by Liza Palmer
Unwind is the hippest salon to open in Pasadena in years. The staff wear all-black and offer you everything from cappuccinos to mojitos as you enter. Peregrine turned me on to this place as sort of a backhanded compliment. She gave me an eyebrow wax and a pedicure for my birthday last year. The pedicure was the compliment part; the eyebrow wax was her way of telling me I was starting to look like Frida Kahlo. I still don’t feel like I belong in such an atmosphere, but I keep going. Hoping. One day.
The girl behind the counter welcomes me with a grunt. This is the hipster method of greeting. Her piercings are distracting. I’m trying to connect the chains as I tell her I’m here to see Sam for my massage. She clicks the mouse a few times and announces that I can follow her. She walks away, never looking back.
I go through the beaded curtain past the Indian god Ganesha and enter the inner sanctum of the spa. Bustling, black-clad employees walk back and forth from closed door to closed door. My pierced guide leads me into the bathroom and points to a shelf of terry-cloth robes. She tells me to pick one out, then wait in the seating area with the fountain. Sam will pick me up from there. She adds this last bit as the door closes behind her. I say thank you to the closing door as I stand in the bathroom completely alone.
I sort through the robes and finally settle on an oversize, hot pink number with UNWIND in thug-style writing across the back. I look like I’m entering the ring in a battle to defend my heavyweight boxing title. I decide to keep my bra and panties on until I reach the massage room, just in case. Just in case there’s a tornado or some other natural disaster where I suddenly have to run from the building without being able to re-dress. I cinch the belt tight and find a seat by the fountain. I pick up a random magazine and wait.
“Maggie? Are you Maggie Thompson?” I look up from the magazine and my mouth falls open.
“Hi, I’m Sam.” He is over six feet tall. His curly blond hair falls in perfect ringlets around his impossibly beautiful face. He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He extends his hand, and I can see that his arms are sleeved in tattoos. He wears his khaki work pants low-slung and a white Unwind polo shirt.
I cannot speak. I cannot move. I certainly cannot take this robe off in front of this perfect cherub. I can, however, throttle Peregrine and proceed to kill her with my bare hands.
“Hi, you’re Sam?” I manage, shaking hands with him. His hands are so strong. I’m not going to make it. I’m not going to live through this day.
“Yeah, why don’t you come on back?” Sam pulls me up as I anxiously tug my robe closed.
“So what are we working on this morning? Where are you feeling tight?” Sam walks with his hands linked behind his back. I cannot look at him.
“Mostly, my neck. You know, around my shoulders—that kind of thing. Really nothing lower—I’m fine . . . you know, down there.” Somehow I’ve managed, with just one sentence, to insinuate that my privates are in no need of massage. Well played.
“Well, we’ll just play it by ear then, I guess.” Sam opens the door to the massage room. The only light comes from several votives on a side table. The ambient music is set low. There is a massive massage table in the middle of the room with a white sheet pulled back.
“Go ahead and get undressed, lie on the table facedown, and I’ll be right back.” Sam closes the door. I panic. Has Peregrine sent me to a gigolo? Is there such a thing anymore? Are they even called that nowadays?
I slip the robe off my shoulders, finally accepting the fact that I’m trapped like a rat. I am standing there paralyzed with my fingers under my bra straps. A quick slide show of Sam fleeing, piercing laughter, black-clad employees brought in to point and laugh flashes in my head. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. I pull my bra off and then slide my panties all the way down. I hide them both under the robe on a chair in the corner of the room. I am completely naked. I sprint to the table and pull the sheet up to the back of my neck. I tuck my arms underneath my body, hoping this move will take some of my Area with it. I hear a faint knock on the door. I can’t see a thing as my face is now embedded in the massage table.
“Maggie? You ready for me?” I am sick to my stomach.
“Yep!” I bark, my face deep in the massage table. I hear him open and close the door.
Sam walks around the table, one hand tracing the outline of my body. I feel like a horse that might kick her trainer because she can’t see past her own hindquarters.
