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Terror and Tiger Balm
In America’s Flatland
by
Diana Grove
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It was 3 a.m. and I was awakened by the sound of gunfire.
I tried to get up, but I was immobilized by a searing pain that shot up my spine like a fiery electrical wire, ending in a throbbing lump in my right shoulder blade. I was in Oklahoma again, and I could hear the cowboys in the adjoining room going wild from whiskey and electric guitars.
Alarmed that maybe this time one of them had actually shot off an arm, I tried my best to hoist myself out of bed, only to be paralyzed with the white, hot pain running the length of my spine. Unable to rely on my neck for maneuvering, I lifted my head off the pillow with both hands.
It was surprisingly heavy, I quickly calculated the weight: brain - 4 pounds, skull – 3 pounds, blood – 1 pound, various other head fluids – 1 pound, hair – easily 5 pounds, maybe more. There was no doubt about it, it was a big head. Definitely not the kind of thing you’d want to bring on a road trip to Oklahoma…not without a sturdy carrying case anyway.
Hearing another shot emanating from the kitchen, I slowly carried my head and its attached spinal column out of the bedroom to investigate the carnage. The cowboys were sitting around the 1950’s Formica kitchen drinking whiskey watching my friend, Clyde, shoot some kind of gun into the garbage can next to the stove. He had invited me to stay and recuperate “Oklahoma style” for a few days after a long haul in Los Angeles.
“Hey Slick, you’re up early.” Clyde looked me up and down, frowning. (All the cowboys had nicknames: Flash, Shovelhead, Crazy Eddie, Otis-the Loud One.” Apparently, in the flatlands I had a nickname too. Maybe it was short for “City Slicker.” I didn’t know, I was too afraid to ask.)
“Damn, you’re not lookin’ so good Slick. In fact, you look like you need to be taken out back and shot.” Clyde continued to frown, then pointing his gun at the floor, sniffed the air.
“What in hell is that smell? Smells kinda like an old lady’s underwear or somethin’.” The cowboys looked at each other, sniffing randomly.
I had slathered myself heavily in mentholated ointment before turning in for the night, hoping it would ease the ungodly pain that shot up my spine.
Exasperated, I winced. “Look, it’s camphor mixed with back plaster and rubbing alcohol…it’s for my back. Which, by the way, is in such bad shape I’ll probably be dead by morning.”
“Well, ya have to understand Slick, that’s what you get for wrestling a 260 pound Irishman in a Holiday Inn parking lot. Those Irish boys are never gonna to let you win, no matter how much Bushmills you feed ‘em. Now, you’d better get back to bed, you look like fucking Bella Lagossi with that hunch you’ve got going.”
He was right. 260 pounds of pure fighting Irish - I didn’t stand a chance, not even with my enormous head. I was flattened in under 2 minutes. I can’t help it though; sometimes I just need to flex my 109 pound muscle and swing for the fences. Especially if I’m provoked with chest hair and a shillaly.
With my spine doglegged and stinging, I left Clyde and the cowboys to their drinking and sulked out of the room.
“Oh well, fuck those guys,” I thought, “they don’t know what real pain is. Just because Shovelhead had his thigh shot out by a state trooper back in the 70’s doesn’t mean he knows real pain. Tomorrow, I’ll go out and fix myself up proper with a professional massage or something. That’ll set me straight.”
I crept back into the darkened bedroom and threw the pillow on the floor. I fumbled around the dresser, grabbing what I thought was a bible but what turned out to be The Boy Scout Handbook. With tremendous caution, I lowered my greasy torso onto the mattress, easing my head down with both hands. Before my skull hit the bed, I quickly slid the book underneath, filling the gap my twisted spine created.
As the seconds ticked by, the pain got much worse. I lay there for what seemed like eternity, tears running down the sides of my head, creating sizable reflection pools in my eardrums. The electrical cord was tightening around my spinal column, making the nut in my shoulder grow and seethe like an infectious sea urchin.
The Boy Scout manual was getting damp and warped from the weight of my head and the various bodily fluids that were leaking from it, so I reached over and turned on the light (estimated time = 12.6 minutes).
I decided to turn to my new pillow for guidance. According to page 68, in an emergency situation like this, a scout should build a small fire, make a shelter out of sticks, then wait for help to arrive.
