The Spectacular Simon Burchwood

by Scott Semegran

  The only thing of concern to me was that her studio was on the east side of town, which if you didn't know, was the fucking ghetto. East Austin is the biggest shithole in the entire world. It's true. Well, maybe not the biggest shithole in the entire world (that's a bold statement) but a shithole nonetheless. I'm sure there were bigger shitholes in India or Africa or some other crappy countries like that. But in terms of this Texas city, East Austin was the black eye of this otherwise beautiful town. It was shitty enough for me to give it a second thought. If you have second thoughts about driving into a certain part of town, then there must be valid concerns, and I wasn't in the mood to be concerned. I wanted to relax.

  Anyway, right then and there I decided to put the second thoughts aside and to just go for it. So I did. I promptly left work and headed for Jenny's studio on the East Side of Austin. As I drove east on 7th Street, I noticed several businesses that had crazy names like "My T Sharp Barbershop" and "Bertha's Pretty Hair Salon and Nail Bo-Teek" and "Your Mama's Liquor Store" and "Holy Smoke BBQ" and "Juan in a Million Taco Shack" and so on. It was pun after terrible pun of bad business names. How is anyone going to take you seriously if you have a business name that sounds like a second grader came up with it? Maybe that's why East Austin was such a shithole. Not only were the businesses badly named but the streets were filled with all kinds of bums and people standing around looking like they weren't doing much of anything, which means they were up to no good for sure. They were probably waiting around for their welfare checks to arrive in the mail so they could cash them at a check-cashing place and spend their hard earned cash on malt liquor and crack and hamburgers. Crack! Of all the names in the world, crack had to be the silliest name for a drug that anyone could come up with. It's true. It was all just too ridiculous.

  After passing block after block of welfare bums, I finally found Chicon Street and made a left. When I straightened out my car I discovered a small crowd of African-American fellows congregating in the middle of the street. They paid no attention to me and my vehicle and stood there yapping and laughing and patting each other on their backs and butts like they scored a touchdown and were celebrating, what, I don't know. I sat there a minute, my car idling in the middle of the goddamn street, hoping they would notice me but they didn't. They just continued on with what they were doing which was probably no good. I debated if I should honk my horn but decided that was the last thing a scrawny, slightly balding white guy like myself should do in a neighborhood like this. I would likely get killed, shot with an illegal firearm, and dumped in an alley like a bag of garbage. The thought of that gave me goosebumps, so I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, one of the home boys noticed me and waved. I wasn't sure what to do so I waved back. Then he approached my car, walking with a stiff limp. He came right up to my window and knocked on the glass. I was scared shitless. It's true. He looked like he could tear me apart with his bare hands. He knocked again so I lowered the window a few inches.

  "What's up, Steve Martin?" he asked.

  "What?"

  "You heard me, Tom Hanks. Wazzup?" I sat there baffled, not knowing what to say. I could feel the urine in my bladder pushing down, inching its way toward catastrophe. I almost peed my pants right then and there. It's true. "You lookin' for somethin'?"

  "Uh, I'm just trying to get to my destination."

  "Which is wha'? Funky Town!" He started laughing and cackling all over the goddamn place like a jackass. He really thought his joke was something else. It's true. He soon got over himself and turned serious. "You lookin' fo' some smoke?"

  "No. Just trying to get where I'm going."

  "You said that already, motha fucka." His demeanor turned from serious to dead serious. I thought he was going to bust my window and pull me out of the car and rape me right there in the street. It was just too much to take. "If you not lookin' fo' smoke, wha cha doing in my hood?"

  "I'm looking for 435 11th Street. Just trying to get where I'm going."

  "Oh shit, homie! Why did'n you say so?! That's just right up the street." He yelled something to his friends, waving his hand in the air, and they dispersed from the street in a quick fashion. They all bowed down, lined up along the side of the road, extending their arms out like a maitre d's at a fine restaurant, directing me to drive on through. I slowly pulled my car forward. I felt like I was being boobie trapped. It's true. "Good day to you, sir."

