Chapter 1: Baptism by Fire
The ink on my college diploma was barely dry, but here I was—sweating under flickering fluorescent lights in a strip-mall massage parlor, scrubbing floors for strangers.
The way the other therapists looked at me—like wolves sizing up a stray—made my cheeks burn.
Their stares stuck to me—some sly, some just curious—like they were sizing up the new kid in the locker room. My khakis and button-down screamed 'rookie,' while their tattoos and yoga pants radiated don't-mess-with-me energy.
But the pay was $1,400 a month, room and board included, plus health insurance and a couple other perks.
My room was a glorified closet—a lumpy mattress, a battered dresser, and carpet you didn’t dare walk barefoot on. Still, after years of sharing rent with four other broke college guys, I called it a win. Lunch was always the same—Costco mac and cheese, maybe a limp salad if someone remembered. The breakroom fridge was a graveyard of half-empty Gatorade bottles and forgotten yogurt cups.
Every night, karaoke from upstairs thundered through the floorboards—how was a freshly graduated guy like me supposed to handle that?
The speakers rattled the ceiling tiles and vibrated right down into my bones. At night, I’d lie awake, counting the off-key warbles of Whitney Houston covers, wondering how this became my life. I pressed a pillow over my head, but the off-key chorus still leaked through. Part of me wanted to scream; the other part wondered if I’d ever feel at home here. Sometimes, someone would belt out a country classic, and I'd stare up at the popcorn ceiling, torn between laughter and despair.
"Aunt Rachel, I’m tired. Can we take a break?"
A pillow smacked me on the shoulder. Rachel—she’s not really my aunt, just the kind of boss who treats everyone like family, whether you want it or not—grinned, one eyebrow arched, daring me to talk back. I caught the faintest twitch of a smile—her version of affection.
"You think you’re here to chill for a paycheck? Keep working!"
Her voice had that unmistakable Jersey edge, and the pillow bounced onto the stack of laundry I'd been ignoring.
1.
"Aunt Rachel, can I take a break?"
A beautiful woman in a tank top and shorts was stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, completely relaxed.
She had that classic Long Island tan and perfect blowout, one foot propped up on the armrest, scrolling her phone like she owned the place—because, well, she did. The air reeked faintly of coconut body lotion and the lingering smell of last night’s popcorn.
I wiped sweat from my forehead and called out, "Aunt Rachel, if I keep going, I won’t be able to get up tomorrow."
My T-shirt was stuck to my back, arms aching from scrubbing stains out of cheap linoleum. My sneakers squeaked as I shuffled back and forth, hoping for mercy.
Still, Aunt Rachel didn’t move.
"Aunt Rachel?"
A pillow sailed at me.
The old floral-print throw zipped past my head and landed against the soda fridge. Even half-asleep, Rachel had an arm like an MLB pitcher.
Rachel shouted, "You’ve only mopped ten times—do it two more!"
Dejected, I kept mopping the floor.
I let the mop slap against the sticky tile, trying not to count the minutes until closing. The cleaning playlist on my phone had run out two hours ago, but nobody seemed to notice but me.
Yesterday, two drunk guys came in. One puked right there, and the other, seeing the mess, threw up too.
As for the girls—well, they’d never seen anything like that before.
Natalie shrieked and jumped onto the counter, and Madison, usually the picture of cool, made a mad dash for the bathroom clutching her stomach. Even Rachel covered her nose and waved at the stench with a magazine.
The smell hit first—sharp, sour, unmistakable. Natalie’s shriek was almost drowned out by Madison gagging into her sleeve. I just pinched my nose and muttered, ‘Welcome to the big leagues.’ You guessed it: chain reaction. They all started gagging and running for the bathroom.
It was like a scene out of a bad comedy. Someone even screamed, "Not my new shoes!" as the mess spread across the tile.
I didn’t. I just pinched my nose and looked at what the two guys had hurled up.
When I saw it, I couldn’t help but laugh.
So they’d just been drinking—didn’t even order any food?
It was just orange soda and beer, not a single pretzel or nacho in sight. Amateurs.
Aubrey at the front desk saw I was exhausted and came over to help.
She handed me a roll of paper towels with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Guess we’re earning our hazard pay tonight, huh?"
I felt helpless. Women really are hard to please.
Sometimes it felt like no matter what I did, there was always something more. Aubrey’s laugh, though, made the grossness a little easier to bear. I realized, despite everything, I’d landed in the middle of a weird little family.