Spa me the details

I could smell happiness as I approached the entrance to the spa: whatever those oils are that they rub all over you during a massage. The scent was oozing out of the place and tickling its way into my nostrils. As I stepped into the lobby and the door to the outside world clicked closed behind me, I let it all go away: the crazy world of teaching in a high school, the bells, the teens flipping their hair, the cellphones, the computers that never work right. It was just me and the dim lights, the dreamy oils, the new-age music, and the lady behind the desk with the purposefully hypnotic voice. She whispered a welcome to me and escorted me to the waiting area, no, the meditation room, where the next person would come to get me and guide me to the place of the cushy bathrobes and then my treatment room.

And that's when Daddy Warbucks/Donald Trump came booming in -- a bald, athletic-looking, super-keyed-up dude who could definitely be #dominantcorporateboss. He was wearing a bathrobe and walked briskly into the darkened, blissfully quiet meditation room, sat down two seats away from me and bellowed: "Hello there, young lady!" He had to be talking to me because no one else was there. In the course of the unwanted conversation that followed, I found out that he was retired from the automotive industry (story garnished with highlights from the entire trajectory of his career), had just played basketball with a bunch of near-professional players half his age ("I'm older than hell," he said.), and that his girlfriend had given him a gift certificate for the massage he'd just had.

I also found out he was an alumnus of Arizona State University, where I had attended a workshop for journalism teachers a few summers back. I mentioned that ASU has a great journalism school.

"But they named it after that commie," he said, referring to Walter Cronkite. He then started explaining in detail why Walter Cronkite was a commie by giving me a full account of a specific battle during Vietnam: the strategy, the number of soldiers, casualties, weaponry, and how Cronkite had reported something false or incorrect about it.

"This is not a relaxing conversation," I finally said.

"Huh?" he said, followed by one last swig of the herbal tea he had been drinking. He clunked the cup down on the little table next to him, causing the fringe on the decorative cloth to jiggle.

"Well, gotta go!" he said. "Nice talking to you."