Next Time Bliss… At Least I Hope
Tony Two Hands. I think that’s what he said his name was.
I entered the waiting room where I waited, awaiting the arrival of the person who would shepherd me to a blissful state of relaxation.
And in came Tony Two Hands.
“Tom,” said he. Fortunate as to the monosyllabic nature of my name, he mustered “Tom.”
I rose to witness Tony Two Hands spinning away, 180 degrees in the opposite direction, walking huskily down the corridor in this Chicago establishment.
Mystified by his people skills I shrugged my tense shoulders and wondered as to the meaning of the tattoo on the back of his neck. Or maybe I just puzzled on how and why it got there in the first place.
“You been here before,” he said, waiting until the last word to go polysyllabic.
“Yes. A few times,” said I, keeping pace with the single syllable riff.
“Steam?”
“Yep.”
That’s when he dropped his name. “Tony Two Hands,” he said as he extended one of them.
Immediately my own hand was engulfed by a mitt the size and type I associate with king’s champions in days of yore. A glove more prone to lifting lances and swinging swords. And as quick as you please the levers and wheels in my mind clicked and spun madly like Lear as I silently shrieked, “What plot is this divine and beneficial God?”
Which is right about the time agendas collided. My point for being there was to gain a modicum of relaxation after shouldering the woes of my clients seeking to sell their Chicago homes.
Tony’s? His point seemed to gain a measure of cartoon character knuckle popping pleasure while occasionally asking through grunts, “How’s the pressure?”
The pressure?
In the deep recesses of my mind my hope was that the pressure, intense and searing, was of a type and kind to enable me to achieve the blissful state I yearned for. Born Catholic its remnants remain as constructs of sacrifice toward gain that still define elements of my being. In reality the pressure was of a type and kind that simply prompted winces and pain and would, if allowed to continue indefinitely, lead to a permanent limp.
Welcome to Tony Two Hands’ world.
After 90 minutes of the what-what the session mercifully ended. None the worse for wear but no closer to the bliss I desired I got off the table and hobbled to the steam room. Met in the hall by Two Hands he handed me a glass of water and asked, “How was it?” Ever the king’s champion he expected, methinks, the response to be something stellar, a spotlight shimmering on the artful and munificent work of Two Hands.
Surprised he was when with one eyebrow arched I looked at him and strung together the simplest two syllables, “o-k.”
“Just ok?”, he queried, so shocked that he forgot to add the hyphen. I suppose he expected that his fishing expedition for a compliment would yield a greater verbal trophy. Had I more energy I might have said that my back felt like a Maori warrior’s face right when the red hot tip scratched something important and meaningful about his manhood in ink on his face.
But I didn’t have the energy having just been pummeled by Tony Two Hands.
So instead I shook my head as slowly as I walked, making my way to the steam where I hoped to achieve the relaxation that eluded me with Mr. Mitts.
Not to say that I am daunted. No, not by a long shot. It’s just that next time the equation will not include Tony. Let’s just hope that his subtraction equals a true stress reduction. I will keep you posted.
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