| General Non-Fiction posted May 12, 2022 |
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I got a massage once that I didn't want from my neighbor
Won't you be my neighbor?
by T B Botts
Did you ever watch Mr. Roger's Neighborhood on television? Fred Rogers would come through the door singing the song -Won't you be my neighbor? As he hung up his jacket and donned a cardigan sweater and his tennis shoes. I never bothered to watch it myself, thinking it was strictly for kids. I watched a documentary about Fred Rogers though, and realized I missed a great opportunity. He was the real deal, the kind of man that you prayed would be your neighbor. I never had a neighbor like Mr. Rogers. I did, however, once have a neighbor that I suspected was either currently or formerly a KGB agent. I'll explain.
I lived over thirty years in the same house in Southeast Alaska. The house next door was owned by a family who lived elsewhere. They rented it to the school for use by various school personnel who passed through. The town I lived in was located on an island in a rain forest and one had to really want to live there to stay for more than a year or two. Over the years there were probably ten different families or individuals who moved in and then moved on. One of the more memorable families was a Russian man named Alexei and his wife Tatiana. They had several children and for the most part we got along fairly well, except for the time the youngest child stepped into my garden and proceeded to pick the daffodils that were blooming there. There was one other incident that tried the bond of neighbors too...
Tatiana worked at the school. I can't remember what job she held, maybe teacher's aide or library assistant. It doesn't really matter. Alexei or Alex as I called him, stayed home with the kids. He seemed somewhat out of place, being a stay- at-home dad. He was tall and well built with short blond hair cut in a military style, and could pass as a Russian spy from a movie. I wondered more than once if he wasn't somehow involved with the KGB, but there was nothing in Hoonah that would attract the Russians that I knew of, so I just shrugged off the thought, more or less.
One day Alex came knocking on the door asking to use some of my tools. He needed a circular saw and a drill and a few other things. I invited him in and got the tools for him and we had a conversation of sorts. His thick Russian accent was difficult to understand. He mentioned he was going to build a bench and would return the tools in a few days. I didn't think much of it and wished him good luck. I was fairly certain that he wouldn't be able to build a bomb or listening device using a Skill saw, so my only worry was what I would do if he didn't return the tools in a timely manner. I was no match for him if he got belligerant.
About a week later I responded to a knock on the door and saw Alex standing on the porch with my tools and a padded bench. He explained that he had used the tools to build the bench. I assumed he had brought the bench along because he wanted me to view his handiwork. I was wrong. I took the tools from him and he stepped inside with the bench.
"I give you massage," he said in his thick accent.
"Message?" I asked. "What message?" I felt like I was in a scene with Inspector Clouseau from the Pink Panther movies.
"No! Massage! Massage! I build bench with tools, give you massage!"
"A massage? No, that's OK, I don't want a massage. Thanks anyway," I replied, trying to sound friendly. I'd never had a massage before, and I certainly didn't want one from a man. In particular from this man. This big, strong Russian man whom I really didn't know from Adam. What kind of person insists on giving a guy a massage when he doesn't want one? I assumed I put the whole idea to bed. Again, I was wrong.
"No, I give you massage. You lend me tools, I give you massage. Take off shirt. Lay down on bench."
There was no fighting him. He was insistent that I get a massage, whether I wanted one or not. I took off my shirt and laid on the bench. Then he reached for my belt. What the hell! I didn't know what the plan was, but I wasn't liking this too much.
"Take off pants." he said. "For massage."
This was taking a turn for the bizarre. Was this normal? I got up and closed the curtains. If I was going to be humiliated I didn't want an audience. About that time Jan, my wife, went into the bedroom and closed the door. I could hear her in there snickering. I hoped that if I yelled for help she'd grab a gun and kill the guy, or at least put me out of my misery.
I took off my pants and laid them on the couch and got back on the bench. Alex proceeded to massage my body with his big, muscular, Russian man hands. I had always heard people rave about getting a massage. They obviously never got a massage from Alex. He squeezed and prodded and pushed my muscles like he was kneading dough. I half expected him to roll me into a ball and throw me into the oven. To say that it hurt would be an understatement. I hurt for three days. I don't know which was worse. The physical pain or the humiliation of sitting in my underwear on a bench in my own home getting a massage that I didn't want from my Russian neighbor. I was so relieved when he was done. It only took about fifteen or twenty minutes, but it seemed like hours. He folded up his bench and walked to the door. I didn't want to thank him, in case he thought that I liked it and would offer to come again. I didn't want to encourage him in any way.