It sounded like a good plan, but I knew I was too weak to rub two sticks together, and clearly the only help I’d get would involve an ornery cowboy and a drunken motorcycle ride out to the Putman City dump. So, I did what I always do in times of stress: I squeezed my eyes shut and thought about bass fishing...for 8 hours.
The next morning I hobbled out to the kitchen, swollen and reeking of mentholatum. The cowboys were long gone, but amidst an array of dirty high ball glasses and playing cards was Clyde, coolly spreading butter on a slice of toast.
“Morning Slick, I thought I smelled you.”
I eased my twisted spine and seething back nut down on a sparkly chair covered in plastic and deco chrome. I grasped the salt shaker in my fist and squeezed. “Look Clyde, this morning I only want three things: I want hot toast, I want a phone number for the nearest massage therapist, and I want the keys to your most expendable vehicle.”
Sensing my seriousness he acquiesced, dragging the directory from a remote top shelf. It turned out, the closest massage parlor was just a few blocks away; Oriental Therapy Massage, conveniently located in a strip mall right between The Wonder Bread Thrift Shop and Shelter Insurance.
Thank God, it was exactly what I needed – a real, bonafide therapist. Someone who could get rid of the back nut before it completely destroyed my life and all of my soft tissue.
As Clyde buttered a second slice of toast, he wrote down the directions on a small sheet of paper and handed me the keys to his jeep.
Without even calling for an appointment, I wedged the bread in my jaw and crept out like a wounded animal freshly hit by a melon truck.
Unable to move my neck, but easing my way into the vehicle (estimated time = 15.4 minutes) I started the car and blindly backed out of the driveway, narrowly missing a pickup truck full of Seminoles.
“Goddamit! Can’t you crazy Indians see I’m wounded and have no swervability factor in my neck! Mother Fuck!” The Indians simply honked and drove off, cursing the mighty antelope gods and tearing their black, shiny hair.
By this time, the nut was beginning to seethe so powerfully I could hear the throbbing reverberate in my bones. I held Clyde’s directions up in front of my face while cruising full speed down the highway.
- MAKE A LEFT AT THE LIGHT.
- GO 1 BLOCK PAST TIM’S INDIAN TACOS, THEN GO 1 MORE BLOCK.
- AT THE BIG BLUE REPO GORILLA, TURN RIGHT.
- IF YOU SEE PATTY’S FRIED PIES, YOU’VE GONE TOO FAR.
P.S. PLEASE DON’T BUY ANYMORE STINKY BACK MEDICINE, IT’S PUTTING EVERYONE OFF THEIR FEED.
THANKS,
CLYDE !
Without being able to turn my 14 pound head to check for oncoming traffic, I coasted through a yellow light, blindly making a sharp left turn, and just hoped for the best. A Ford Taurus and an Amoco truck both slammed on their brakes to avoid Clyde’s red jeep, which at this point had successfully made its way through the intersection and was careening directly towards Tim’s Indian Taco’s.
The sharp turn had caused my back nut not just to seethe, but to tear and pulsate as well, leaking a toxic fluid through my trapezium muscle which would surely render me unconscious, if not dead, within the hour.
It wasn’t just leaking, it was growing in size, too. In fact, it seemed to be sprouting tiny, needle-like teeth, probably so it could chew its way out of my flesh and stop at Tim’s to get a .99 Fish Taco with a medium Sprite - fries included. Or maybe it just wanted to gnaw its way through my back tissue eventually making its way up my neck muscle, into my brain, out my right ear, and over to Pat’s for the Fried Pie Special. But never mind the nut…I JUST PASSED THE BIG BLUE REPO GORILLA WITHOUT TURNING RIGHT!
Goddamit...now I had to turn around.
After a lot of dangerous blind maneuvering, I finally got to the massage parlor just in time to see a fluorescent green Trans Am peel out of the parking lot at top speed. I extracted myself from the jeep (estimated time = 3.25 minutes) and entered the Oriental Therapy Massage lobby.
Hearing the cow bell attached to the door, a short, 40ish Asian woman poked her head into the waiting room. She wore a long, synthetic gown with a plunging neckline, one eye was dark brown, the other a bright oceanic blue. Sweat dripped down her body in rivulets as she swabbed herself with an old, gray rag.