“So we’re going to go ahead and start, okay?” I hear Sam squirt lotion in his hands. He works his hands back and forth, back and forth. He pauses—then more back and forth. I concentrate on the music. Is that “Danny Boy” on a sitar?
Sam takes hold of my head, massaging my hair and elongating my neck. It feels amazing. I realize how much I miss touch. I read once about a research study of Romanian babies where they discovered that people who go without touch for extended periods have a stunted outlook on life.
Okay, maybe he will just work up . . . What the fuck? Sam takes hold of the sheet and folds it down all the way to my ass. I hear myself gasp. My entire body goes tight. This massage has just become a complete waste of time and money. I’ll need a massage just to recuperate from the massage. Sam works the lotion into his hands once more. I can feel his body as he stands by my head. He reaches over me and, using both his hands, rubs all the way down my back—from my shoulders to my ass. He repeats this over and over again. To my horror, every time he gets to the base of my back, the sheet is pushed even farther down my ass. By the end of this little rubdown the sheet will be somewhere around my knees.
I have never been touched like this in my entire life. I analyze how Mason Phelps consummated anything that day while touching me so little. Sam’s hands are everywhere. And not just accidental brushes. He kneads my Area at one point. I can’t really remember that exact moment because I think I momentarily blacked out from sheer terror. He starts massaging my right leg. He’s getting alarmingly close to parts of my body I had set aside for that fateful day when Ponyboy came a-knocking. It’s when he’s on my left leg that I finally talk myself into calming down. He’s seen it all, I tell myself. He’s a professional. He looks at naked people for a living. You’re just another naked woman he’s massaging today. I will myself to enjoy what’s left of the massage. I fantasize about the ways I will maim Peregrine. There are a lot of weapons in a coffeehouse. Hot steaming water? Shove her tiny body into the ice cream case and scoop around her? Suffocate her with rainbow sprinkles? Why would she do this to me? What would make Peregrine send me to Sam, of all people?
“Okay, Maggie. Go ahead and turn over onto your back.” Sam holds the sheet up, giving me privacy as I turn over onto my back. I let out a long sigh.
“That was my mouth, by the way,” I say, panicked. Sam smiles as he fixes the sheet right at the top of my breasts. Once again, I tuck my arms underneath my body. Sam takes hold of my arm before I finish tucking. I keep my eyes closed. He takes my hand and begins massaging each finger individually. I can feel the hair on his arm as my hand curls around his. I am jolted by what this simple thing does to me. It is that same feeling I had that night with Domenic. The tingles are everywhere. My face goes bright red, and I tense up once again.
“Now, don’t do that, Maggie, you were finally loosening up.” I keep my eyes closed as Sam shakes out my hand. I smile as he makes me give him a high five with my own hand.
“Good.” He continues. I can feel my shoulders lowering a good four inches.
The hour fades as I make myself comfortable with Sam working on my body. We never speak again until he tells me that we are done and he’ll meet me in the hall once I’m dressed. I hear the door close behind him, and for the first time I open my eyes. I look down at my body. In that moment, there is a lifting, an erasing of sorts. Mason Phelps and his pinch are gone forever.
I arrive at Joe’s a good ten minutes before my shift that night.
I walk past Peregrine and Christina behind the counter. Peregrine gives me an eyebrow r
aise while she looks at herself in the mirror.
“I met Sam,” I say to Peregrine over the counter.
“What did you think?” Peregrine turns around excitedly.
“Funny, you didn’t mention Sam had a penis,” I say. I hear the creak of a chair in the distance of the coffeehouse. The word penis has piqued someone’s interest.
“Didn’t I?” Peregrine beams.
“Must have slipped your mind, huh?” I open the door to the back room.
“Hey,” Domenic says, his hands elbow deep in suds.
“Hey there, stranger.” My body is so completely relaxed.
“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since the move.”