Not long after, he and Tatiana and the kids moved to a different home. Frankly, I was happy about that. I try to be a good neighbor. I know how important it is. I wonder though how Mr. Rogers would have fared if Alex had moved next door to him.
Did you ever watch Mr. Roger's Neighborhood on television? Fred Rogers would come through the door singing the song -Won't you be my neighbor? As he hung up his jacket and donned a cardigan sweater and his tennis shoes. I never bothered to watch it myself, thinking it was strictly for kids. I watched a documentary about Fred Rogers though, and realized I missed a great opportunity. He was the real deal, the kind of man that you prayed would be your neighbor. I never had a neighbor like Mr. Rogers. I did, however, once have a neighbor that I suspected was either currently or formerly a KGB agent. I'll explain.
I lived over thirty years in the same house in Southeast Alaska. The house next door was owned by a family who lived elsewhere. They rented it to the school for use by various school personnel who passed through. The town I lived in was located on an island in a rain forest and one had to really want to live there to stay for more than a year or two. Over the years there were probably ten different families or individuals who moved in and then moved on. One of the more memorable families was a Russian man named Alexei and his wife Tatiana. They had several children and for the most part we got along fairly well, except for the time the youngest child stepped into my garden and proceeded to pick the daffodils that were blooming there. There was one other incident that tried the bond of neighbors too...
Tatiana worked at the school. I can't remember what job she held, maybe teacher's aide or library assistant. It doesn't really matter. Alexei or Alex as I called him, stayed home with the kids. He seemed somewhat out of place, being a stay- at-home dad. He was tall and well built with short blond hair cut in a military style, and could pass as a Russian spy from a movie. I wondered more than once if he wasn't somehow involved with the KGB, but there was nothing in Hoonah that would attract the Russians that I knew of, so I just shrugged off the thought, more or less.
One day Alex came knocking on the door asking to use some of my tools. He needed a circular saw and a drill and a few other things. I invited him in and got the tools for him and we had a conversation of sorts. His thick Russian accent was difficult to understand. He mentioned he was going to build a bench and would return the tools in a few days. I didn't think much of it and wished him good luck. I was fairly certain that he wouldn't be able to build a bomb or listening device using a Skill saw, so my only worry was what I would do if he didn't return the tools in a timely manner. I was no match for him if he got belligerant.
About a week later I responded to a knock on the door and saw Alex standing on the porch with my tools and a padded bench. He explained that he had used the tools to build the bench. I assumed he had brought the bench along because he wanted me to view his handiwork. I was wrong. I took the tools from him and he stepped inside with the bench.
"I give you massage," he said in his thick accent.
"Message?" I asked. "What message?" I felt like I was in a scene with Inspector Clouseau from the Pink Panther movies.
"No! Massage! Massage! I build bench with tools, give you massage!"
"A massage? No, that's OK, I don't want a massage. Thanks anyway," I replied, trying to sound friendly. I'd never had a massage before, and I certainly didn't want one from a man. In particular from this man. This big, strong Russian man whom I really didn't know from Adam. What kind of person insists on giving a guy a massage when he doesn't want one? I assumed I put the whole idea to bed. Again, I was wrong.
"No, I give you massage. You lend me tools, I give you massage. Take off shirt. Lay down on bench."
There was no fighting him. He was insistent that I get a massage, whether I wanted one or not. I took off my shirt and laid on the bench. Then he reached for my belt. What the hell! I didn't know what the plan was, but I wasn't liking this too much.
"Take off pants." he said. "For massage."
This was taking a turn for the bizarre. Was this normal? I got up and closed the curtains. If I was going to be humiliated I didn't want an audience. About that time Jan, my wife, went into the bedroom and closed the door. I could hear her in there snickering. I hoped that if I yelled for help she'd grab a gun and kill the guy, or at least put me out of my misery.
I took off my pants and laid them on the couch and got back on the bench. Alex proceeded to massage my body with his big, muscular, Russian man hands. I had always heard people rave about getting a massage. They obviously never got a massage from Alex. He squeezed and prodded and pushed my muscles like he was kneading dough. I half expected him to roll me into a ball and throw me into the oven. To say that it hurt would be an understatement. I hurt for three days. I don't know which was worse. The physical pain or the humiliation of sitting in my underwear on a bench in my own home getting a massage that I didn't want from my Russian neighbor. I was so relieved when he was done. It only took about fifteen or twenty minutes, but it seemed like hours. He folded up his bench and walked to the door. I didn't want to thank him, in case he thought that I liked it and would offer to come again. I didn't want to encourage him in any way.