  "Thank you." What a nice fellow! Seriously, sometimes you can judge a book by its cover and get it all wrong. My grandfather's buddies were so right.

  "And if you want some smoke, I be right here. You get that, Bryan Adams? The name's Marvin." As I pulled away, I could see them congregating back in the street as if I was never there. It must be nice standing in the goddamn street all day with your buddies, selling dope to strange people, and patting your friends on the back like you were actually accomplishing something. What they were accomplishing, I had no idea. "See you soon, Bryan Adams! Just ask for Marvin!" he yelled.

  After a few blocks, I found 435 11th Street and remembered to park at the side of the house, not in the front. I pulled behind a late model Honda Accord, beat all to hell and dirty as fuck. It looked like that car had been to hell and back and was in desperate need of a car wash and a good waxing. I was a few minutes early for my appointment so I decided to park my car and wait a few minutes. I didn't want to disturb the serenity of whoever the hell may be in there right now, mainly because I won't want to be disturbed when I'm in there.

  The second I turned my car off, literally, I saw a guy leaving the house. He was a supreme fat ass and must have weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 400 pounds. He was massive! He lurched off the front porch and slowly made his way to his clunker. I could see that his fly was open and part of his shirt poked out the front of his pants. He was a really humongous goddamn mess. It's true. I imagined a scene in the studio where the petite masseuse (I'm sure she's petite, you got that?) attempted to massage the massive slob, climbing on a stool to reach his nether parts, rubbing globs of fatty tissue with her small but firm hands. It was just too much. I was snickering and giggling like a little nose-picker in elementary school.

  Soon the giant slob took off in his hell-hole clunker, probably off to buy some crack from Marvin down the street and his lazy goddamn buddies. I decided to make my way to the front door. The house was completely surrounded by a chain-link fence, encircling the property like a prison barrier, and "Beware of Dog" signs were affixed every 10 feet or so along the fence. It was a cute goddamn little house, probably built in the 1950s, recently painted white with dark brown trim. But if anything was an indication of just how shitty this part of town was, it was this chain-link fence. Jenny meant business, obviously, by letting her neighbors know that they weren't welcome on her property. I imagined she probably had a vicious dog too, one of the terrier varieties with a lock-jaw bite and a taste for human flesh. I unhinged the gate at the front of the property, looking around for the vicious guard dog, and slowly made my way to the front door. I wasn't sure if the dog was lurking about, maybe hiding behind a bush or something, so I kept myself attentive. The last thing I needed was a vicious goddamn dog clamping his jaws onto my nuts. It's true.

  I rang the door bell and heard a dog barking from inside, a bark that seemed to be from a dog that was less than vicious, more appropriate for something that would nuzzle in your lap. I heard footsteps inside, steps that were making their way across a wood floor. The door opened slowly, a pair of beautiful blue eyes peeping out up top, a small dog's head popping out at the bottom of the entrance, its tongue lashing about. The dog looked like that creature that perched next to Jabba the Hut in the movie The Empire Strikes Back, a Muppet-looking extraterrestrial that was scrawny, mostly bald, and had a tuft of hair at the top of its head that poked straight up like a goddamn ostrich plume. The dog tried to jam its head out the door so it could like my shoes. It was a sight to see! That little bastard almost had a heart attack. It's true.

  "
Can I help you?" a delicate voice asked.

  "I'm Simon. I'm here for a massage."

  "Yes, come on in." She opened the door and motioned for me to come inside. "Don't mind the mess, please. I'm Jenny," she said, extending her hand for a shake. She was... gorgeous, absolutely, fucking unbelievably gorgeous. It was going to be difficult controlling the raging erection I knew would come the minute she placed those delicate but firm hands on my skin. I was already embarrassed. It's true.

  "I'm Simon."

  "Follow me, Simon."

  Her house really wasn’t that messy and was decorated in a tasteful, hippy style that was more Pier One than Goodwill. And she was barely taller than five foot three with a silk robe draped over her thin frame. She glided across the wood floor like an ice skater, her Muppet-looking extraterrestrial dog at her heels, its squinty brown eyes watching me closely as she led me to her studio.

