School of Massage

The school of massage does more than turn out wonderful therapeutic professionals; it saves lives. One of my oldest friends here in California had a hard life…all the way into his adulthood. As a kid he was left with divorced parents who decided he be raised by the male counterpart, but ended up with a Dadwho, drug-addicted, taught him how to shoot dope at ten. For years he too was addicted, ended up on the streets, and was so desiccated and dehumanized by his plight that, he told me, one day he woke up in a dumpster, his back pockets touching, and his head in garbage. Like a twenty-first century Oliver Twist, my friend sought help. He found people who introduced him to the twelve step programs, found clean and safe shelter in a Salvation Army setup for indigents, and began recovery, soul-searching, and living a clean and sober life. For years, as he evolved, he still found no satisfaction in working the jobs he could get: he hated the tenuous income that telemarketing, cold-calling, afforded, and he felt humiliated to act in porn movies, despite the hefty paychecks.

He enrolled in a school of massage in San Francisco. As he had for years, he would call me to chat. Now, instead of focusing on my melodramas and such, my friend was full of giddy reports of his lessons and teachers at the school of massage. School of massage this, and school of massage that, he yammered for hours about this almighty school of massage. But he was staying clean, and he was happy, so who was I to judge that every profession became an obsession…especially when this one would lead to what he may have been searching for thirty-nine years?

I attended my friend’s graduation at the school of massage. It was a serious awarding of certificates, followed by a casual pot luck dinner. The people were lovely. And my friend beamed. Then I moved an hour’s drive away, so my buddy who didn’t drive and I separated for a bit, only chatting once or twice by phone, as the calls were now toll calls neither of us could really afford. One weekend, however, I went to pick him up—him and his school of massage board. I had my doubts, but wanted to give him a start getting clients, so rounded up my local friends and lined them up for massages.

When I got my turn, I was absolutely stunned. He did deep this and pulling of that and he kneaded and whispered and prayed over me, extracting my psychic residue and purging me of crap. I was reborn for a minute, there. And I came to see a new attitude toward that school of massage—a school that had given Kev an interest, trained him in a profession, and given him a niche…one that benefited and benefits not only the once broken boy but those he touches now, as well.