Case of the Very Physical Therapist

As I cranked the lens of the spotting scope, the tall, slender brunette came into focus, and what a view it was. She was wearing the requisite white nurse's scrubs, but she didn't wear them like any nurse I know. She either bought them three sizes too small, or she just filled them out a lot better than the girls down at Mercy, because they did little to hide her tight butt and really big breasts. The butt hinted of lots of hours of aerobics or weights, the boobs screamed "surgery", and the way she walked as she pushed the chair was entrancing. Some women have a way of walking that causes their breasts to give a little double bounce with each step, and the therapist had perfected this to an artform. Since the sight was coming to me through the twenty power scope, my head was bobbing like one of those little plastic dogs you see on the back deck of some cars. If Jimmy could endure that, he really did have a bad back.

She pushed him under an awning, knelt, and began lifting and stretching his legs. Jimmy flinched a couple of times, but then looked bored. After about fifteen minutes of leg lifts and stretches, she wheeled Jimmy to a folded-out chaise lounge, and helped him from the chair. He stretched out on his belly, and the therapist went back in the house. She returned with a couple of plastic bottles of something, pulled up Jimmy's shirt, and squirted a liberal amount on his fish-belly white skin. She then began massaging his back. I don't know how Jimmy felt, but if it were me on that lounge, I would have had turn over before I bored a hole in the pad. It really looked like Jimmy just went to sleep.

In an hour, I was finishing the fourth bottle of water, and the milk jug was a third full. The therapist had massaged Jimmy's back long enough to turn it to Silly Putty, and I had a cramp starting in my left calf. I wished I could invite her to do a little massage on me, but as I squinted through the scope, she helped him back in the chair, and wheeled him back into the house.

As the sun went down, I finished the last bottle of soda, and tried to stretch. My shirt was soaked, my slacks were soaked, and the minivan smelled like my grandmother's old outhouse. I figured I was no bed of roses either, but it was hard to distinguish between me, the stale sweat, and the milk jug. Nobody had gone in or out of the house since the end of Jimmy's massage, and I decided to call it quits.

I pulled the minivan into my private space behind the drugstore, retrieved the scope, camera, cooler and milk jug from the back, and climbed the stairs to my office/apartment. The milk jug got dumped first, then I put the rest in the back room, and headed for the shower. After fifteen minutes under the spray, I felt almost human again, and my stomach reminded me that two bologna sandwiches do not a meal make. I let myself soak another five minutes for good measure, because I was still out of soap. I selected my last remaining clean shirt, the jeans that I only started last week, and mostly clean socks and boots, and headed out for the two block trip to Barney's.

Barney's is one of those little bars you read about, but can never find. If you didn't know where it is, you'd walk right past to someplace with lots of neon and a fold-up sign outside advertising the band and the drink specials. There is never a sign outside Barney's, and the only neon is on the two beer signs on the inside. The front door does have "Barney's Grill" painted above it in ancient gold script, but it's so faded that you really have to know what the letters say to read it. Inside, it's a quiet place with no juke box, and a few regulars quietly talk as they nurse their beers. Barney's is a great place to unwind after a day like today, and the cheeseburgers are out of this world.

"Ohhhhhhhh, did Jasey have a bad day?", cooed Joyce when she came to take my order. "You're all white, and you still have dirt behind your ear. Let Joyce get that." Before I could stop her, she stuck a cocktail napkin in my ice water and wiped my ear. "There, that's better. Seriously, you look beat. Uh, Carla didn't spend the night with you, did she?"

"Yes, but that's not what caused this. I just spent the last seven hours steaming myself in the back of the van. You ought to try it sometime. It'll do wonders for that excess water weight you women worry about so much."

"Well, Sugar, I don't worry about it. I think I'm just fine the way I am. Whadaya you think?

