Conversation with My Massage Therapist
I was half way through a 90-minute massage by a 30-something female therapist. To that point, we had discussed exactly one subject: the homeless crisis. I suspect this subject dominates many a conversation between quasi strangers. It's on its way to topping the weather.
There was no venting. There were questions. We probed each other's impressions and insights. She was obviously distressed about the issue, perhaps more so than I am.
We concluded our conversation on this subject with her recounting her most recent experience with the homeless. It had happened a week or so ago and was still roiling her mind. It went something like this:
She and her partner had bought a house near Lents Park in outer Southeast Portland, a neighborhood widely considered as afflicted with some of the worst homelessness in the city. A mentally ill homeless man had been shot and killed in the park last summer.
The therapist had built a massage studio in a garden shed in her fenced back yard. It had a toilet, shower, table, and of course some, garden tools.
The other morning she went out to the studio to retrieve something and noticed the light was on and it shouldn't have been. She became alarmed. Her partner was away at work. She walked to the door of the studio and it was slightly ajar. She opened it and beheld a woman in her 20s dressed in the typical attire of the homeless somewhat awake, reclining on the massage table. The interloper immediately sat up and said, softly, “Oh shit. I'm sorry.”
My therapist was scared and shaking, She said with a raised voice, “You need to leave. Now.”
The woman got up from the table. She had no possessions around her. My therapist composed herself and said, “Can I get you some water before you leave?”
“No,” said the woman, “but I could use your wagon. She pointed to a utility wagon near some garden tools.
A wagon! My therapist couldn't believe it! She was pissed, then suppressed a laugh. It was, of course, a perfectly natural request.
“Uhh, no,” said the therapist.
The woman left the studio, scaled the fence, and walked away.