That he wanted me to touch him made me feel special. I wasn’t though; it was my job to touch him. I’d touched him everywhere—well, almost everywhere—for years. There’s a code to being a massage therapist, and once a person becomes your client you’re not supposed to have a personal relationship with them. Healing is best accomplished when coming from a place where the therapist does not have an agenda.
But with Ryan I had an agenda. I wanted him to like me. He was one of my favorite clients even though he was always late and not a great tipper. He had such a hard time scheduling and showing up for appointments, that when he asked for my cell phone number so that I could assist him more than the receptionist could, I gave it to him. I gave it to him twice because the first time he lost his phone. I gave him special treatment. He came in every couple weeks, or not for months, but he only saw me except for one time when he saw Monique, who said he was precious in a way that underscored things.
I’d always liked him, probably too much, and for the wrong reasons. I would try to compensate by stepping up my professionalism—looking at my notes from our last session and following up with him about whatever had been bothering him at the time. He’d learned to surf and play guitar since I met him and that gave him a sore lower back.
He was sensitive—the smallest move across his muscle fibers made him jump, but he often fell asleep and was good at relaxing. He was easy to work on. It was like all I had to give sank right into him.
He’d been a tennis player like my dad, was self-absorbed like him too, but when you’re coming in to get a massage the focus should be all on you, so he was entitled. The more I pretended to be detached the more he seemed to like me. He would ask, “Mara, how are things with you?” when he settled in on the treatment table. I didn’t say much—nothing too personal—but I’d told him I was a triathlete so sometimes I told him if I had a race coming up. My athleticism was a credential in his eyes.
I liked to think that I was special because I knew he had a pencil-mark freckle on the bottom of his right size-thirteen foot.
When he told me he and some tennis buddies got a lease on a private teaching court, I told him I was thinking about starting to play again. He said I should. So I got a new racket and left a message for the court director. Before he got back to me, late on a Saturday, Ryan texted to ask if I would be able to come to the court where there was a massage table we could use. I didn’t usually do massage off-site, but I said yes. Why not let Ryan feel like king for a day? Plus, I could see the court which he’d said had been resurfaced just like the ones at the U.S. Open.
It was nestled behind a storefront—the kind of place you had to know about. I heard the ball machine firing and stepped though the sliding glass doors of the office onto the court where a tall young boy hit crosscourt forehands which Ryan returned down the line. It was a moment full of boy: the young boy, and the older boy with the young boy inside.
“I didn’t mean to get all sweaty,” Ryan said when we were in the office as I set up.
“It’s nice you were helping him,” I said.
“No, I wasn’t. I did that for me,” he said. “That kid’s gonna be a great player.”
I brought the sheets and some oil. He sat on the stoop making a playlist because he didn’t like massage music.
“I wish we had a candle,” he said.
The only illumination came from the lights over the blue court. I worked on Ryan’s back. My goal was to get some blood flow into the tissue, not to hurt him, but his traps were pretty tight and it did.
I kept looking out to the court like it was a private lake for waterskiing and once Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” started playing the massage table became a raft and I could almost feel it bobbing.
His playlist included the song, “Don’t Smoke in Bed,” which seemed intimate for massage, but then so does every song with words.
In another song he said it’s him playing guitar while Daryl Hannah sang. He’d been playing a lot of gigs; I should come to a show sometime. I finished up and went in the bathroom to wash my hands while he got dressed.
“Thanks, Mara.” He said it like he really meant it. I folded the table up and put it back in the corner where it was when I got there.
“How much do I owe you?” I said don’t worry about it. He said let’s trade, I’ll give you some privates, and reached for a court schedule. He pointed to some clinic days and times.
I was interested in the court and spending more time with Ryan even though I knew he was unreliable and probably a bad person to trade with. But I would do anything for him.
He said let’s trade every week. I was out of my comfort zone but had been granted something I have always wanted: access. As a massage therapist you are not supposed to hang out with your clients, but this trade thing opened things up. I still planned to be a professional, but we would be spending more time together.
