KIRBY WRIGHT
AT THE ROLFER’S
I stand hunched in undies on the western wall of a mirrored garage with its door raised. No cars or trucks. Instead, the space is packed with Pilates equipment, everything from wheels to rollers to chairs with sculpting handles. A flute plays in the neighboring garden of agave, protea, plumeria, and ti. Clouds make it cold. A wood-chipped path through the exotic plants invites a match. Flute notes transport me to powdered snow in the Himalayas.
Natalie, the Rolfer, speaks with a French accent. She says Geneva’s home and admits to hating wide open spaces peopled by nomads. She’s mid-fifties, rail thin, with scraggly blonde hair. Networks of black mehndi tattoos swirl across her arms and hands; Natalie’s tattoos remind me of spider webs. She stands near the eastern wall, with crossed arms, and studies me. I shiver in my blue Alfanis. Her face is somewhere between disappointment and disgust. I smell bacon from a distant breakfast.
“You have a hump,” she begins.
“I know,” I reply, trying to stand straight.
“We must re-establish your spine.”
“Can we do that today?”
“I won’t hammer you this first session.”
“Which session brings the hammer?”
“Numéro five. Come to me and lie on my table.”
I flop belly-down on a black table sporting a bio mat. Natalie claims infra-red light heats the amethyst and tourmaline crystals inside. The mat’s hot and spongy. It’s a cool winter day so I don’t mind some warming.
“Your hump bulges up and won’t relax. Were you abused as a child?”
I sense the flutist breathing between blows as blossoms shiver on the protea.
“I was beaten by my father. My brother too.”
“Is he damaged?”
“He carries his pain like a shield.”
Natalie squeezes one ass cheek and then the other. She digs an elbow into my left bicep and works the boney edge up and down the forearm.
“Owie!” I squeal.
“Too hard?”
“Yes.”
“I will ease up.”
“Is this a deep tissue massage or Rolfing?”
“Both. Now I want you to pretend you have a tail,” she goes, “can you do that?”
“I think so.”
“Sprout it from your tailbone. Then wag your tail and wrap it around your body.”
I wag and wrap, imagining me as a retriever. “Bow wow,” I joke.
“I will teach you exercises to help with balance.”
“Will that fix my posture?”
“Possibly, over time.”
The flute transforms me from dog to monk. I’m wearing a red robe and wading in sandals through deep snow. Out in the garden, a shaft of light burns the ti crimson. The clouds have fled. Hands work my spine before caressing the hump. I flash to my old man unbuckling his belt.