`Twenty minutes?”
Sara needs to run into Macy’s for something or other in the women’s department.
My chance to get a quick chair massage--twenty delightful, self-indulgent minutes.
“Yes. Twenty . . . twenty minutes. Neck and upper back.” I point over my shoulder to the
areas I need massaged. For the next twenty minutes, my visual world will be proscribed to the
small semicircle of floor tiles in front of the massage chair.
“Okay. Twenty,” says the masseur. Masseur? It sounds so strange, so . . . out of
context here in the middle of the aisle between Macy’s and Nordstrom, with hundreds of
people streaming past on a Saturday afternoon. Men in t-shirts with team logos, women in black
yoga pants, teenage girls in packs, pursued at short distance by packs of teenage boys. Face
down, staring at the floor in front of the chair, I can’t see them, but I know they’re there.
There are four, maybe five . . . masseurs. I didn’t think to count them when I sat
down, but there are at least four. They’re talking. They’re talking and talking--talking punctuated
with laughter. I have absolutely no idea what they’re saying. It’s Chinese, I guess. I speak a little
Spanish. I can work my way around a menu in a French restaurant. But zero Chinese. They
laugh. Not just one or two, but all of them. Why? At what? Or whom? I’ll never know.
Somewhere above, a battery of loudspeakers pours out the resolute laments of Dido.
Louder, softer, louder, the volume ebbing and flowing with the pace of the passing floor traffic,
merging now and then with the distant calliope of the food court carousel.
An unexpected visual, spatial intrusion. There are now three pairs of feet standing in my
little patch of tiles, appearing, disappearing, reappearing as they move about. One pair is easy to
identify: the masseur, in white athletic shoes, topped with a few inches of white uniform,
cuffed and crisp. The other two pairs belong to a man and a woman. The intruding feet came
from the direction of Nordstrom. The man is wearing brown loafers. Expensive brown loafers.
With tassels. Tassels must be in style now. The woman is wearing steep platform heels. Small
feet. Pink toenails. Immaculately pink and shining. Weekly pedicure.
Gloria Estefan. Gloria Estefan from above, competing with the food court calliope, the
crowd competing with the conversation inches in front of me. Muffled discussion. Like the
music, sometimes louder, sometimes softer.
A baby stroller now moves into partial view. One of those expensive yuppie strollers with
big spoked wheels. A coldly stylish, indoor SUV. Just a wheel at first. Now, the baby . . . part of
the baby . . . all of the baby.
The baby looks up at me. What is he--she--wondering? Will he--she--remember
this moment? We all have a flash from infancy we remember, or think we remember. Will it be
this moment: a man, face down in some kind of chair, some kind of high chair, with another man
in a white uniform doing something to the man in the high chair?
Kelly Clarkson. The crowd. Kelly Clarkson leaving town. The couple. The calliope.
The baby is gone, and for a moment I can’t see any shoes . . . Now I do. Again. The
couple makes a decision. Or, arguing? Yes, they’re arguing. She’s moving about, the platform
heels coming in and out view. The tassels likewise. The baby carriage goes forward, then back,
faster, slower, faster. More words. Louder words. Hard to make them out--I’m caught between
the words, the din of the crowd, the music, the calliope, the pleasure and pain of the massage. I
can’t concentrate on any of it, least of all the massage. The baby has lost all interest in the man in
the chair. A glimpse of the baby. I expect the baby to cry. No, the baby sleeps.
***
Quickly, they entered my world. Quickly, I entered theirs. The man, the woman, the
baby in the yuppie stroller--quickly, they disappear. If only for a capricious moment, our
disparate lives have come together, touching without communicating. Fragmented, incomplete,
incoherent sounds and gestures without meaning that fail to penetrate the barriers we build
around ourselves. Fragmented, incomplete, incoherent--like the banter of the . . . masseurs.
Familiar shoes, a familiar voice: “How’s the massage?”
“It’s . . . it’s good, I guess. He’s almost done.”
“I’ll wait for you on the bench over here . . .” The voice fades.
Cher. The crowd. The calliope. Cher.
***
Originally Published by Ohio Vintage Matchbook Company 2014
Now semi-retired, John Timm devotes his time to writing, including short fiction, short screenplays, and translations. On occasion, he teaches courses in foreign languages and speech / communications. @johnttimm