Bonnie Raitt sang, “Angel from Montgomery,” a song I hadn’t heard in a long time. “I am an old woman….” He cut it after the first line, shut off the lights, and locked the door. For a second there was an awkward silence between us, but I just smiled and said good night, let’s be in touch.
The next time we got together it was a Friday night. The court was dark when I arrived and I wasn’t surprised when Ryan was late and said he was on fumes. He had to go to Starbucks to get his dinner. I got the tennis lesson first.
“Mara, slow down!” He said it like I needed to slam on the brakes to avoid an accident. He called me Mara because that is the version of my name that I used at work. I told him my real name is Tamara, but he never made the adjustment. I took it as an endearment.
I’d been practicing, and hoped to impress him as I bounced the yellow ball on the blue court.
“Your serve is the only thing you can control on the tennis court,” he said. He was a lot taller than me and spoke into the air above my head, where I tossed the ball before striking it.
“It should be your best shot,” he said with the authority that comes only from telling ladies in the Pacific Palisades what to do.
He said that in tennis balance is important.
“That’s what players are doing when they bounce the ball right before they serve—they’re getting their feet set.” He demonstrated by placing his foot close to the service line, bending over, and bouncing the ball a few times.
“Why would you rush that?” he asked. Ryan was the last person who would ever rush anything.
“Maybe you only have thirty seconds, but it’s your thirty seconds,” he said. I was struck by his awareness of time.
“What is serving, really?” I said nothing. He had the patience of a savant.
“Mara, you OK? I’ve never heard you not talk before.”
I nodded.
“It’s rhythm, like in music. It’s the part that moves.” He began to demonstrate his serving ritual. “Now, I’m not warmed up right now, but you get the idea.”
I looked up at Ryan; his bottom teeth seemed big. He moved from the deuce court to the ad court as if the surface was made of moss. His body softened and bristled at the same time while he worked the grip with his fingers. It was as if the racket became his arm. The round white light above us became the full moon as he approached the baseline. In the shadow of a graceful predator, the racket trailed behind him like a tail about to whip.
When I worked on him I asked him if he missed playing all the big tournaments. What I miss is everything being done for me, he said. I took it as an invitation. From now on, I would do things for Ryan. I would try to meet his needs above and beyond the call of the massage therapist’s duty. And I would do it without having needs of my own just to prove how truly amazing I was as a massage therapist and person.
The next time the court was busy so I invited him over to my place where I had a table I never used. Before, I offered him a shower and afterward something to eat. I lit candles. He said he would stand naked in front of a window, but he wasn’t good around mirrors. He always wore his underwear around me. I felt safe around him—probably because he didn’t like me.
He asked me to tell him what I thought of his body. Was it more or less muscular, what felt tight, what can I tell about it, what does it seem like, how does it compare to last time. I was willing to put up with this.
When I went to the grocery store, I picked out things I thought he would like: kale crunch, dark chocolate, and coconut water.
There was another massage thrown in there when it rained, and another when I had a trail-running race the next day, and another when my legs were tired from other training I’d been doing. So he owed me tennis.
He had his own way of speaking. “If you’re still up for it, let’s crush for a crisp hour,” he texted. “My parents are in town and I have to pick up dinner for them,” he says.
I’m not really up for it, but I’m glad to hear from him even at the last minute so I rally.
“Dress warm!” he added. I think it’s cute.
We wore knit caps and stood together on the backcourt. He brought some Charlie Brown Christmas music on his iPod that he played on an outdoor speaker, but the music ended. Cold slowed us like molecules, and he held his hand to his mouth, expelling breath to warm his fingers. He rolled his eyes and grabbed his calf every time he had to move. His shorts dropped low like he’d gotten skinnier since he put them on.
I spent more time working on him than I’d had on the court with him. I could have cut him off until tennis was scheduled. But I liked having him over, liked having him come to see me. I liked making him feel important. He, apparently, liked being late and canceling a lot. We stopped trading, and I tried to move on quickly and graciously, like it was the next point. I’d stepped out of bounds but came back. Sometimes you have to lose your balance to find it.
