The Mechanic’s Terminology

A friend of mine put a tiny dent into my car back on a popular summer holiday. He sent me to a mechanic friend of his to get it fixed. This mechanic was a big Italian (possibly) New York kinda guy. *You know… the giant gold cross necklace with fat fingers and creeping eyes* While waiting for a response from my friend on whether to go through with the $500 charge (obviously a rip off) the man and I were talking. He had seen my massage table and asked if that’s what I do. Instead of lying, I said ‘yea. I do outcalls.’ He said he could give me a bigger discount on the car if I gave him a  massage. I’m open to barter and trades so I said ‘Sure. Give me a call.’ Clearly, it had been before 10am since I gave him my card (aka I wasn’t awake yet). I also may have been thinking, “By the time this guy calls, I’ll be out of the country.” My friend ended up not wanting to pay $500 to fix a dent smaller than my fist (duh) so I left.

A few days ago I got a call from The Mechanic. He goes on about how his back hurts from his job and how Massage Envy doesn’t provide the massages he wants when he wants it and how he’s stressed and needs some stress relief. *BING* Flag  is up. Stress relief can mean two very different things in the massage world. It could mean ‘I have a lot of stress and I’d like to relax please’ or ‘I have a very specific location that I hold stress particularly south of my stomach and north of my thighs’. For some reason though (maybe the previously mentioned creeping eyes) stress relief sounded not quite right. But because it wasn’t blatant I had to keep going with my intake. I asked what time length he was looking for… 30? 60? 90? He responded with ‘Wow. Yea 90 minutes would be great.’ I said ‘ok! Just so you know, a 90 minute massage will cost $100’ and he responds with ‘Yea $100. $200. Whatever’ (((((???? okayyyyyy….))))) *BING* Flag turns orange – something doesn’t seem right with $100, $200, whatever.
My warning flag’s color change prompted me to explain what areas of the body I work on in a 90 minute massage. He said ‘yea uh huh okay’ a few times and responded with ‘Well is there any other therapeutic extras you offer? You know for stress relief?’ *Bing Bing Bing* Warning Warning. My flag is now red. Code red. Hooker nail polish red. ‘I usually offer hot stone massage or aromatherapy, sir. But those upgrades are currently unavailable’. “ookay” says he.

Therapeutic meaning therapy. Meaning something maybe out of balance or injured and needs repairing. In this case, The Mechanic used an excellent term to refer to an inappropriate action. Sneaky… but I’m smarter than that, douche.

I proceeded anyway (again, not quite post-coffee time). “May I have an address where the massage will take place?” ‘Uh.. I’m at a friend’s house so I’ll text it to you.’ “Okay, can you give me a general area so I know how to calculate the gas cost please?’ He tells me that part of town. “I’ll see you at 4:30, Mechanic?” ‘Yea. 4 sounds great. See you then. But call before, I want to make sure I’m awake and ready for you.’

He sends me a text with the address and, go figure, the address does not exist. The zip code is correct but the street (in all various blvds, st, rd, pl, ave, etc) does not exist. After my coffee and the review of the alarms ringing and flags waving in my face I realized I needed to cancel that massage. So I called to no answer. To no voicemail. I would think that a businessman would have a voicemail. Or anyone that has a cell phone ever. So I did the most unprofessional thing I could think of… I cancelled via text. My responses were ‘bbbkffpprrr. z. fjklf’ followed by ‘message right.’ followed by ‘flkjrjrrbkfflazzzz’ and again ‘too late’. I had a voicemail with no missed call that was 3 minutes of nothingness. Sorry Mr. Mechanic. But not really.

I’d like to buy a vowel!

In the poker room at the casino, a guy stopped me and asked me (once again) what I was. As always I reply awesome! (thank you NPH as Barney Stinsen on HIMYM)

He laughed of course and said, “Nahh, I mean are you Russian?”

Me: Nope.

He nodded and said, “You look really familiar.” (Gee, what an original line)
I replied that I do work in the casino and have been for several months.
He asked, “Are you from Atlanta?”
And I gave him the biggest, most excited smile I could muster up: “Actually!.. no. I’m from Orlando. You’re close! By 9 hours of driving.. AND both cities start with a vowel and end with a vowel!”

(Enter 12 seconds of lapsed time)
Man: … Oh! Ah! Haha! That’s funny. Real cute.

Ya. Took ya a minute, huh, buddy?

What am I?

What am I?

I’ve been informed that I have what others call a “unique” look. Although my hair color changes as often as the weather, my features stay relatively the same. I am often asked “What are you?” The most often asked is Italian. While I may “look” Italian (i really dont think i do) the only thing Italian is my stomach’s soul.

On an average night at the casino, I get asked once what I am. And I make them guess until they realize they never will guess correctly.

On one particularly fun-filled evening, a gentleman (ha!) who I can only describe as “SHWASTED” decided to ask me that question.

 

Man: What are you?
Me: A Massage Therapist
Man: No, but what ARE you?

Me: Awesome?
Man: Are you Italian?
Me: Oh. Nope. Not Italian.
Man: Greek?
Me: Nope.
Man: Ukranian?
Me: What? No!
Man: Jewish?
Me: Jewish is not listed as a country, sir.

 

For future reference, I’m a New York South African from Florida. Unique, indeed.

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