Dizzy in the Dark
Pensacola, FL, My hotel room, July 2014
A client asks for a completely dark massage space and my sensors are screaming ‘RED ALERT’.
I was on a long overdue three-day vacation in Pensacola. I had the typical Florida agenda: bob in the clear blue water, catch some rays, do some writing, and eat at least one meal of fried seafood. As I laid claim to my twenty-five square foot area of fine white sand, I offered gratitude that I was finally here and wished that those close to me could share this time with me.
As I lied face up, I asked the sun gods to bake me (but not to a crisp). I imagined my skin factory was overwhelmed in the loading dock area with ultraviolet rays used to manufacture vitamin D. Every twenty or so minutes, I’d jump up from a vulnerable deep sleep, run toward the gulf, and throw myself into the waves to cool off in the healing saltwater. The sun’s rays are much more potent in this region of Florida than in other parts of the country and have been known to be unforgiving to those who don’t protect themselves with some sort of SPF number.
In the early years of our family, we lived here in Pensacola until I was five or six. Eventually, my parents moved us from sandy white beaches to green grassy pastures located eight hours north. During our time in Pensacola, out-of-state relatives would visit from time to time which always meant weekend trips to the beach. My parents were the experts in southern beach food hospitality, or as I refer to it, the fish fry! On a green Coleman kerosene stove, Dad would boil fish that had been smothered and dunked a time or two in flour seasoned with salt and pepper by my Mother. Home-made hush puppies (my favorite), potato salad, iced tea, and cold canned beer (for the grown-ups) were always on the menu too. As I wrote this post, a memory surfaced that had remained hidden for decades. I remembered how she would save empty cardboard quarts of milk, rinse and dry them, then fill them with tap water so she could freeze them for the beach cooler. After the cooler was filled with food, Dad would take a hammer to the milk carton filled with ice, breaking it apart from the once-solid block.
One weekend, my uncle was visiting from Washington DC. It wasn’t the perfect beach weather — the skies were overcast and the wind was slightly stronger than usual. As soon as we unfurled our bedsheets on top of the sand and secured them into place, my father handed his younger brother a bottle of sunscreen. My uncle grimaced and tossed the bottle back onto the sheet. He pointed to the overcast sky above.
“Seriously? I’m not wearing that,” he protested. “It’s cloudy. We haven’t seen the sun in hours.”
“You’ll burn, brother. Trust me on this. Pensacola sun is not like DC sun,” my Father declared. “It’s a lot more powerful.”
On my Dad’s side, a German heritage runs throughout; on my mother’s side, Native American. My uncle is light-skinned and refused the advice from his big brother and within thirty minutes he found himself covered in a very painful shade of lobster red. I never forgot how quickly the overcast sky could make one sunburned.
Now, nearly fifty years later, I sat there again, furiously grateful for the sun and covered in Banana Boat #8. (I have more Native American in me than German.) When it became too hot, I’d dunk myself in the cool water and chase the waves. I floated not far from shore, trying to avoid the strong currents that would carry me further down the coast. I noticed straight couples proclaiming their affection for each other as they sauntered along the beach holding hands and I was reminded that I was alone. And single. I went back to the sand.
I thought about how to get my sister, her two beautiful special needs children, as well as my niece and her special needs seven-year-old here. They would love this place. They never get to go anywhere and I started to wonder how I could make that happen.
Just then my cell chimed. One of my Pensacola friends texted to ask if I had packed my massage table on this trip. I answered in the affirmative. His next text was to ask if I would work on one of his in-laws who was visiting from the Northeast.
“I know this is a big ask, but his sciatica is really hurting him. He can’t walk without flinching in pain. Is there any way you can work on him? Please.”
“Of course I will,” I typed and texted him the details for an appointment at 7 pm.
I have learned one thing about traveling anywhere, whether it’s for my job or for personal time: travel with my massage table — always. Many of my friends and relatives who always rolled out the red carpet for me have threatened to blackball me from home-made dinners or other events if I don’t bring my table so I can work on them. They’re kidding, of course, but, it’s so much easier to have a friend or relative on a table rather than have them positioned on a couch, a bed, or on the floor — it’s hell on my back.
My seven pm appointment arrived on time. Vince was older than me, 5’11”, 170 lbs, and had the thickest, waviest black hair I’ve ever seen. He was soft-spoken and appeared a bit shy. After we visited a few minutes to talk about the problem areas, it was time for him to climb onto the table.