But with Ryan I had an agenda. I wanted him to like me. He was one of my favorite clients even though he was always late and not a great tipper. He had such a hard time scheduling and showing up for appointments, that when he asked for my cell phone number so that I could assist him more than the receptionist could, I gave it to him. I gave it to him twice because the first time he lost his phone. I gave him special treatment. He came in every couple weeks, or not for months, but he only saw me except for one time when he saw Monique, who said he was precious in a way that underscored things.
I’d always liked him, probably too much, and for the wrong reasons. I would try to compensate by stepping up my professionalism—looking at my notes from our last session and following up with him about whatever had been bothering him at the time. He’d learned to surf and play guitar since I met him and that gave him a sore lower back.
He was sensitive—the smallest move across his muscle fibers made him jump, but he often fell asleep and was good at relaxing. He was easy to work on. It was like all I had to give sank right into him.
He’d been a tennis player like my dad, was self-absorbed like him too, but when you’re coming in to get a massage the focus should be all on you, so he was entitled. The more I pretended to be detached the more he seemed to like me. He would ask, “Mara, how are things with you?” when he settled in on the treatment table. I didn’t say much—nothing too personal—but I’d told him I was a triathlete so sometimes I told him if I had a race coming up. My athleticism was a credential in his eyes.
I liked to think that I was special because I knew he had a pencil-mark freckle on the bottom of his right size-thirteen foot.
When he told me he and some tennis buddies got a lease on a private teaching court, I told him I was thinking about starting to play again. He said I should. So I got a new racket and left a message for the court director. Before he got back to me, late on a Saturday, Ryan texted to ask if I would be able to come to the court where there was a massage table we could use. I didn’t usually do massage off-site, but I said yes. Why not let Ryan feel like king for a day? Plus, I could see the court which he’d said had been resurfaced just like the ones at the U.S. Open.
It was nestled behind a storefront—the kind of place you had to know about. I heard the ball machine firing and stepped though the sliding glass doors of the office onto the court where a tall young boy hit crosscourt forehands which Ryan returned down the line. It was a moment full of boy: the young boy, and the older boy with the young boy inside.
“I didn’t mean to get all sweaty,” Ryan said when we were in the office as I set up.
“It’s nice you were helping him,” I said.
“No, I wasn’t. I did that for me,” he said. “That kid’s gonna be a great player.”
I brought the sheets and some oil. He sat on the stoop making a playlist because he didn’t like massage music.
“I wish we had a candle,” he said.
The only illumination came from the lights over the blue court. I worked on Ryan’s back. My goal was to get some blood flow into the tissue, not to hurt him, but his traps were pretty tight and it did.
I kept looking out to the court like it was a private lake for waterskiing and once Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” started playing the massage table became a raft and I could almost feel it bobbing.
His playlist included the song, “Don’t Smoke in Bed,” which seemed intimate for massage, but then so does every song with words.
In another song he said it’s him playing guitar while Daryl Hannah sang. He’d been playing a lot of gigs; I should come to a show sometime. I finished up and went in the bathroom to wash my hands while he got dressed.
“Thanks, Mara.” He said it like he really meant it. I folded the table up and put it back in the corner where it was when I got there.
“How much do I owe you?” I said don’t worry about it. He said let’s trade, I’ll give you some privates, and reached for a court schedule. He pointed to some clinic days and times.
I was interested in the court and spending more time with Ryan even though I knew he was unreliable and probably a bad person to trade with. But I would do anything for him.
He said let’s trade every week. I was out of my comfort zone but had been granted something I have always wanted: access. As a massage therapist you are not supposed to hang out with your clients, but this trade thing opened things up. I still planned to be a professional, but we would be spending more time together.