  "How is your day so far?" she asked.

  "Good."

  "Great. Take off your clothes and lay on the table. There's a sheet there to cover you, if you want."

  "What?"

  "Just be careful. My previous client broke the table but I think I fixed it. I'll be right back."

  She and her Muppet-looking extraterrestrial dog vanished in a side room and left me there alone. The room was pretty sparse, a massage table, a dresser, a mirror, a radio, a chair, and that was about it. I will say this though. That room smelled fantastic. I'm not sure what the smell consisted of but it was so soothing and calming that I knew I would be put into a state of relaxation in a matter of seconds. It's true.

  I began to take my clothes off when I noticed some movement through the window blinds. I peeked through the blinds and there was my car, parked on the street, and Marvin the drug dealer was inspecting it, sauntering around it like a used car salesman. What the hell was he doing out there? I was about to blow my goddamn top! I had to fight the urge to bang on the window and tell him to fuck off. I decided right then and there to just ignore Marvin, take a deep breath, and relax. I was there to relax and I didn't need a two-bit, unemployed drug dealer ruining my day. It's true. I took a deep breath, removed my shirt, and placed it on the chair. I saw myself in the mirror, slightly pudgy, slightly balding, and I thought, "Damn, I'm a goddamn mess." Growing old sucks. It's true.

  I climbed up on the massage table and laid my pudgy, growing-older-by-the-minute body down. The table was a little rickety, courtesy of the goddamn fat ass who was in there right before me. He must have given this helpless table a real goddamn challenge, plopping his gigantic body on top of the reinforced aluminum frame of the table. Thank God for modern engineering! The table had a fighting chance because of the team of well-trained engineers who designed it. It's true. I could hear Jenny fumbling around in the room next door, the Muppet-looking extraterrestrial dog yipping and yapping all over the goddamn place about something, probably about me. Dogs. What a goddamn waste of time. If I could go back in time and find the first prehistoric idiot who domesticated dogs, then I would give him a real swift kick to the nuts. Seriously, I would kick... she burst into the studio.

  "I'm going to lay this sheet over your legs," she said, unfolding a sheet to lay over me. "Sorry it took so long. My dog doesn't like to be left alone."

  See? Fucking dogs. They are a goddamn waste of time.

  "No problem." I lifted my head to face her and I could see that she had changed clothes. But before I could get a good look, I felt her hand on my head, turning it.

  "Place your face here, on the head rest. Relax. Keep your head down."

  "OK," I replied, my voice muffled. My face was smashed into the goddamn headrest. It wasn't the most comfortable position in the world. In fact, it was not the relaxed position I imagined I would be in. It's true.

  "I'm going to light some aroma-therapy candles. Do you want me to put on some music?"

  "No, not really."

  "Great. No music." She seemed really professional about the whole thing, placing sheets over my body and lighting candles and asking me what I wanted about this and that. Most people don't give a shit about what you want. They just do whatever the hell they please. But Jenny, she was a real goddamn professional. I could tell. It's true. "Are you comfortable?"

  "I'm getting there."

  "I know it can feel awkward at first but just relax."

  "OK."

  She began rubbing my shoulders. It was magnificent!

  "Do you mind if I talk to you?"

  "Of course not."

  "Some people don’t like being talked to but I find it makes the time go by nicely."

  "Oh."

  "What do you do for a living?"

  "I'm a writer," I said. Well, that was only partly true. There really was no point telling people that I had a tech support job because, honestly, that's not who I was. I'm a writer. Period. Telling people you were a computer support technician was really fucking depressing and sad and pathetic, even if in my case, it was partly true. Once you declare your job to be who you are, then that is really who you are. It's true.

  "Really? I've always wanted to write." Oh shit, here we go again. Goddamn it! It never fails when I tell people that I'm a writer that they start blabbing about wanting to be a writer and so on and so forth and blah, blah, blah. It gets SO old. But what was I to do? I had my face plastered in a headrest on a goddamn massage table. I was just going to have to listen and to take it like a man. So I shut up and took it like a man. It's true. "I love to read. I read so much. I'm constantly reading."

