Tonight I met a character named Dan. Dan was a friend of a friend, and based on every description I knew that hanging out with Dan would be a unique experience. That day I had done nothing but eat sandwiches and watch webisodes of some short comedy show. Each bit was a few minutes long, feeding into my addiction for instant gratification and aggravating my injured attention span.
Dan’s location alone piqued my interest. I didn’t know where he lived, but it was a car ride away. Car rides are a rare luxury. My life exists in the radius of “walking distance,” and I rarely venture outside of their limits.
Dan also had pot.
Dan was also a massage therapist, or at least studying to become one.
Turns out Dan lived in his own house, filled with his own furniture. I once tried to get a job as a nanny for a family in his neighborhood. Dan sounded so, so strange. I could already tell that he would wear white sneakers.
Upon meeting Dan, I was not disappointed. He was a lanky blonde in non-descript unrimmed glasses. His tv was the size of my fridge. I could tell that he had probably played some type of horn or saxophone in high school band. I hung out with this kid in high school. His posture, his body type, his face were very familiar. I was close friends with people I knew that were like Dan but I never got them. I could never get a reading on them and they could never sense me out but we were friends because we were all we had. We were the smart kids. We were the nerds.
I knew people like Dan because we met at academic competitions. Forensics, Future Problem Solvers, English team-the creative, social nerds. Conservation Club, National Oceanic Science Bowl, Envirothon, Trees for Tomorrow-the socially concious, scientific minded, chemically altered or all of the above; a nice blend of nerd. Band-a whole different level.
I sat with Dans at lunch, I chatted with Dans in study hall. The Dans of my high school kept me sane when surrounded by confederate flag belt buckles, fox racing and women’s basketball. The Dan and Danlike folk I have known in my life helped me through some tough times. Yet, I haven’t spoken to any of my Dans in almost 5 years.
I’ve refered to many Dans previously. Let it be noted that I will now be speaking of the one, original Dan. Real house Dan. Massage Therapy Dan.
After speaking to/at Real house Dan, the similarities between Dan and Dans past became less apparent. Real house Dan did yoga, burned incence. He listened to David Byrne and Brian Eno, Neil Young. He passed around a bottle of essential oil that he claimed would enhance our buzz. After reluctantly applying the fragrant oil to my wrist, I accused Dan of being a “Potion-monger” and insisted that in olden times he would have been burned as a witch. He was taken aback. Dans have never understood my sense of humor, and Dan was no exception.
When I internet, at least one tab of my browser is always dedicated to the pursuit of google/wikipedia-based knowledge. It just so happened that the day before I met Dan, hours before I ever knew of Dan’s existence, I was dedicating this knowledge tab to finding “Happy Ending” massage parlors in every major US city. I know of two in Madison by word of mouth. One is within the confines of my “walking distance” perimeter. The glass door to the massage parlor is situated between one of the city’s top dive bars, The Paradise, and the Shamrock, a loosely Irish themed gay bar. Sometimes a few girls would venture out to the sidewalk for a cigarette. I remember standing a few feet away from them itching to pick their brains, get a quick reading. I looked for an excuse to pick up a dropped tissue of theirs or light a cigarette in a pinch, anything to warrant a conversation. I can usually butt into any conversation with the utmost confidence, but not with these ladies. They were tougher than I would ever be. They were getting by with whatever they had. Or so I imagined. They were hand-job girls. I don’t know what story ends or at least takes a wayside into the territory of hand-job girl but I imagine that it would be interesting.
So I was searching the internet for listings of guarenteed happy endings. Just knowing the places exist illicits warm fuzzy feelings. It’s like finding out a celebrity lives nearby. And later that day, who do I run into? A massage therapy student. It’s a stretch. It would have been better if he had been a whore, but it’s still a coincidence.
Soon after accusing Dan of witchcraft, I asked him if there were any gals (or fellas) in his class that were obviously destined to deliver handjobs to traveling businessmen. Were these girls aspiring to the role, sponsored by seedy parlors or did it just happen if a student didn’t have enough cocurriculars or positive references from previous employers?
Apparently Certified Massage Therapists don’t like hearing the “happy ending” word. Even those in training.
Though he never set healing hands on weary waitress shoulders, I know that Dan will be a great massage therapist. He may not know where handjob girls come from, but he has a definite passion for his craft. He’s learning the art of intuitive massage as if it were a martial art, with dedication and precision. But I still think he’s a witch.