Bonnie Raitt sang, “Angel from Montgomery,” a song I hadn’t heard in a long time. “I am an old woman….” He cut it after the first line, shut off the lights, and locked the door. For a second there was an awkward silence between us, but I just smiled and said good night, let’s be in touch.
The next time we got together it was a Friday night. The court was dark when I arrived and I wasn’t surprised when Ryan was late and said he was on fumes. He had to go to Starbucks to get his dinner. I got the tennis lesson first.
“Mara, slow down!” He said it like I needed to slam on the brakes to avoid an accident. He called me Mara because that is the version of my name that I used at work. I told him my real name is Tamara, but he never made the adjustment. I took it as an endearment.
I’d been practicing, and hoped to impress him as I bounced the yellow ball on the blue court.
“Your serve is the only thing you can control on the tennis court,” he said. He was a lot taller than me and spoke into the air above my head, where I tossed the ball before striking it.
“It should be your best shot,” he said with the authority that comes only from telling ladies in the Pacific Palisades what to do.
He said that in tennis balance is important.
“That’s what players are doing when they bounce the ball right before they serve—they’re getting their feet set.” He demonstrated by placing his foot close to the service line, bending over, and bouncing the ball a few times.
“Why would you rush that?” he asked. Ryan was the last person who would ever rush anything.
“Maybe you only have thirty seconds, but it’s your thirty seconds,” he said. I was struck by his awareness of time.
“What is serving, really?” I said nothing. He had the patience of a savant.
“Mara, you OK? I’ve never heard you not talk before.”
I nodded.
“It’s rhythm, like in music. It’s the part that moves.” He began to demonstrate his serving ritual. “Now, I’m not warmed up right now, but you get the idea.”
I looked up at Ryan; his bottom teeth seemed big. He moved from the deuce court to the ad court as if the surface was made of moss. His body softened and bristled at the same time while he worked the grip with his fingers. It was as if the racket became his arm. The round white light above us became the full moon as he approached the baseline. In the shadow of a graceful predator, the racket trailed behind him like a tail about to whip.
When I worked on him I asked him if he missed playing all the big tournaments. What I miss is everything being done for me, he said. I took it as an invitation. From now on, I would do things for Ryan. I would try to meet his needs above and beyond the call of the massage therapist’s duty. And I would do it without having needs of my own just to prove how truly amazing I was as a massage therapist and person.
The next time the court was busy so I invited him over to my place where I had a table I never used. Before, I offered him a shower and afterward something to eat. I lit candles. He said he would stand naked in front of a window, but he wasn’t good around mirrors. He always wore his underwear around me. I felt safe around him—probably because he didn’t like me.
He asked me to tell him what I thought of his body. Was it more or less muscular, what felt tight, what can I tell about it, what does it seem like, how does it compare to last time. I was willing to put up with this.
When I went to the grocery store, I picked out things I thought he would like: kale crunch, dark chocolate, and coconut water.
There was another massage thrown in there when it rained, and another when I had a trail-running race the next day, and another when my legs were tired from other training I’d been doing. So he owed me tennis.
He had his own way of speaking. “If you’re still up for it, let’s crush for a crisp hour,” he texted. “My parents are in town and I have to pick up dinner for them,” he says.
I’m not really up for it, but I’m glad to hear from him even at the last minute so I rally.
“Dress warm!” he added. I think it’s cute.
We wore knit caps and stood together on the backcourt. He brought some Charlie Brown Christmas music on his iPod that he played on an outdoor speaker, but the music ended. Cold slowed us like molecules, and he held his hand to his mouth, expelling breath to warm his fingers. He rolled his eyes and grabbed his calf every time he had to move. His shorts dropped low like he’d gotten skinnier since he put them on.
I spent more time working on him than I’d had on the court with him. I could have cut him off until tennis was scheduled. But I liked having him over, liked having him come to see me. I liked making him feel important. He, apparently, liked being late and canceling a lot. We stopped trading, and I tried to move on quickly and graciously, like it was the next point. I’d stepped out of bounds but came back. Sometimes you have to lose your balance to find it.