Those eyes…Oh, sweet Christ on a bike! She was a Cantonese she-beast that would surely extract the back nut with a rusty, old samurai sword that she’d used to de-head syphilitic chickens. Then, after a long, sad death, she’d feed my remains to her Chow Chow that was chained out back to the rickshaw made from human femurs.
I t was at this point I thought, “For the love of God Diana, run. Run for your life. Nothing good can come of this! Go on…run away!”
Of course, I was too crippled at that point to run anywhere. My back nut was busy drilling a hole in my clavicle with a Dremel tool and I couldn’t run, no matter how many terrifying Asian women were after me.
The She-beast squinted her blue marble eye, looked me up and down and sniffed, “How I can help you today?”
I tried straightening my spine to answer, but instead let out a little shriek.
“Uh, you wait here, I have someone take care of you in 5 minute, ok? She fix you up good. Hey, what smell so funny?”
“Uh, it’s camphor…I just want a regular back rub, I kinda hurt myself on a trip to Los Angeles recently, and I, uh…need some help with my shoulder blade. You see, I’ve got this back nut that’s trying to kill me and take over my body…”
“Yeah, yeah ok, I have Miss Ginger take care of you good. Gimme two minute, ok?” She disappeared behind a curtain and left me alone in the lobby, which seemed pretty normal actually: pictures here, flowers there, a can of Lysol next to Buckhunter magazine on the coffee table. Wait a minute…
Before I had a chance to do anything life saving, another Asian woman walked into the room and sing-songed, “Hiiiiiiii, I Miss Gin-ger. What kind of massage you want?”
Miss Ginger wore a floral print secretary’s dress and Mary Tyler Moore hair. She stood about 4 foot 2 in nylons and was somewhere between 25 and 55-years-old (the floral dress was very childlike, so I just couldn’t be sure). She too looked me up and down, probably noting my hobbled-over back hunch, which, considering my current options, really didn’t seem so bad any more.
“Uh…you know, Ginger…I just want a regular massage. I’ve got terrible back trouble, really dangerous stuff. It’ll probably kill me if I don’t do something soon.” I rubbed my burning shoulder blade and looked down at her floral, eggplant-like shape.
“You want me to take pant off?”
“No, no….no, I’m leaving my pants on. I just want you to work on my back. Leave jeans on, see!” I patted my thighs just to reinforce the point.
“Ok, you follow me into Massage Room Number 3 and take off top. And you pay me 60 dollar, ok?”
I didn’t feel good about this. Massage Room Number 3 had musty wood paneling and a dark, dungeon-like quality. The massage table sat in the middle of the room like a medieval, sheet-covered rack. I asked Ginger if I could go to the bathroom first. Maybe I could make a quick escape out a back window or something.
She led me down a long hallway filled with tiny rooms labeled “Sauna,” “Acupressure,” “Table Bath,” “Body Shampoo,” “Misc.”
“Misc.”? Oh God…
I closed the door to the bathroom, but it was loose and wouldn’t lock securely. There was a window in the corner, but it had safety bars on it – clearly people had tried to escape before. In the corner sat an array of mouthwash, toothbrushes and a large bottle of antiseptic.
“Now, why on earth would you need mouthwash at a massage parlor?” I thought. “Oh, wait a minute...” Run!
But there was no escape, Miss Ginger knocked on the door and immediately led me down the hall, again telling me to take off my t-shirt and bra and lie face down on the massage table while Rod Stewart incessantly sang, “You’re in My Heart, You’re in My Soul” on her Hello Kitty radio .
There was no turning back. I did what I was told. I followed orders. I stripped from the waist up, including my watch, which I never take off, not even for the greatest of intimacies.
Miss Ginger told me to relax as she fumbled silently for a while with her oils and balms and God knows what else.
After succumbing to the inevitable, I placed my gigantic 14 pound head face down on the massage pillow. And even thought I was completely at her mercy, when she hopped up on the table, hiked up her skirt, and sat directly on my ass, it still came as a tremendous shock.