“Well, I worked yesterday and I, you know, I’ve been around,” I say.
“Well, I’ve missed you,” Domenic says. Even in this altered state, I grow angry. How dare you. How dare you play with me like this. You’re dating someone else, Domenic. You’ve been on as many as two dates during our little flirtation yet you insist on keeping whatever investment you have in me going. But once again—where am I in all of this? Let’s face it, I need to be more honest about how I see him, too.
“Really?” I begin to calm down.
“Well, yeah. What have you been doing with yourself? Unpacking?” He is wiping his hands on his apron, which stretches the fabric along the front of his pants. It is like a strobe light. I feel a seizure coming on.
“I wanted to know if you wanted to maybe grab some dinner. I’d love to buy you dinner . . . as a thank-you. You know, thanks for helping with the move, maybe we can grab some dinner.”
“Sure,” he says and moves forward. I almost stumble backward head over feet.
Blue bucket. Blue bucket.
“What are you doing Saturday?” I pant.
“Nothing. I work that day, but I have Saturday night off. What are you proposing?”
“I just thought we could just grab something to eat.” Have I said that about a hundred times now?
“Sounds good. Do I have your new number?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. Domenic grabs a pad of paper and pencil by the schedule and hands them to me.
I write down my new phone number. I’m handing it to Domenic as Christina walks through the door to the back room. I probably should feel like I am caught trying to steal her friend’s man. For a millisecond, I do feel like that. My stomach drops, again . . . but I compose myself. This will not even register on Christina’s radar. It’s like John Sheridan taking me to the homecoming dance or lying on Texas Steven’s lap watching art-house movies. I know what the agenda is. I will befriend Domenic and he will thank me for being there for him. He will reassure me that the other night meant nothing. That the kiss was a drunken delusion. He was just being chivalrous holding my hand. Then he’ll thank me for all of the absolutely insightful advice I give him on his real relationship with Erin.
Christina introduces herself again, as if we’ve never met. Domenic and I wave hi. He grabs his plastic bin and heads out into the coffeehouse.
“You guys are cute together.” Christina is putting her bused dishes into the soapy water.
“What?”
“You guys look cute together. You know, like the way you are when you’re together.” I stare at Christina. She looks up at me and continues.
“Erin was, like, a total bitch that night. Cheyenne totally had dibsies on Domenic and Erin, like, snaked him as usual. I mean, at least you’re all friends and everything. It’s cute.” Now we’re puppies in a cardboard box in front of a grocery store.
Friends. Right. Don’t I get some kind of medal for walking past the blue bucket? No. All I get is this minefield of more blue buckets. Blue buckets filled with bitches named Erin who apparently men never think of as just a friend.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
El Grande es Para la Gordita
For a while I used to keep a photo album where I would put cutout pictures from magazines. I would cut out teensy celebrities with their custom-made Barbie clothes and fantasize about the day I would be able to buy those very same outfits. I even cut out pictures of my own head and pasted them on various famous bodies as I tried to visualize what I would look like as an anorexic fashion maven. But overnight, it was like I lost all hope that I would ever be able to look like those people. So I started cutting out shoes and hats I liked. After that, I started cutting out just furniture and home decorating tips. Now I look for the random destination hot spot I’d love to visit on vacation, and I’ll cut that out. I thought that this was an exercise in reality setting in. But looking at it now, it’s not all bad. I really don’t want to look like those women—the price is too high. I want to look and feel beautiful in my own way. Maybe cutting out beautiful furniture, home decorations, and amazing vacation spots made me focus less on what perfect is.
Come Saturday night, I panic about what I am going to wear for Domenic. I sift through my closet and start noticing a pattern. No color. No style. Just coverings. What happened to my style? After twenty minutes of tossing, trying on, cursing, and crying, I choose my tan linen pants, a black tank top, and a light corduroy coat. I am hot already. This outfit would be just fine for fall or winter, but in summer it’s already stifling.
