(3) Smurfed

I’m over it. That didn’t take very long, did it? Mom, you were right! Massage is for lazy people who don’t have the guts to get into prostitution and don’t want to use their brains and get a real education. Are you happy? Are! You! Happy! Seems like this spa and I are in a very dysfunctional relationship, and I’ve made it to the one week mark. Time to move on!

I could just see my mom’s smug face and wagging finger, not even hearing anything I have to say, calling me everything from “big woman” (as in, “yuh tink you is too big to wuk”) to “Chicken” (what she calls me because I was born screaming like a scrawny chicken.) 

No, I’m not too “big” (pronounced “good”) to work. No, nothing about me screams “better” than anyone else. Chicken is extremely accurate, though. 

When I walked into work early this morning, I didn’t expect to be the first one there. I didn’t expect to find all the hall lights turned off. And when I turned them on, I didn’t expect to find Toby, our hefty security guard pants-less and on top of a guy in an open robe who could have been his brother. Not that they were actually related (I hope) – but they had the same bald head and pale, doughy skin that made you think you could just pull off a small chunk and roll it out and make a nice biscuit or two. 

And I definitely didn’t expect sweet, squishy, biscuit-y Toby, who was the only one to talk to me since I started working here – the only one who would ask me about my day on my way out, to yell at me to get the smurf out of here while throwing (the closest thing to him) a pair of lacy, blood red man-panties at my shocked face. (I ducked. Didn’t need to. They fell in a sad, slow motion at my feet.)

Side note – yes, smurf. Don’t judge me. My sister tells me that when I was five, I asked my super-religious, super-Jamaican mother what a string of bad words meant, and she nearly fainted. And when my father found out, he beat it into my ignorant (although I prefer “innocent”) skull that there are just some things you’re not allowed to say. I have no memory of this. I have no memory of a lot of things, but I’ll get to that – if I remember! (Ha!) (I’ll see myself out.)

Back to chicken me, fumbling to get out of the hallway and into the back entrance of the spa. There were two ways to get into the spa – through the hallway which connects to The Sky Hotel, which we’re not allowed to use during business hours (which is probably why Toby and Toby’s brother were making doughy “biscuits” before anyone else got here), and the back entrance, which opens behind a huge fake painting of Nathaniel Sky, original owner of The Sky, from a billion years ago, when people actually gave up six months of their lives to sit and pose for paintings.

Another side note – what was it with the amount of sexual energy in this place? I mean, they warn you in massage school that some people take being touched the wrong way. Some people shout all variations of smurf when you hit the right spot. But is it because our clients create that sexual tension, it gets stuck here in the hotel? I guess I get it, but could I just have a break!

I figured I could just hide in my room for a little while and forget the fact that I had just seen the live version of every porno that starts with a security guard in a uniform, in a hotel, in the early hours of the morning, with the excitement of getting caught. (Go ahead, look it up. I’ll wait.) When I opened the door to my *brown chicken, brown cow (pronounced bow chika, bow wow) couple’s room, the quiet made me think of all the unhappy souls that must have died in this very building – jumping into the lonely night sky from The Sky, destined to spend the rest of their undead days roaming these sex-crazed halls. I think they’re here with me right now, cause I definitely don’t feel alone.

You know when you ask the universe for something, and then it happens instantly, but nowhere close to what you were thinking. Like when you ask for a vacation, so karma hits you with a car – so technically you get that break you were looking for. Well, I wanted a break from all the sex…

And in my room, it looked like the storage closet from all five rooms had vomited sheets and towels and blankets all over the massage tables and floor. The *brown chicken, brown cow* (pronounced: bow chicka, bow wow) hot tub seemed to have the biggest pile, though. And at first, being so distracted by the thought of having to discreetly pack away this mess and pretend it never happened (cause a little dirt from the floor never hurt anybody,) I didn’t notice the smell of sweet, moldy cheese and decaying flesh was wafting through the air. When the mice started squirming under the sheets, I squealed. When the mice started crawling out, revealing the black outline of what used to be a finger, I ran out into the hallway screaming as loud as I could (which came out in exasperated grunts, cause nobody ever hears me. I’m invisible, I don’t even really hear myself.) “TTTTTTTA-OOOOOOBBBBBB-YYYYYYY!!”

That’s right, he was dead. DEAD! I’m the crazy lady who walked into the “crime scene,” who found the body of the homeless man who used to live outside The Sky, until he figured out how to sneak in before closing and sleep on the massage table. Apparently they’ve seen him on the security cameras for months, but could never figure out where he was going. The empty bottle of mouthwash they found next to him seemed to reveal his fate – pure alcohol poisoning.

As you may have guessed, Sky Spa’s couple’s suite was closed for the morning due to “maintenance and repair,” and I was given a paid day off, most likely to not have me freaking out and spreading truth rumors. Guess I will go home and rethink my sad life while they come up with a good cover story.

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