The Brutal Massage
by Adam "Rev" Hulnick

Another true story from the inappropriately attired city. Oy.
Last night found me puppy-sitting for my friend down on 80th street, taking care of what can only be described as the world’s largest Chihuahua. I’d been kind of tense at work that day and the therapeutic effects of a short visit with someone else’s puppy should not be underestimated. As I left her house, I almost passed by the new Chinese massage place that had opened up in the basement level of the building next to hers.

These places are all over the city: tiny little studios with a large yin-yang on the sign and acupuncture diagrams in the window. This one had caught my attention, not just because it was next to the convenience store where I buy my banana Snapples and cinnamon Mentos, but because they have a large TV screen in the window continuously showing a video of a man getting massaged. The towel on the man in the video is riding a little low and the top of his butt-crack is showing. So my friend and I can’t pass this shop without me breaking into a schoolgirl giggle and saying “butt-crack” over and over until we’re a good block away.

In addition to a butt-crack, they also had coupons for twenty free minutes of massage, which is exactly my kind of thing.

I took a coupon from their menu dispenser and descended the stairs. Inside I found a young Chinese man and an older Chinese woman sitting around chatting. They literally leapt up when I entered. I presented my coupon and was ushered past a couple of empty tables with curtains hanging open around them. My destination was the little room in back where the young man pulled a fresh sheet of doctor’s paper over the massage table and punched a hole in it for my face.

“You lie down. Shirt,” he said, motioning to his shirt.
“Do I take my shirt off or leave it on?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Shirt,” he said again, motioning to his shoulders. So, shirt on, I climbed on to the table and lay awkwardly down. A moment later there was a knock at the plastic curtain-door and he called “ready?” from the hall. He came in and saw me and said “no, no. Shirt, shirt,” and he left again.

Shirt off, I guessed, so I stripped to the waist and climbed back on the table. Lying there, very awkwardly now, staring at the floor through the hole in the table I saw some red stains on the floor. My first thought was that it looked like blood. But no, I thought, they probably also do nails here. That must be nail polish. Good, old-fashioned, deep red nail polish. Friendly, not-scary nail polish.

The curtain-door opened again and, wordless, the young man came in. I recognized him by his shoes from my limited vantage point looking down at the floor through a hole in a table. I heard the squirt of lotion, the rubbing of hands together and then he started to massage my shoulders and neck. The first minute was very soothing and I was soon at ease. That’s when the torture started.

After his initial rubs he began to dig for treasure that I could have told him was not buried in my back. I’m not sure which part of his hands were quite so pointy or hard, but he dug it in to my muscles unmercifully and with such downward pressure that I felt my eyes popping out. Now, I’m not usually the type to let someone physically abuse me without at least a polite request that they stop, but I’d also never had a lie down massage before that wasn’t part of the mating act, and I wasn’t sure what they were supposed to feel like. I remembered having heard the term “deep tissue massage” somewhere, though I wasn’t sure where I had heard it or whether it was a good thing. I’d also heard the terms “thumb screw” and “good ole’ country ass-whooping.” Lately I had been experiencing a lot of tension in my neck and shoulders, though. This is probably healing me, I thought, as he squeezed the air out of my lungs from behind.

The longer this young man kneaded my muscles like one hundred fifty pounds of bread dough that he hated, the more I wondered if that really was blood on the floor. It was possible someone’s eyes had just popped under the pressure.

After what could not have been less than three and a half hours of this torture, there was a brief pause and I felt him working on the back of my legs, shifting the weight from one side to the other. As he worked up to the lower back I thought to myself, those feel like feet. It was then that I saw the feet, not of my masseuse, but of the crutches I had noticed leaning against the wall earlier. I reached the unmistakable conclusion that this dude was walking on me, using the crutches for balance. The funny thing was that it was the least painful part of the evening.

After his little stroll he finished up with the light punches that all massages end with. He was then joined by someone else, an older man with a gruff friendly voice, whom I could not see through my hole, who gave me a friendly slap on the back and said “You feel good yes? You tell all your good friends yes?” I weakly agreed and they left me alone.

In a fog, I pulled myself to my feet and pulled on my shirt, not bothering to check if it was backwards or frontward. My cell phone started to ring but I ignored it. I used to do martial arts and I felt about the same way I did after a really long and spirited fighting class. Sort of a carefree feeling because you’re so beat up that whatever comes next will likely be a relief.

Clothed again, I staggered down the hall. In the lobby I saw the man that went with the gruff voice. He looked like a kung fu master from an old Hong Kong movie: powerfully solid, as if he were carved from a piece of strong wood. Friendly, though, he loaded me up with gift certificates and coupons and made me promise to bring all my “good friends.” He asked if I felt good and I told him I did, though I wasn’t really sure. I was feeling pretty good about it being over.

By this time, had it only been twenty minutes? my friend had arrived home and suggested we take the world’s biggest Chihuahua for a walk. When she asked how the massage was, I told her I’d tell her in the morning. My thinking was that if I felt great in the morning, it was some good if harsh medicine. If I felt ambivalent to bad, I’d much rather go for the gentle, relaxing massage.

The verdict? After a mostly sleepless night I awoke with the beginnings of bruises all over my back. They’re the deep bruises that sometimes take days to develop fully, the kind I’d sometimes get in martial arts when someone would get carried away and land a full-force kick right on me. I was not relaxed as I moved slowly and gingerly through the office the next day, barely able to lean back in my chair.

So I still have some gift certificates. I think I’ll give them to people I don’t like.


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