I wasn’t sure if I was smelling liver pâté. When the scruffy, gray-haired man opened the door to his sixth-floor apartment, that’s what I was hit with first. The heavy, cheap incense only filled my nose a few moments later, and I had to cough right away. That stuff could drive anyone out of the room. There might be a thousand varieties—Japanese cherry, chocolate, and who knows what else—but it’s still smoke. Heavy, irritating, an oxygen-sucker. I practically choke on it. I think this “wizard” was just trying to cover up the thick, everyday smells of the cramped, concrete-panel apartment. And yet, I love that mix of rich, broth-soaked, freshly laundered clothes smell. It’s so real, like home.
When I was a kid, I always wanted to live in an apartment building and look out from a high window. I envied those who played on the playground with the other kids who lived nearby. They probably longed for our endless backyard and inflatable pool. Of course, I wouldn’t want to live on the sixth floor now, especially after living on the third floor during my college years, where the noisy people above and below made my life miserable. Fortunately, that was a long time ago, so it’s almost nostalgic now that the soul-healer-massage therapist-handyman-wizard’s little nook is in one of these ten-story buildings.
I’m curious to see what the liver pâté-smelling, wild-haired guy will do in his “office,” set up in his living room. He calls it an office in his ad, not me. But it’s just an ordinary room. He didn’t even bother to hide or cover the ironing board. You can clearly see it was just shoved behind the closet. He didn’t even bother to arrange it properly. Thank goodness I don’t have to iron on something like that. You can’t even set it high enough, and it’s super wobbly. We had one like that in the dorm. Maybe that’s why he left it there, all askew, to distract the “patient” from their misery. Unfortunately, my aching shoulder and numb foot need a bit more than that.
Now the liver pâté smell is even stronger than before. And there’s a crumb at the corner of his mouth. So that’s why I had to wait! So he could shove down a few more bites. This is how seriously he takes me. He sits down right across from me without even brushing his teeth, so close that our knees are practically touching. This won’t work. From now on, I won’t be able to take him seriously. A healer shouldn’t smell like food! And liver pâté, no less!
Why is he making me tap on the crook of my elbow when I came primarily because of the numbness in my foot? My shoulder has been hurting terribly for months now, and he could massage that too, but I’m mostly freaked out about the numbness. Especially since I can’t feel my left foot at all. Self-healing by tapping? God, this liver pâté cowboy isn’t my guy.
“And now, repeat softly: I don’t need to stuff myself, I don’t need to stuff myself, I don’t need to stuff myself…”
What the hell is wrong with you? What does that have to do with anything? Besides, you’re the one cramming liver pâté into your mouth even after your “patient” arrived at your “office.”
“Go ahead, say it confidently: I don’t need to stuff myself to be happy…”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but I came because my foot is numb and my shoulder hurts.”
“And what do you think,” he smiles smugly, “why is that?”
“I weigh 183 pounds, not 220!”
“Sure…”
I don’t even know which floor the hospital room is on. With my chewed-up tongue and splitting headache, I couldn’t care less. I hope I don’t have another seizure today. After getting a suppository from a doctor about my age, I’d rather not. One day’s worth of humiliation is more than enough. Oh, how I’d love to call up that charlatan who called me fat with a big grin for a ton of money. “That’s why my foot was numb, you liver pâté-mouthed jerk!”