposed to take off all your clothing and get beneath the sheets.

She exits and I follow her instructions and then she reenters for take two of our spa experience. April asks me several times whether the room is too hot or cold and I assure her repeatedly that everything is okay. She then worries about the face rest—it’s new and she’s not sure it’s comfortable, so she apologizes for not having the right type of face guard.

“We need to get this right,” she says sternly after I tell her that I’m content with how my face is in the rest. (Truthfully, it does feel a bit weird but I assume that’s how it’s supposed to be when you’re lying facedown with your head in a plastic circular object sticking out of table.) April has me test several different positions, informs me we can change rooms if I’m not happy, and then finally begins.

“This is your massage,” she says. “It’s deep tissue so you need to tell me if the pressure is too much or if there’s something you want done. It’s all up to you so you have to let me know.”

“Okay,” I agree and she begins. I always feel kind of weird when I’m with someone doing some type of maintenance involving me such as a hairdresser or mechanic and I try to make small talk to ease the tension.

I ask April, “So how long have you been doing this?”

“Why?” She chuckles slightly. Does it seem like I haven’t been at it for very long?”

“No-no,” I stutter. “I was just curious about how long you’ve been doing this and didn’t mean to say…”

“I’ve been doing this for a while but just started working here,” she says.

“Ok.” I vow to forgo small talk and remain quiet for the rest of the experience.

However, she constantly asks how I’m feeling and if everything is fine. Mostly it’s fantastic, though a bit painful at times. Since, I’ve heard there’s sometimes suffering involved so I try to remain silent through the pain.

“Is everything okay?” she asks me.

“Yeah it’s great.”

“Because this is your massage and you need to tell me whether or not everything is okay. Is there something you want that you’re not getting?”

“Everything’s fine,” I tell her. Since I’m worried that she’ll think I’m trying to pacify her so I try to come up with something to say. “I guess a neck massage.”

“I just meant pressure wise. I was planning on doing the neck when you flipped over but I can do that a little now,” she says as she rubs my neck. “But I’m planning to do more on your neck when you flip over.”

On the other side, she works on my neck and I wonder if she’s upset because I’m not oohing and aahing the way that people do in the movies. However, I decide it’d probably be more upsetting if she found out I was faking it, so I remain quiet.

“You know I’m sensing that because you haven’t had many massages before you feel like you need to remain silent and that’s why you’re uncomfortable And that’s okay if you just want to let me guide things. But you really need to talk to me to make the most out of this.”

“Really this is great,” I say. And it is. Except I feel compelled to tell her that constantly which somewhat depletes the state of well-being I came in to feel.

Once she reaches my feet, she’s too distracted by the open wounds to continue doubting herself.

“Did you just get new shoes?” she asks.

I say yes, but I explain to her that the reason I have so many cuts and welts on my feet is because I have very sensitive skin and all my shoes cause pain. She offers me sympathy and tries (unsuccessfully) to keep the lotion from stringing my feet She comes to terms with the relative silence that fills the room until the end of the experience

We part on good terms and I leave feeling better than I did when I arrived. Except it’s still too painful for me to walk in my shoes, so I take them off and walk down the street barefoot.

At a corner crosswalk, a heavy, 40-year old man with a thick, dark mustache looks at me, my chest, my skirt, and then my feet before we both cross the street.

“Hey,” he says but I ignore him.

On the other side of the street, I pass by him while he is paused and leaning against a wall.

A block and a half later, he approaches me and says in a thick Mexican accent “I’m sorry baby I’m sorry. Do you need money?”

“No,” I say incredulously, wondering if he is just offering to help me or if he thinks I’m a professional streetwalker.

“Do you need $20?”

“No,” I say more forcefully and then I continue walking on my way.

He turns toward an apartment complex but makes one more attempt before. “You come work for me?” he says and gestures toward the building.

“No,” I say and continue on my way.

I am appalled, not just because I have been mistaken a prostitute but because he offered me so little for my services. After all, I just paid five times that much money for bodily work that caused mental distress and physical pain and I feel that my offerings would at least be worth the going rate.