“Oh, Jesus, hi there. I wasn’t expecting that, uh…I really just need my right shoulder blade worked on, if that’s ok. If not, fine, you know. I mean you’re the therapist and all, but really, it’s just the nut on my shoulder blade that needs help…um…thanks?”
She didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, she drizzled oil on my naked back and applied the ball of her palms full force, creating a kind of Tete Offensive on my already wounded spine. And somehow, Rod Stewart telling me I was “in his heart” was not helping.
“Holy shit!” I yelled. “Ouchy ouchy ouchy ouchy, oh God that hurts!”
“You won’t feel better unless I hurt you first, believe me,” she said, giving my back a slap after each stroke.
“Oh God, ok, I hope you’re right. But please, could you just take care of that nut on my shoulder...really, it’s growing and trying to take over my brain.”
She continued sliding her hands up my back bone full force, landing right on the nut, giving it a slap.
“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”
“Ooooohhhhhh, that’s a bad one, huh? Like coconut or something? I put on Tiger Balm and work it out for you.” She rocked on my back, rhythmically smearing the hot tiger goo back and forth. The pain was unhinging.
“So…you have any baby?”
SLAP!
“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! No, no babies. I don’t think I’ll be able to have babies after this. Oh God, could you please go a little lighter, it really hurts!”
“…you’ll be me breath should I grow old…”
SLAP!
“Too bad, maybe you get lucky someday,” she said, assaulting my spine with what I thought must be revenge for the Mai Lai Incident.
“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! Owwwwwwwwwwwww!”
“…you are my lover, you’re my best friend…”
SLAP!
“Oh Christ! Please…not so hard!”
“…you’re in my soul.”
And this went on and on and on - Miss Ginger continued to kick the living shit out of me for exactly one hour and three minutes.
The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I mean, if you think about it, being eaten by a bear is painful, falling from a tall building and losing your limbs is painful, falling in love is extremely painful, but being worked over by Miss Ginger “the Me Kong Masseuse” was more than painful, it was down right torture.
And just when I thought it was all over, she told me to roll over on my back.
I tried, but I was frozen in place. The back nut was clearly winning. All of my muscles had decided to retreat. It was no use, I was completely cooked – a veritable prisoner of war.
When it was finally clear that I had no will left, Miss Ginger grabbed the belt loops of my jeans and slowly rolled me over like an overdone turkey.
I screamed…quietly at first, then with increased gusto.
After she rolled me skyward, we locked eyes and there was an eerie, awkward silence. “Oh crap,” I thought, “this is when the really weird stuff happens.”
I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing to do. I was topless and in excruciating pain…and Miss Ginger knew it. She had me exactly where she wanted me. She was probably going to brainwash me and turn me into one of her many “body shower” slaves then ship me off to Guam where she’d force me to give blowjobs to Japanese businessmen who’d make me call them “Papasan” in a Danish accent.
What did she do next, you ask?
I couldn’t believe it. She moved behind my head and began tenderly pressing down on my scalp in tiny little circles. Then my forehead….then my temples and cheek bones and the bridge of my nose.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhh, now that feels incredible,” I moaned. “Really amazing. MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM… nice.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she said, caressing my hair and pushing down on the base of my ears.
“MMMMMMMMMM, that feels gooooooooooooooooood. Oh wow. Please, don’t stop…don’t stop. Keep going for a little while longer. Just a little while…”
“Ok, all done,” she said abruptly, slapped her hands together like an exclamation mark. “You give me tip now.”
My back nut was seething more than ever, but my head felt great. I was dizzy and disoriented and didn’t know what to do, so I gave her an extra $20 and managed to locate my top (estimated time = far too long).
The Tiger Balm made me smell gamey and even more pungent than before. I wobbled around in circles trying to avoid the stinging fumes.
As soon as I spotted the Cantonese She-beast in the hall, I hobbled out a fast as my twisted spine would let me. I was more hunched over and wretched than ever, but I was alive, and that’s all I really cared about.
Crippled and exhausted, I managed to make my way out to the lobby. I grabbed a handful of Oriental Therapy Massage business cards figuring the cowboys might need a good “Oklahoma-style” once over after a long night of drinking and firing off weapons - just a little Asian TLC. Tiger Balm, mouthwash and all.