She pushed out her already generous chest, stretching the tight T-shirt that said "I LIKE GIRLS", and turned all the way around. Joyce is a really beautiful woman in her forties, and her breasts and hips are what make up male teenage fantasies. They also play a prominent role in my fantasies, which Joyce would be happy to tell you is indicative of my psychological development. Unfortunately for me, and fortunately for Sheryl, her roommate, Joyce is a confirmed lesbian. She does this to me every so often, because she knows she looks good, and also knows that, although I'm very attracted to her, I respect her choice and won't try to take things further. It makes our relationship a lot simpler, and we've reached an agreement; she teases the hell out of me and I tease back. I guess that's why she's probably the best friend I have.

"You really ought to ask Sheryl that question."

"Oh, she likes me this way, or at least that's what she said last night when we...uh, I probably shouldn't tell you what we did, not with you in this condition. Might be bad for the old ticker, and ambulances are bad for business."

I leered at her. "You could give me mouth-to-mouth, and bring me back to life."

"And have you faking it every chance you got after that. I don't think so. Besides, I know how you are. As soon as you came 'round, I'd be peelin' your hot little hands off every part of me. You can try that on the paramedics, but not on me. "

"Not every part, just some carefully selected parts. I'm picky, and, as always, you look great."

"You know, I wouldn't want to hear that from many men, but it's nice, coming from you. Now, what can I get you, and I'm not on the menu, so don't ask."

Sheryl brought my usual scotch while the burgers fried. Sheryl is a pretty little blonde, and after some initial misunderstandings, we get along well. I think she still wonders at the flirting that goes on between Joyce and myself, but she knows it's all in fun. I like her, because she's the strong one of the pair, and I have this thing for strong women. I have a thing for most women actually, but strong is definitely right up there on top. She's a fighter who won't quit, no matter what, and I like to think we're somewhat alike in that respect.

The cheeseburgers were great, as usual, and the scotch was even better, as usual. By eleven, I was feeling really great, and ready to hit the town, or so I thought until I stood up. Actually, I only tried to stand up; I didn't get to really stand up until Joyce helped me. She was laughing her ass off at me as I tried to stay upright, and finally told Sheryl she was going to help me home. She put my arm over her shoulder and we went out the door. We made the two blocks to my place with only a couple of stumbles, and I was walking on my own the whole last block. Well, Joyce still had my arm over her shoulders, but she wasn't carrying me, at least for the last half-block. I assured her I could make it up the steps by myself, and thanked her for her help.

"You're sure you can make it. I mean, I can help you if you want."

"No, I'm fine, really. I think the scotch just got to me because I got so hot today. I'll be OK, and thanks."

She started back and as I started up the stairs, I remembered that I had forgotten to remember to replace the burnt-out bulb that lit them. The streetlight made it about half-way up, but from there on it was as black as a coal mine. I was doing fine when I came to the trash bag in the middle of the steps. In true investigator fashion, I stopped to examin it for clues as to its origin, but it just looked like an ordinary trash bag to me. I opened it, thinking this might tell me something, and was surprised to see thong panties and bras of all colors. I remember thinking that the bras looked very large, and that I should continue the investigation in the morning. The next couple steps were easy, and then I entered the dark zone. I was stepping on the landing when my foot struck something soft. In the split second between that and the scream, I wondered what else had been left on my steps. When that shrill shriek hit my ears, I lost all semblance of balance and started to fall.

I knew the only reason my head didn't explode was that I couldn't open my eyes. It was morning, or at least it was daylight. I could tell that because of the red glow I saw through my eyelids. I felt the couch cushions under me, so I was reasonably sure I was home. I tried to get up, and decided that was a bad idea when the pains shot from my gut to my already dangerously unstable head. I groaned and tried to be motionless, but some asshole outside was beating on a steel drum and the noise kept pounding away at my ears. It took a while to realize that the noise was only my heartbeat. It had been a while, but I was starting to remember what a hangover feels like. The only thing was, hangovers never affected my nose before; I smelled fresh coffee and bacon. I was going to have to talk to Joyce about her ice. The scotch couldn't have been bad. I was taking inventory and feeling for broken bones when I heard my toilet flush.

"Oh, you're awake. Mister, are you OK? I was really worried."

