Come Back by Sky Gilbert

co-workers introduced him to a place called the Tranquility Spa — which is neither a spa, nor tranquil. The gist of the story is he took me one night and nothing happened.
    The “Spa” in the name is a ruse. It is set up like an ordinary throwback to the turn-of-the-century-style aromatherapy massage parlour. You know, one of those relics of the past they allow to exist — with strict no-sex rules, of course — as museums of ancient racism and perversion, authentic even to the point of being staffed by pretty young Asian girls. There’s the doorway where you pay your fare to get in, but when you go behind the curtain it’s no longer government-approved. Suddenly all is dark — it reminds me of a beatnik club I once went to, even down to the odours. Believe it or not, that beatnik club was called Hernando’s Hideaway — like the song! Well, this modern version, on top of everything, stunk of urine. I haven’t smelled that stale smell for a long time — I think since I peed my pants, drunk and high, so many years ago.
    As I say, nothing happened at the Tranquility Spa. No one recognized me. There was no mad rush to figure out who I was. One of the fascinating things about the place is that it is peopled by very strange, lost creatures. One isn’t sure why they are the way they are, or even exactly
how
they actually are, because it’s so dark. But what struck me was that many of the creatures had something shockingly askew. The people were not immediately monstrous — they were monsters upon second glance, so to speak. I was the most evidently monstrous person there — the one whose monstrousness was immediately discernable to the naked eye. No, a number of these people had only partial disfigurement. For instance, many were fine but for one part of their body, where the skin was no longer being held up by the bones, and you could see inside, behind cellophane or a sort of antiseptic plastic. One had the curious experience, when entering the bar (I used my cane, and you know how slowly I walk), of finding these creatures with holes in their bodies whipping themselves around — as if they didn’t want you to see their somatic aporias as you inched along beside them.
    These people seem to be plastic surgeries gone bad; I’m not sure what brought them all to the same bar, but like does attract like. Then, upon closer inspection, there were individuals who were held together with putty and paste. I sat beside one and was unnerved to recognize this when she turned towards the light. There was very little light except for laser beams aimed at the floor and ceiling and walls, which I noticed most of the creatures were careful to avoid. When the light hit her, she became translucent. I could see something underneath her skin; it certainly appeared to be traces of blood and bones and organs. So she was a walking — or, in this case, sitting — skeleton. And for whatever reason and by whatever method, the skeleton had been covered over with putty and paste that had become see-through in places. I noticed she was wearing a kind of cape. Indeed, many at the bar had pragmatic head coverings. There was certainly no indication that this character was a vampire, but it did occur to me that she might melt if exposed to the light.
    There was also a lady and a gentleman who were both missing something — in one case hands, and in the other case a neck. The person whose head was sitting directly on her shoulders fascinated me. I thought perhaps it was the result of a botched transplant. The head transplantation, as you know, is an operation I long refused to have. Seeing her — and surmising that her deformity was the result of one — discouraged me from further consideration. It
was
encouraging, though, that she could turn her head, even though she had no neck. The handless man was very odd. He seemed to be making some kind of statement. After all,