“Can you make it dark in here?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said and walked over to the nearest lamp and switched it off.
As I started back toward the table, he said, “No, dark. Very dark. No light at all.”
I was trying to process his words. Dark? What? No one had ever asked for a completely dark environment. Across the room, one lamp remained barely illuminated because I had draped one of my dark-colored t-shirts over it to dull the sobering light. That lamp was more of a support lamp to the other lamp which I had adjusted to a “night light” setting. The room was already almost completely dark — darker than I was accustomed.
Finally, I said, “No, sir. I get dizzy in the dark.” And true to form, on queue, my attention deficit disorder came out of its short hibernation and sprang into action. I blurted, “Dizzy in the Dark! Oh my god! That’d make a great song title, don’t you think?!?! I’m not very good with song lyrics, but, I bet I could come up with a tune that…” I caught myself and apologized for the brief run-on distraction. “Are you ready to hop on the table?”
He seemed resigned that the room wasn’t going to be completely dark. Reluctantly, he approached my workspace and readied his hands to assess the table’s proximity. His palms rested flat onto the table sheets and didn’t move them once in place. Vince seemed to study the table area between his hands as if he were contemplating a whodunnit murder mystery. His face was solemn, like a penitent contemplating which sins he was going to confess to the priest.
Finally, he came to life and turned toward me, leaving one hand on the table for balance.
“Um, before we start, I need to tell you something.” He paused before continuing. “I have a foot that isn’t like the other; it’s different. I had a mishap when I was younger and my…” His voice trailed off without finishing the sentence. I desperately wanted to ask if his foot injury was caused by pushing a lawnmower while barefoot. If so, I’d have to remember to call my Father the next day to apologize for criticizing his irrational and overprotective parenting. I raised my hand to the side of his arm and assured him it wouldn’t be an issue. He loaded onto the table and I prepared to go to work on the body before me.
I moved into position and laid my right forearm on his right trap and flattened my left hand next to my forearm. Slowly and with intention, I moved over the traps (what most people call the shoulders) then continued down the back, the glutes, the hamstrings, and the calf. I slowed as I moved off of the calf and opened both of my hands to receive his heel. I moved my hands forward to completely encompass his foot with my giant hands. I wrapped one hand around the middle of the foot and with the other hand, I wrapped around the top of the foot where his toes were. It was a perfectly normal foot. I glanced at the left foot and thought, Well, I know which one is not like the other. Even though I was only two feet away from the other foot, I couldn’t see anything unusual. It was dark dark dark.
After I worked on the right side, I moved to the left side and readied my stance. I placed my hand and forearm as before and moved over his body in the same way, except, when I got to the left foot, I paused and took a deep breath. I moved my hands over his heel sliding up to wrap both hands around his foot like a sleeve and like before, I wrapped one hand around the middle of the foot and with the other hand wrapped over the top of the foot. I realized that some of his toes were missing; in addition, the skin on the bottom of the foot was dry and very flaky, unlike the other foot which was smooth. I lingered there as if I were praying a blessing over his foot and gently squeezed both hands to acknowledge what was present and what was not.
My zen-like state was interrupted by a very audible sigh followed by a declaration of gratitude.
“Ohhhh…thank you,” he whispered.
As if I had been awakened by a bump in the night, I froze and listened for any other sounds coming from the other end of the table. There was something about that moment that caused me to pause. Something stirred in my spirit.
After the massage session, Vince sat up on the table and readied himself to reenter reality while I retrieved his bottle of water. But, first, I made my way to light the darkened lamp so we could both see. I helped him down from the table and ushered him to his clothes. While he dressed, I stripped the table. A thought popped into my head and I started to giggle.
In response to my giggling, he asked, “What?”
“Do you have nieces, nephews or grandkids in Pensacola?” I asked as I skinned the headrest covers from its cradle.
“Yes,” he replied.
“I’m assuming that you all are going to the beach while you’re in town visiting.”
He nodded.
“While standing on the beach with your feet in the sand, have you ever told the young ones about crabs that live under the sand? You could pretend to be bitten, scream, and pull your foot out and you pretend to be terrified that a few of your toes would be gone.”
He stared at me blankly.
Crap! I immediately thought to myself and quickly tried to explain my rationale.
“When I was a boy, my uncle warned me about giant crab claws and told me they would chop off my fingers,” I said, fumbling over my words. Then added, mumbling, “One did wind up biting me…twice”
The man stood there, saying nothing.
Maybe he’s just tired, I thought.
