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The Neighbor by Gino Sabatini

I remember being struck by her natural beauty when I first saw her, so I helped her carry suitcases and several boxes upstairs to her apartment. A week after settling into her new apartment she came to see me. I thought it to be a polite gesture from a new neighbour, but her visit had another purpose.

She told me she was a masseuse and received her clients, mostly gentlemen, in her home. Her regular clients she trusted and they respected her, but when a new client came to see her, she would require my help. Some evenings or weekends, if I’d be available, she would telephone me when her appointment first arrived, while he prepared for the massage, and I was to call her back exactly 55 minutes later and allow her phone to ring only once. She would use this as a signal to tell the client that the massage was over and he could now shower if he so chose. Should she not call me back within 5 minutes of my call, I was to phone the police or an ambulance or both, for I was to assume that she had been beaten, raped or killed. And of course, if I ever heard unusual or loud noises emanating from her apartment during that time, I shouldn’t hesitate to call for help. She made it clear to me she wanted a watchman, not a hero. I’m not sure if I was relieved or insulted by her expectation.

For my concern and interest I would receive $20 of the $90 she charged her client. She claimed her massages were sensuous, never sexual, and freely offered me the pleasurable experience twice. The first time she massaged me she played classical music, choosing Chopin and Segovia’s classical guitar interpretations of Bach, as personal favourites. The second time we spoke of aromatherapy. She said, in honest fashion, that she preferred using canola oil for massaging because it was natural, odourless, and the least expensive option. The first time she massaged me I was too nervous for an erection; the second time I was too relaxed. Indeed, both times were sensuous.

Our relationship became friendly and professional. However, I found the quasi-hourly waits on watch to be extremely long, and my senses were constantly on edge. During this time I would not do anything, not read nor watch television, for fear of being distracted. I simply sat and waited for the 55 minutes to pass. Nothing serious ever happened. Only once when she called me at the end of a session did she ask me to come over, ring her doorbell, walk in, and pretend I was her next customer. She sensed the new client might linger and take his time to leave.

I moved out of the building three years later, but not because I no longer needed the money. I never did actually, although I averaged about $80 per week. I moved in with my girlfriend. She wasn’t as agreeable, independent, intelligent or beautiful as my next door neighbour, but her massages were better; I never failed to get an erection.

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Gino Sabatini is a sometimes employed environmental consultant who, when not working on contract, writes short stories, poems and screenplays. He lives mostly in Montreal, Canada.

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