My original Asian BodyWork man who hung out on St. Mark's smoking Virginia Slims, with his over sized cream colored cordless phone in his back pocket, disappeared without a trace one evening.
The orange sign with ominous black letters was stamped to the window where the fish tank once stood. I stepped down onto the water soaked indoor/outdoor floor covering to get a better look.
SEIZED. For lack of proper paperwork.
Mmmm.
I bemoaned this loss for a good six months until the local Vietnamese boys brought their version of fast food Bahn Mi pork sandwiches on which I now patronize more than my cheap body rubdowns.
Now, my new Asian BodyWork Man is just further down on the corner.
And in my brief moments of serenity (this is all relative in a shared basement space with other massage recipients on 1st Avenue at rush hour) I sink into my paper towel covered pillow, exhale loudly, and listen to him on repeat like a worn out favorite 45 record....
Oh, you soooo tired. Ohhh you so tiiiiight. Oh you soooo tired. Oh you sooo tight.
Where I come from, we say you aint' just whistling Dixie.
What would become of your sanity, if you stopped the maddening merry-go-round?
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