Not long after, he and Tatiana and the kids moved to a different home. Frankly, I was happy about that. I try to be a good neighbor. I know how important it is. I wonder though how Mr. Rogers would have fared if Alex had moved next door to him.
I lived over thirty years in the same house in Southeast Alaska. The house next door was owned by a family who lived elsewhere. They rented it to the school for use by various school personnel who passed through. The town I lived in was located on an island in a rain forest and one had to really want to live there to stay for more than a year or two. Over the years there were probably ten different families or individuals who moved in and then moved on. One of the more memorable families was a Russian man named Alexei and his wife Tatiana. They had several children and for the most part we got along fairly well, except for the time the youngest child stepped into my garden and proceeded to pick the daffodils that were blooming there. There was one other incident that tried the bond of neighbors too...
Tatiana worked at the school. I can't remember what job she held, maybe teacher's aide or library assistant. It doesn't really matter. Alexei or Alex as I called him, stayed home with the kids. He seemed somewhat out of place, being a stay- at-home dad. He was tall and well built with short blond hair cut in a military style, and could pass as a Russian spy from a movie. I wondered more than once if he wasn't somehow involved with the KGB, but there was nothing in Hoonah that would attract the Russians that I knew of, so I just shrugged off the thought, more or less.
One day Alex came knocking on the door asking to use some of my tools. He needed a circular saw and a drill and a few other things. I invited him in and got the tools for him and we had a conversation of sorts. His thick Russian accent was difficult to understand. He mentioned he was going to build a bench and would return the tools in a few days. I didn't think much of it and wished him good luck. I was fairly certain that he wouldn't be able to build a bomb or listening device using a Skill saw, so my only worry was what I would do if he didn't return the tools in a timely manner. I was no match for him if he got belligerant.
About a week later I responded to a knock on the door and saw Alex standing on the porch with my tools and a padded bench. He explained that he had used the tools to build the bench. I assumed he had brought the bench along because he wanted me to view his handiwork. I was wrong. I took the tools from him and he stepped inside with the bench.
"I give you massage," he said in his thick accent.
"Message?" I asked. "What message?" I felt like I was in a scene with Inspector Clouseau from the Pink Panther movies.
"No! Massage! Massage! I build bench with tools, give you massage!"
"A massage? No, that's OK, I don't want a massage. Thanks anyway," I replied, trying to sound friendly. I'd never had a massage before, and I certainly didn't want one from a man. In particular from this man. This big, strong Russian man whom I really didn't know from Adam. What kind of person insists on giving a guy a massage when he doesn't want one? I assumed I put the whole idea to bed. Again, I was wrong.
"No, I give you massage. You lend me tools, I give you massage. Take off shirt. Lay down on bench."
There was no fighting him. He was insistent that I get a massage, whether I wanted one or not. I took off my shirt and laid on the bench. Then he reached for my belt. What the hell! I didn't know what the plan was, but I wasn't liking this too much.
"Take off pants." he said. "For massage."
This was taking a turn for the bizarre. Was this normal? I got up and closed the curtains. If I was going to be humiliated I didn't want an audience. About that time Jan, my wife, went into the bedroom and closed the door. I could hear her in there snickering. I hoped that if I yelled for help she'd grab a gun and kill the guy, or at least put me out of my misery.
I took off my pants and laid them on the couch and got back on the bench. Alex proceeded to massage my body with his big, muscular, Russian man hands. I had always heard people rave about getting a massage. They obviously never got a massage from Alex. He squeezed and prodded and pushed my muscles like he was kneading dough. I half expected him to roll me into a ball and throw me into the oven. To say that it hurt would be an understatement. I hurt for three days. I don't know which was worse. The physical pain or the humiliation of sitting in my underwear on a bench in my own home getting a massage that I didn't want from my Russian neighbor. I was so relieved when he was done. It only took about fifteen or twenty minutes, but it seemed like hours. He folded up his bench and walked to the door. I didn't want to thank him, in case he thought that I liked it and would offer to come again. I didn't want to encourage him in any way.
Not long after, he and Tatiana and the kids moved to a different home. Frankly, I was happy about that. I try to be a good neighbor. I know how important it is. I wonder though how Mr. Rogers would have fared if Alex had moved next door to him.
 Recognized |
There is a saying that good fences make good neighbors. I believe that to be true, but what happens when you don't have a fence and your neighbor and you don't see eye to eye?
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