Earlier in the session, I sensed he was uncomfortable revealing his injury at the last minute and it didn’t surprise me. I suspected that he might have run into a massage therapist or two who refused to schedule an appointment with him again because of his foot. Or, if he was scheduled and rescheduled, the therapist may not have agreed to work on his feet. Any number of physical characteristics such as weight, race, waist girth, age, hyperactivity, maimed extremities, impairments like having a colostomy bag, or being deaf or mute have been reasons some therapists (licensed or not) turn away or refuse to schedule clients with any of these conditions.
Most of the male massage therapists I’ve met in this industry will tell you that they have been contacted by potential male massage clients inquiring if the therapist will work on individuals with any of the physical characteristics listed above. For some gay male therapists, being overweight is reason enough to be denied a session. At least two dozen times over the years, clients have shared stories of presenting for massage appointments only to have the gay massage therapist turn them away while they stood on the welcome mat. The table’s weight limitation was not declared as the reason for declining these appointments.
During a massage appointment with me, one client, who was both large and heavy, asked if I knew of a specific massage therapist who lived in Texas. I did know this therapist; he lived in my city. The client shared with me that this therapist turned him away at his studio door because of his size. My client saw the confused look on my face and explained what transpired when the therapist opened his studio door to a plus-sized forty-year-old.
“Yeah, it was kinda weird,” he explained. “As he opened the door, first he looked surprised. Then he looked disappointed. He sighed like he was annoyed. Then he stuck out his hand and waved it up and down in front of me and said, ‘Ah, no. We’re not doing this today.’ Then he shut the door in my face. I just stood there, staring. I felt so humiliated and embarrassed. No one had ever singled me out like that. I got over it. Eventually. I always contact the therapist now, before I schedule so I’m not put in another humiliating situation.”
A few months later, I was working in a different state and heard a similar story from another client about a Texas massage therapist. He asked if I knew him. It was the same massage therapist who shut the door in my other client’s face. I hear these types of stories often enough and I wondered if Vince had also experienced that kind of rejection my other two clients had experienced.
Decades ago, I attended Catholic seminary. Before lunch every weekday, all students and faculty were expected to attend daily mass. It was always before lunch. My metabolism had always raced faster than most and my body’s lunchtime was an hour earlier. If I didn’t eat before mass, I found myself daydreaming more during the service or, worse, napping with my eyes open. I did keep emergency snacks in my dorm room so I could be present during the liturgy and keep quiet the very loud lion growls roaring from my stomach.
Attending daily mass at my seminary was dramatically different than attending mass in neighborhood churches. Mass in the seminary was like going to a concert. Everyone sang. Two hundred men and a few women filled the 1,500 square foot chapel with song.
The combined volume and force of the singing would have given anyone goosebumps. The very small ensemble who led the music were men who had been, in their previous careers, professional in any or all of the following: acoustic or electric guitar, organ, piano, opera singer, stand-up bass, flute, oboe, synthesizer, and violin. The music was always over-the-top amazing. Liturgy (mass) was in the round — the chairs were in a circular formation within a very simple space. There were no images, statues or paintings anywhere. This was a progressive worship space.
One weekday, a priest I’d seen around campus, but never engaged, was presiding over the service. Fr. Bart was what a lot of my straight female friends would have called, “Father What-A-Waste” (what a waste of a priest because he’d make a better boyfriend or husband.) He was (and still is) very good looking, had a very sexy voice and stood 6’1″. He had short blonde hair, cut conservatively, was muscled, athletic and had a Matt Damon grin.
I don’t remember what the scripture reading was that day, but I do remember the story he told during his sermon. He spoke about a specific night when he volunteered at one of the city’s homeless shelters. As the evening progressed, most of the shelter guests had gone to bed but a small group remained awake and helped themselves to hot chocolate and coffee.
The hard metal chairs were arranged in somewhat of a circle and, at first glance, it might have appeared to look like the end of a support group meeting. But over the course of that late evening, quiet conversations haphazardly began and ended. Annoying everyone in that space were the frequent and loud moans by one of the male guests, Robbie. He was a veteran of the streets and he looked it. Most of those present could tell from ten feet away that he needed a shower.
Without trying, Robbie’s strong bass voice had the ability to cause alarm in those present when his moans bellowed from the bottom of his belly. They permeated everyone’s disposition with alarm and drew everyone’s attention to himself. As he sat on the uncomfortable metal chair, he droned on as his hands wrapped around his shoes, squeezing them to relieve the pressure. He must have instinctively known not to remove them, but continued to paw at them, trying to massage his aching feet through the thick suede.
