THANKFUL

 

My old, sinful nature was also nailed to the cross when Christ was crucified. Now I’m a new man since Christ lives in me—Galatians 2:20 (King Jimmy Translation).

The Massage

“Give Me a Hand, Will You?”

(Part one of four)

Some diners appeared annoyed while others looked amused at the two old geezers, gorging their lunches at the Snooty Pig, a local mom-and-pop café. These hog-like tendencies seemed unfitting for two gentlemen of extraordinary high esteem as your humble Aggie scribe and the Admiral. But put two chicken-fried steaks with gravy and biscuits in front of them and their Porky Pig propensities comes to life. Between a bite of steak and a swallow of iced tea, the Admiral sprang the craziest question on me.

“Have you ever had a foot massage?”

How a chicken-fried steak made him come up with that question is beyond me. We meet weekly for lunch but have never discussed foot massages. . . and certainly not foot fetishes.

“Only after I spilt milk on my foot and my two dachshunds licked me feet. Does that count?” I played along, just to see where this was leading. “They both needed penicillin shots afterward.”

“Oh no. No dogs involved,” he said. “There’s a massage parlor next door and I wanted to get a foot massage. I got them all the time when we traveled in the Orient and the Philippines with the Navy. Tell you what. I’ll treat you to a foot massage.”

“Hold on, Admiral.” I held up my hand. “This Aggie’s pretty ticklish, especially my feet. I’m fearful I might double over laughing and throw-up chicken-fried remnants on the massager-person.” I lowered my fork and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Do I have to take off my clothes?” I whispered.

“Not unless you want to,” the Admiral winked. “After this foot massage, you’ll be so relaxed you could root for the Texas Longhorns and not care.”

“I know the Bible says all things are possible with God, but it’s impossible for me to be that relaxed.” I felt a story in the making. “Okay,” I relented. “I’m in. First, let me text Mrs. Aggie.”

“Pray for me. Getting foot massage”.

“Are you kidding?” Mrs. Aggie replied. “I’ll send the dogs up there. LOL!!!”

As often as we ate at the Snooty Pig, I never noticed the single storefront Bigfoot Reflexology next door. How did I overlook the name of a store like that?

“I’ll do the talking,” Bruce said.

“I’m counting on it,” I silently thanked the Lord. “I wouldn’t know what to ask for anyway.”

An elderly Asian gentleman greeted us in the dimly lit lobby. “Yu have a-point-rent?” he asked.

“No,” the Admiral said. “We just want a foot massage. Do you have any openings?”

While the gentleman checked his appointment book, Bruce scanned the flier of the services.

“Wait!” he interrupted. “Can you do a head, arm and shoulder, back, leg and foot massage? That’s better.”

The Asian gentleman scanned his book again. “Yes, far-row me.”

He pulled back a curtain and led us into an even darker parlor. The strong potpourri fragrance twitched my nose. Soft oriental music played in the background. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, two silhouettes stood in the dim light.

Two young muscular Asian men in skin-tight tee shirts, which heightened their rippled torso, immerged. Images of the Chinese Olympic gymnasts, whose strength on the parallel rings is incredible, caused my still digesting chicken-fried steak to reconsider its path along my digestive tract.

I looked around but didn’t see them. “Where are those tiny Oriental women who walk on your back to give a massage” I whispered to the Admiral.

He nodded toward the two young men. “You’re looking at ‘em, handsome,” he said.

My gulp was noticeable. Despite my apprehension of turning my “temple of the Holy Spirit” over to someone who probably benched pressed 400 pounds with one arm, my courage rose.

“Hi. I’m Jimmy.” I extended my hand.

I didn’t catch his name since the pain of his handshake must have been the same as an elephant stomping a mouse. Thankfully, I didn’t hear Samurai mentioned in his introduction. Mentally, I dubbed him Sweet & Sour.

“Yu silent cell pone,” Sweet & Sour grunted. “Yu go bat-room furst.”

What has the Admiral suckered me into now? I should have known better.

Sweet & Sour led me to a table. “Remove shoes. Roll up pant,” he ordered.

I complied.

“Lay bak,” he said. He placed my feet in a bucket of warm water mixed with a dark lotion that smelled eerily like teriyaki sauce.

Although the liquid wasn’t boiling, I prayed: Jesus—remember me when you come into your kingdom.

Sweet & Sour grabbed my head with his strong hands.

“Close eye. Re-rax.” Sweet & Sour’s strong hands suddenly became lamb-soft as he massaged my scalp, cheeks, and neck.

Ohhh. What a surprise. This is sooooo relaxing. I felt tension leaving my neck.

During a pause in the action, I looked over at Bruce. His arms hung down, his eyes were closed, his mouth opened, apparently totally relaxed. When his masseur referred to the World Wrestling Federation’s training manual, then grabbed the Admiral’s head and twisted it 360 degrees, my tension returned.

Sweet & Sour finished the head and neck massage and put a warm towel over my face.

Is this when the waterboarding begins?

Sweet & Sour grabbed my arms and pulled them over my head. I reasoned he placed the towel over my face so I wouldn’t see his laughter as he slapped my Jello-esque underarms around. While he massaged my arms up to my hands, the Holy Spirit spoke to my heart.

I see them?

Huh? You see what, Lord?

The nail scars. I see my nail scars in your hands.

You do? I lifted the towel to peek. I haven’t been crucified?

Oh, but you have, He said. When you accepted my grace and I became your savior, you were symbolically crucified with me. Now, your hands are my nail-pierced hands. Remember what Paul the apostle wrote, “I have been crucified with Christ.”

Yeah. What are you saying, Lord?

You do my work here on Earth. I reach people by using people—like you, my kids.

Yes, Lord, but I . . .

He stopped me. Oh, I know you’re not perfect, but those are the kind of people I use to show my power. It’s me working inside you that makes you effective and not you, on your own. I’ve stood back and watched some of the things you’ve attempted to do when you ignored my help.

I smiled. Funnier than America’s Funniest Videos, huh?

Yeah, afraid so—me and the angels laughed out loud.

Sweet and Sour broke my meditation.

“Yu raise feat.” He wrapped my feet in a warm towel and took the bucket away.

(Continued)

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

P.S. While Sweet & Sour held my arms over my head, the other masseur leaned over, grabbed the other and spread out. “Make wish,” Sweet & Sour said. I didn’t like masseur humor.