the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

his name is eddie

Eddie has amazing hands.

He does "deep tissue massage" and "trigger-point therapy" (because "slow torture" wouldn't get him any clients). The theory of his approach is to find the spot that hurts then press into it with his thumb until I scream (sometimes he presses only until I breathe violently). Then he holds it until the muscle gives up. I can feel the area around the spot he's pressing fight the pressure, spasming and twitching.

It is excruciating.

Also, I can't get enough of it.

* At this moment, I cannot not think of Rog. "Salvation lies on the other side of the pain." Yeah. I miss you, Rog.

Eddie is very quiet. Besides his talent in eliciting pain from muscles I didn't know I had, for the first couple of weeks, I knew only that he had an accent.

On the third session, we began to talk about things other than what hurt where. I wouldn't say he's shy; he's just more of a listener than a talker. He also is clearly choosy about who he bothers to converse with. On that third visit, he mentioned that he joined the Army because he couldn't speak English and therefore didn't do well enough on the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) to join another service.

I said, "Oooooh...you're Puerto Rican."

Shit. That sounded racist.

I immediately explained that I'd briefly served with an Air Force Reserve unit out of Puerto Rico, and I remember being a bit shocked at the time that any of them could be in the US military--not because they were Puerto Ricans, but because they didn't speak English. I admitted that I'd wondered on and off about the source of his accent. Then we lapsed into a discussion about the military, and...all was well. It was a bonding moment. (He said that he made it through basic training without being able to speak English; he aced his exam at the end of it by memorizing his training material.)

I see him every week or two. He's my age. He's been in America for 19 years. He's working on becoming a personal trainer. I told him how I fell over on my bicycle. He shared his observations about the male ego, particularly as he observes it in his personal training classes. We discussed the various forms of Spanish the Spanish-speaking use to divide them among themselves, etc.

Yesterday, the massage room had a portable heating table with a giant lid on it, rather like catering services use. He explained when I walked in that the client he was seeing next had requested a hot stone massage. I said ok, he left the room, and I assumed the position.

He came back in and started the massage. We talked about his progress in the personal training program for a bit (I keep asking him how the physical therapy program is going, and he corrects me; it's now a ritual). After a while, we lapsed into a period of silence. He paused to plug in the heating table, then returned to work my legs. I said, "So what do you do with the rocks?"

There was another moment of silence, then he said, "They don't like to be called rocks."

He found a spot on my leg that hurt like fuck and held it. I may have apologized to the rocks.

We discussed the difference between rocks and stones. There was another pause. He said, "Did you ride your bike this week?"

"Yeah. I did 34 miles on Wednesday, and 26 on Saturday."

"Did you fall over?"

Bastard.

d