Fr. Bart was a good distance away from Robbie when he heard Deborah call out to Robbie in frustration. From across the room, she whispered with such force it caused her voice to rasp, “ALRIGHT ALREADY!!!! GEEEEZZ!!!!!” She slammed her styrofoam coffee cup into the wheeled grey industrial trash can and barreled toward him. Robbie was too consumed with his own pain to notice her angry stomp towards him.
Deborah was no stranger to the streets, either. Being homeless had sanded away her femininity and made her disposition rough around the edges. She looked older than her fifty-something years. Makeup and feminine clothes were not part of her shopping list. Her orientation was about survival.
Now, standing so close to Robbie, she could reach out and touch him. She yanked a nearby metal chair toward herself and positioned it directly across from him. Robbie was still bent over, massaging his shoes.
Deborah plopped down onto the chair in front of him and leaned over to extend her arms towards his feet. She swatted his hands out of the way.
“Hee-uh, gimme ya feet,” she ordered.
She lifted both of his legs and rested the heels of his shoes onto her lap. Her fingers fumbled with the knotted shoestrings and began untangling them. As she finished untangling the first set of shoestrings, her hands began to grip the shoe from both ends and started jerking it towards her in short bursts. A look of horror appeared on the faces of those nearby. She was about to unleash the Kraken. Most everyone dispersed to the furthest boundaries of the room. One or two discretely pulled their shirts up over their faces to avoid the unavoidable noisome drift.
A noxious odor liberated itself from the cramped, moist confines of the shoe. Both the shoe and his foot were rarely exposed to fresh air and freedom. He must have felt relief immediately. The muscle tension in that foot seemed to disperse; he was paralyzed with euphoria.
The makeshift reflexologist was not undone by the smell. In fact, seeing the impact she had on his physical stress made her eager to continue in her mission to untie and remove the other shoe.
She wrapped her hands around his feet and buried both thumbs deep into his soles. Her “client” was speechless and slumped before her. Robbie was unable to summon the strength to sit upright. But more importantly to her, he was quiet. She continued to explore every part of his feet with her hands, sustained thumb and finger acupressure, and gently massaged his feet from his heels to his toes. Sometimes she repeated her movements as if she wanted to ensure every knot that needed to be kneaded was. It was doubtful he had ever been acknowledged in this way. It seemed the stress in the rest of his body flowed out through his feet. Deborah appeared proud of her ability to have this effect on someone. The confident expression on her face made it seem like she’d done this before.
Because of the unmistakable foot odor that permeated the room, it was now mostly empty. Many had retreated to their waiting cots to escape the fetid, foul stench wafting through the air.
When Fr. Bart shared this story twenty-five years ago, it resonated with me deeply. I added the profundity of that story to the other morals and measures ingrained in me by my parents. As I call out the callous, polluted, unclean, ungodly, unprofessional and dick-like behavior of that massage therapist who belittled his plus-sized clients, I asked myself if I would ever be able to massage a homeless person’s feet should I be inspired to do so? Is it callous that I would prefer to wear a gas mask, latex gloves, and an apron with an industrial fan blowing behind me? Does Deborah’s willingness to endure this experience with Robbie highlight the inadequacies of my own charity?
My clients ask me all the time, “How can you work on anyone?” I answer this question the same way it is answered to me when I ask my clients who are physicians, “How can you operate within the visible presence of blood and internal flesh without getting queasy?” Both our answers are, “I don’t know. I just do it. It’s never occurred to me otherwise.”
It’s hard to believe, but more than a few of those in my industry are people who are actually uncomfortable with touch. Even in massage forums, a lot of massage therapists declare their aversions to the client’s feet, kneading the glutes, or manipulating areas that are uncomfortable to them. Why should that be a surprise? We connect with each other like we’re pressing an elevator button, like in a fist bump. There seem to be way too many “ick” factors that are part of a massage therapist’s orientation.
I see my clients as people, and to many, I am a hero in this regard because I welcome everyone onto the table, whether they have perfect bodies or not. Then I grimace at the thought of the foul foot of a homeless man and I realize I’m not worthy of the cape.
That is the reason I have remembered this story for twenty-five years. Maybe I knew then that my life needed to be more like Deborah’s. She seemed to be immune to the stinky part of humanity. Living in a community means that we sometimes have to address the unbathed, rancid parts of each other and pulling a shirt up over the nose and mouth is not an option.