A crucial point to remember when dealing with a hungover man is to never say anything louder than a whisper. A whisper will do just fine, because the man's ears are the only things left that work right, and they try to compensate for the other the other things that don't. The worried sounding female voice smashed into my eardrums like a fire siren, and this set off a chain reaction in various muscles throughout my body. I jumped to my feet, and after coming to the realization that moving anything at all hurt, I doubled over in pain, lost my balance, and fell toward the floor. I cleverly broke the fall with my head, and this cause a whole new series of sensations; my personal pick for the most painful and incapacitating were the blinding shafts of light that stabbed through my brain when my eyes popped open, but the enormous throb that multiplied my headache by ten ran a close second. I lay on the floor, trying not to whimper, and hands pulled at my arm. I finally made it back to the couch with the help of the woman I had not yet seen, but this time, I stopped at the sitting position instead of trying to make it all the way down to prone. At least if I fell again, I would fall on soft stuff instead of the floor.

It took a minute for my eyes to stay open, and a few more to get them to focus. When the colored blobs around me finally began to take shape, I found myself looking into the face of a strange woman with long, black hair. Something was wrong, though. The face was sitting on her naked hips, or at least that's what it looked like. If I hadn't been pretty sure I was sober, I wouldn't have given it much thought, but even one of those Chinese contortionists on TV couldn't have managed that trick. I blinked, the white tank top came into focus, and it dawned on my fuzzy, aching brain that I was staring at the largest cleavage I had ever seen. I remembered the bras from last night, and figured they probably belonged to this woman.

Things were becoming clear pretty quickly now, and I could move my head, albeit slowly, to see the rest of her. She was leaning down in my face with her hands on her knees, and her breasts were bulged up and almost out of the tank top. From what I could see in my sitting position, the rest of her was pretty nice too, and I especially liked the way her little white shorts didn't cover much of the tanned thighs.

"Mister, I said, are you all right?"

The booming voice caused me to squint my eyes and jump again, but this time, I managed to keep myself on the couch. I held a finger to my lips and croaked, "Not so loud."

"Whew, I was afraid you were gonna die on me, or somethin'. You didn't walk too good after you rolled down the stairs last night, and when I got you back up here, you just crawled over to the couch and passed out. How do you feel?"

Now I understood the pains that wafted in gentle waves over my whole body. It was probably fortunate that I had been so relaxed or I would have been in worse shape than I was.

"I hurt like hell, that's how. Who are you, by the way?"

"Oh, sorry, but there wasn't time to introduce myself last night. I don't think you'd have remembered anyway. I'm Melody."

"Melody, why are you here?"

"Well, I was sleeping on your stairway last night until you kicked me. I yelled, and you fell down the stairs, and I couldn't just leave you laying on the sidewalk. I got you up and helped you back up to the door. I asked you for the key, and you mumbled something about it being in your pocket, so I fished around until I found it and opened the door." She gave me a stern look. "You know, when somebody reaches in your pocket, you get kind of grabby. I had to fight you off. Anyway, when we got inside, you fell down again and I couldn't get you up. You just crawled over to this couch and laid down. I decided I'd better stay with you until morning, so I slept in your bed, and here I am."

"I smell coffee."

"Oh, you were out, so I borrowed some money and went to the store down the block. I hope that was all right. I got some eggs and bacon too. How do you like your eggs? I can go fix you some."

"Just the coffee first, until my gut stops hurting."

I couldn't taste most of the first cup, but then it takes a while to get rid of that furry feeling on your tongue and to flush out the taste of scotch and onions. The last couple of swallows tasted great, my stomach had stopped churning, and I decided to risk a couple aspirins. About half way through the second cup, they started to kick in and my headache was down to a normal migraine.

"So, Melody. Do you have a last name?"

"Chase, my last name will be Chase, as soon as I get my divorce."

"You're married?" This was just what I needed. My experience with husbands, while very limited, you understand, is that they can be particularly narrow-minded about their wives spending the night with another man. They can be so unsympathetic, in fact, that they resort to physical means for teaching the unfortunate man the error of his ways, and I have a long-standing policy of avoiding hospitals at almost any cost.

"Well, yes, but I walked out yesterday."

"And how did you happen to be in my stairway?"

She hung her head. "You'll think I'm stupid."

