easy having all this mojo trapped inside this white girl body? You wouldn’t know anything about it, Whitey.” I look at my watch. “I’m going to be late for work.”
“I’ll walk you home,” he says, and belays me. I quickly rappel down the tree.
On the ground, I give the rope two tugs. Now Forrest weaves the rope around the figure eight attached to his harness, and clips the rope and the eight into the other harness. He gives the rope two tugs, so I know to hold it tight enough so that if he slips and starts to fall, I can take the slack out and stop him. He slides down without incident, as usual.
As he walks me home, I study Forrest through the eyes of someone other than his sister. “You know, Forrest, you’re lookin’ a little bit like the Unabomber. We may need to clean you up a little. Otherwise, you’re going to attract too much attention.”
He shrugs.
When we arrive at my place, I say, “Feel free to take a shower. Lock up when you go. The key’s under the white rock in the garden.” He heads off to the shower as I grab my stuff and my dog and go. I get an ugly flashback of the last time he used my shower. “Clean the shower really well when you’re done!”
He nods. “I’ll probably go watch over the parents’ place for a while today.”
“All right. Later, gator.”
“Later, gator.”
I massage Martin for the second time in the workout room of his enormous house. The house has huge timbers in the corners and in different places inside to make it look like post-and-beam construction; but really, it’s not. The timbers are purely for decorative purposes. In reality, the house is stick frame with OSB particleboard covering the framing. The logs, once trees hundreds of years old, were sacrificed purely for decorative purposes. It’s issues like these that make me feel very alone. I know I’m one of a handful of people in the world who truly understand that old trees are sentient beings. Killing trees for decorative timbers is no different, really, from killing a cow for leather pants. Maybe the timbers are worse. It took hundreds of years for the tree to grow, but as little as one for the cow.
I can’t imagine that he doesn’t feel lonely in this house, dwarfed by it. There are no family photos in Martin’s house, no ring on his finger, no toiletries in the bathroom to indicate the presence of another. His house lacks a woman’s touch, having instead the touch of an interior decorator I do not know, but whose work I recognize from other clients’ houses: lasso on the fireplace mantel, saddle over the loft railing, pillows with Southwest designs. I’ve seen it a hundred times—decoration for the man who wishes he had been a cowboy instead of an investment banker.
“How’s business?” he asks. Not how are you, or isn’t it beautiful outside, no, just how’s business. This one is in pretty deep.
“Grace!” I call in my head, and sure enough, Grace appears.
Grace struts around Martin, who lies facedown on the massage table, his face in the face cradle, which one of my clients thinks looks like a little toilet seat. “Mmm-mmmmmm- mmm !” Grace hums. I know what that means: Ohhh, we got trouble here!
“Picking up again, now that people are back in town,” I answer out of courtesy.
Grace rests her hands on Martin’s head while I work his lower back. Grace, consumed by her own concentration, does not talk to me.
“I prefer a consistent business,” Martin grumbles.
“I don’t worry about it too much,” I reply.
“What do you mean you don’t worry about it too much?” Martin’s disapproval is evident in his tone.
“Stress kills,” I answer.
Martin doesn’t respond.
I work the back of his legs and then tell him, “Flip over and scoot down so that your head is out of the face cradle.” I work the front of his legs while Grace places her hands on his heart.
Although his eyes are closed, his face looks very sad.
I work his arms, and Grace moves to his
“I’ll walk you home,” he says, and belays me. I quickly rappel down the tree.
On the ground, I give the rope two tugs. Now Forrest weaves the rope around the figure eight attached to his harness, and clips the rope and the eight into the other harness. He gives the rope two tugs, so I know to hold it tight enough so that if he slips and starts to fall, I can take the slack out and stop him. He slides down without incident, as usual.
As he walks me home, I study Forrest through the eyes of someone other than his sister. “You know, Forrest, you’re lookin’ a little bit like the Unabomber. We may need to clean you up a little. Otherwise, you’re going to attract too much attention.”
He shrugs.
When we arrive at my place, I say, “Feel free to take a shower. Lock up when you go. The key’s under the white rock in the garden.” He heads off to the shower as I grab my stuff and my dog and go. I get an ugly flashback of the last time he used my shower. “Clean the shower really well when you’re done!”
He nods. “I’ll probably go watch over the parents’ place for a while today.”
“All right. Later, gator.”
“Later, gator.”
I massage Martin for the second time in the workout room of his enormous house. The house has huge timbers in the corners and in different places inside to make it look like post-and-beam construction; but really, it’s not. The timbers are purely for decorative purposes. In reality, the house is stick frame with OSB particleboard covering the framing. The logs, once trees hundreds of years old, were sacrificed purely for decorative purposes. It’s issues like these that make me feel very alone. I know I’m one of a handful of people in the world who truly understand that old trees are sentient beings. Killing trees for decorative timbers is no different, really, from killing a cow for leather pants. Maybe the timbers are worse. It took hundreds of years for the tree to grow, but as little as one for the cow.
I can’t imagine that he doesn’t feel lonely in this house, dwarfed by it. There are no family photos in Martin’s house, no ring on his finger, no toiletries in the bathroom to indicate the presence of another. His house lacks a woman’s touch, having instead the touch of an interior decorator I do not know, but whose work I recognize from other clients’ houses: lasso on the fireplace mantel, saddle over the loft railing, pillows with Southwest designs. I’ve seen it a hundred times—decoration for the man who wishes he had been a cowboy instead of an investment banker.
“How’s business?” he asks. Not how are you, or isn’t it beautiful outside, no, just how’s business. This one is in pretty deep.
“Grace!” I call in my head, and sure enough, Grace appears.
Grace struts around Martin, who lies facedown on the massage table, his face in the face cradle, which one of my clients thinks looks like a little toilet seat. “Mmm-mmmmmm- mmm !” Grace hums. I know what that means: Ohhh, we got trouble here!
“Picking up again, now that people are back in town,” I answer out of courtesy.
Grace rests her hands on Martin’s head while I work his lower back. Grace, consumed by her own concentration, does not talk to me.
“I prefer a consistent business,” Martin grumbles.
“I don’t worry about it too much,” I reply.
“What do you mean you don’t worry about it too much?” Martin’s disapproval is evident in his tone.
“Stress kills,” I answer.
Martin doesn’t respond.
I work the back of his legs and then tell him, “Flip over and scoot down so that your head is out of the face cradle.” I work the front of his legs while Grace places her hands on his heart.
Although his eyes are closed, his face looks very sad.
I work his arms, and Grace moves to his
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