Domenic arrives a little bit before 6 p.m. He is wearing the same outfit he wore at Peregrine’s party. Are these his Date Clothes? He has a tiny red box of chocolates in one hand. He awkwardly hands them to me.
“Helloo,” Domenic says in a faux British accent.
Interesting. Not the most attractive habit. Accents? Keep him golden, Maggie. Keep him golden. That was not a deal breaker. Talk yourself down, girl.
“Hey, there. Come on in.” I open the door, set the chocolates down as if I’m completely disinterested in them. I do notice that they are a charming milk chocolate sampler I will investigate at a later time. I push Solo back with my leg. She is growling and barking.
Domenic tries to put his hand out to Solo, but he looks more like Frankenstein. He reaches out stiffly. Solo and I both stare at him as he circles the steamer trunk I’ve been using as a coffee table. Now Solo has her tail between her legs. She is sure The Creature is going to maul her after they pick daisies together.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask. First we have faux British accents, and now this nasty Frankenstein impersonation. Maybe busing tables is the least of his problems. I did, however, score a box of chocolates.
“I’m trying to reach out to her.”
“Are you Frankenstein?”
“No. I’m approachable.”
“Everyone in this room thinks you’re Frankenstein.”
“You and the dog?”
“Yes. Me and the dog.”
“Well, that’s believable.”
We both stare at Solo. She’s now barking at nothing and biting at the wall.
“I’ve enrolled her in obedience classes,” I announce.
“Good luck with that. You ready?” Domenic asks.
“Sure, what did you have in mind? What are you in the mood for?”
“Anything,” Domenic says, moving toward Solo again.
“Sitdown or order at the counter?” I start to spiral. I can’t control it. I want this night to be perfect. I want us to be perfect. I can’t get Erin out of my head. I can’t stop thinking that Erin didn’t have to have a plan. Erin didn’t have to ask Domenic out on a date. Domenic was delivered on a silver platter to Erin while I have to work just to get last night’s leftovers.
“Well, let’s get in the car and start driving,” I suggest. I try to calm down. I try to find myself somewhere in this tangled mess of insecurity, doubt, and jealousy.
“Do you want to drive?” Domenic asks.
“Sure.” Might as well, I’m obviously the man tonight. We’ll talk about the Dodgers and maybe throw in some dish about supermodels being hot. What fun.
We drive aimlessly. Masa? I ask. He doesn’t like Japanese food. What about going into Old Town? I ask. They’ve g
ot several eateries down there. Like what, he asks. I name three or four places. None sound good to him. He asks if I know of a place that has tacos.
“So is this whole night my responsibility?” I joke, but not really.
“I thought you’d have a better idea of where we could go.”
“I do have ideas. But you don’t like any of them.” I’m right in the middle of a temper tantrum.
“Maybe Solo’s not the only one who needs obedience classes.”
“What? What did you just say?” I am livid.
“We’re just trying to find a place to eat.” Is he smiling?
“Can you at least admit that you are being a bit maddening right now? Y’all knows of a place that’s got them tay-cos?” I put on my best white-trash accent. I continue, “I mean, why did you dress up for tonight?”
“You noticed,” he says.
“What?”
“You didn’t notice the first time I wore this for you.” Domenic smirks. For me? For me? Was Erin just an elaborate accessory?
“Wait, you brought another girl to a party where you knew I would be and you’re trying to sell to me that the outfit you wore that night was for me?” I can’t take this anymore—if this is fun for Domenic, I won’t be a part of it.
Domenic is silent.
“Well?” I honk at someone. Okay, no one. I honk at no one.
“Why don’t we just go to that Taco Truck off Colorado?” Domenic’s voice is soft.
“The one by the auto parts store?”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds perfect.” Domenic leans back in his seat and pats my hand on the gearshift. His hand lingers. I can’t look at him. Tingles everywhere. He never raised his voice during the whole scene. Not once. He didn’t explain anything, either. At least, I finally told the truth about how I feel for once.