"How can I think you're stupid when I just met you twenty minutes ago? Now how did you manage to go to sleep on my stairway?"

"I forgot my purse, and by the time I realized it, Harold would have been home, so I couldn't go back. I figured I'd just wait until he went to work this morning, and go back home and get it, but I didn't have any money for a hotel. Your stairway was dark, and I figured nobody would come up and get me if I stayed there. I just hadn't planned on you kicking me."

"Harold?"

"Oh, he's my husband, Harold Leadbetter."

It sounded lame to me, but I didn't feel like arguing. Besides, my stomach was starting to react to that bacon smell, and had said she would make some eggs.

I moved to the kitchen and finished the coffee while she cooked. I guessed her age at about thirty-five. She was pretty in a natural way, and her expertly done makeup accentuated the bright blue eyes, a perky little nose, and full lips. The body connected to the face was curvy in all the good places, and flat in all the places that should be. As I connected with reality a little more, I realized that the description "curvy" didn't do justice to her figure. The shorts fit her tight little butt well, a little too well considering we were alone, I was starting to recover and she happened to be married, but it was the tank top that kept pulling at my eyes. Melody had been blessed with the breasts you rarely see unless they're mostly silicone. Her's didn't have that "too perfect" round shape and peculiar jiggle that denote the art of the plastic surgeon. They were full, soft, and moved with a life all their own. The tank top fit so tight that it looked like a part of her skin, and the bra was failing at the task of hiding the big nipples that swelled out from time to time. Her legs were slender and muscular, and I figured the running shoes she wore over the white socks weren't just for style. She had an all-over tan, or at least I couldn't see any tan lines anywhere, and the contrast with her black hair and white clothing was marvelous.

She sat the eggs and bacon in front of me and then filled my cup. I had forgotten how good breakfast can taste. She sat and watched me eat, and smiled any time I looked up at her. As I ate, I tried to think of a way to tell her that she should leave, but the bacon and eggs kept confusing my thoughts. I've never been good at throwing women out, so this was going to be hard.

"Melody, I could drive you to your house to get your purse, and then take you to a hotel. I owe you that much for getting me back up here last night."

"That's OK, it's not that far, and I love to walk. I'll just leave when you go."

It was noon when we left. I had an appointment to do some department store surveillance, and we said good-bye at the bottom of the stairs. I saw her walking up the street with her garbage bag in one hand. I realized I hadn't asked her why she didn't have a suitcase.

At about five, I finished up at the department store without catching the guy they thought was taking pictures in their dressing rooms. One of the clerks had seen a man lingering near the dressing rooms with a gym bag, and when someone went in to try on clothes, he moved very close and set down the bag. He must have decided to go somewhere else today, because the only thing I saw was women of every shape and size trying on clothes without buying anything.

As I drove back home, I decided to eat at Barney's again. I also resolved not to drink any scotch. I would stick to club soda for a while. Joyce would have a field day with me, but I was not anxious for the sequel to last night. I needed a shower first, and cursed when I remembered that I still hadn't bought soap. I was still berating myself when I opened the bathroom door, and the scream caught me off-guard.

Melody was sitting on the edge of the tub naked as the day she was born, and had been shaving her legs. She grabbed a towel and quickly wrapped it around her, but not before I saw the red welts on her lower back and hips. As she looked back at me, I saw the faint grey-purple bruise below her left eye.

"Melody, what happened to you? You were fine this morning."

"No I wasn't, you just couldn't see it. I covered up my black eye with makeup, and the top covered my back."

"Who did this to you?"

Her face pinched up as she started to cry. Why do women have to do that? There ought to be classes in school for what to do when a woman cries. I assumed the I-have-no-idea-what-the-hell-to-do-so-I'll-just-stand-here-like-an-idiot position that I have adopted for these situations and waited.

"Harold", she sobbed.

"Why in the world would he do that?"

"Harold got religion about six months ago, or at least that what he claims. He calls me a harlot, because of my bre...because of the way I look. He didn't seem to mind when we got married last year. I thought he liked me. But now, he says I'm a sinful woman, and he beats me when I have impure thoughts."

"Impure thoughts, what impure thoughts?"