  "Oh yeah? What do you like to read?" I asked, her hands easing their way down my spine to my lower back. Heaven, I tell you, heaven. It's true. A massage will almost make you forget about people blabbing about their miserable hopes and dreams. Almost.

  "I like to read feminist writers. I go to the library and ask for them and the librarians bring me books by Margaret Atwood, Kate Chopin, Sylvia Plath. I devour them!" She worked my sore muscles like a master sculptor, mashing and tweaking them until the tension evaporated. It was an amazing feeling to behold. It's true. "I find I only enjoy reading books written by women."

  "Really?" Now, that was a goddamn ridiculous statement to make. That's like saying you like to eat ribeyes but don't like to eat New York Strips. That's like saying you like ice cream but don't like milkshakes. They're the same goddamn thing! It's true. Not that I blame her though. Many of the great authors were misogynistic bastards who wrote novels about macho men who liked to abuse their vulnerable women. Not that my books were that way. I mean, I like to write about relationships and all but gender politics was just too boring to me. And feminists? They're no different than the misogynistic bastards, just at the other end of the spectrum, the estrogen end. It's true. "It makes no difference to me if a book is written by a man or a woman. A good book is a good book."

  "If you say so. What brings you here?"

  "What do you mean?" I really didn't know what she meant. That was a pretty goddamn vague question, if you ask me.

  "Why did you schedule a massage? Most people have a good reason, you know?"

  "Oh, well... I've had a rough year, I guess. Divorce."

  "I'm sorry," she said and she sounded very sincere about it too. Her voice turned sweet and her touch became firm. I could tell that she was choked up about something. Were her parents divorced? Did she get a divorce? It was all just too much too take. It's true. "I really am. Divorce must be difficult."

  "Yes, it is, especially when kids are involved."

  "You have kids?" she asked, surprised. That really seemed like a shocker to her. How strange.

  "Yes, I have two kids, Jessica and Sammie."

  "How cute," she said. Women always get sweet and sappy when you talk about your kids. It's in their nature to get that way, I guess. Every woman is a potential mother, even if they don't want to be. It's true.

  She worked her way down to my legs and right then and there my ding dong squirmed. It wiggled and wiggled and flexed itself, prodding me unde
r the weight of my body, letting me know that he knew what was going on. Ding dongs are funny that way. They jump into action at the most inappropriate times, even if you don't want them to. It was a goddamn curse.

  "I love my kids dearly."

  "So did you and your ex-wife have an amicable divorce?" she asked, rubbing my feet and working the muscles between my toes. Her touch sent my ding dong into full-on attention. My blood was flowing down there like a tsunami.

  "Well, yes and no. It seemed pretty normal until the other day."

  "What happened?"

  "She sent me a message saying that she was moving to Dallas and taking the kids."

  "No fucking way!" she said. She walked around the table to where my head was resting and I could feel her through the strands of my hair, what little hair I had. I could smell her perfume which was intoxicating and sensuous and all kinds of sexy. She must have put it on in the other room because I'm sure I would have notice it when I first came into her house. It was a goddamn aphrodisiac. It's true. "What are you going to do?"

  "Uh, what do you mean?"

  "I mean, what are YOU going to do? You said you adored your kids. I imagine you couldn't live without them."

  "Yes."

  "So are you going to get them?"

  "You mean, go to Dallas?"

  "Yes, I mean go to Dallas and get them. It's really the right thing to do. Not many men love their kids like you say you love them. They deserve to be with you as much as they deserve to be with their mother." Bingo! She was absolutely right. It was genius. Why didn't I think of that? Why not assert myself and go to Dallas, tell Jessica that the kids needed to be with me, and bring them back to Austin? I mean, Dallas is an OK city and all but it's not a place to raise your kids. And who did Jessica think she was for taking them away from me? It was all becoming very clear to me now, what to do, what I should be doing. I needed to go to Dallas. It's true.