Physical Therapy

PHYSICAL THERAPY

Z. A. Maxfield

www.loose-id.com

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Physical Therapy

Z. A. Maxfield

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author"s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by

Loose Id LLC

870 Market St, Suite 1201

San Francisco CA 94102-2907

www.loose-id.com

Copyright © May 2009 by Z. A. Maxfield

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

ISBN 978-1-59632-933-1

Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Barbara Marshall

Cover Artist: Anne Cain

Dedication

For my mom, whose journey into homeopathy, massage, and acupressure made me the
weirdest kid on the block for all the right reasons. YOU ROCK.

1/5/1925-4/28/2009

Chapter One

The windshield wipers on my old Honda slapped in time to the music on the radio, such an eerie coincidence that I changed radio stations, going to one after another, finally settling on a jazz radio station playing a soft blues piece. As the droplets merged, they formed rivulets, gathered together, and ran in slashes down the glass beneath the inadequate light. Slowing to a crawl alongside the black skeleton of a wooden pier, I stopped the car and got out, hardly aware that the rain came down and lashed at my clothing.

The pier was long, dark, and deserted. Its pilings groaned against the rushing water as it flowed and swirled around them. It seemed to me the pier was standing uncertainly, like a dog watching in horror as water sucks and pulls at the sand beneath its paws when a wave recedes. I often froze and felt my own feet being sucked out from under me these days.

For the first time in almost a year, my hands itched for a cigarette; I could almost feel it there between my fingers, like a phantom limb. I started off walking, the battered structure drawing me closer by the sheer enormity of its desolation.

From where I stood by the pier, I could see the waterfront businesses in tiny Santo Ignacio. The lights were out now, at this hour of the morning. I"d made my decision to come to Santo Ignacio late that afternoon, impulsively thrown everything I owned into a few boxes and bags, said good-bye to my roommate, and driven off. I"d always known I"d end up here. I just never knew when I"d finally decide it was time to come.

I had arrived at almost eleven p.m. and checked into my dreary motel room, falling onto the bed and into a deep sleep almost immediately. I"d slept for a little over two hours but then woke up fully refreshed, eager to get a look at this tiny seaside town.

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Z. A. Maxfield

Now, at close to three in the morning, I was the only living thing stirring for miles.

I crunched across the sand in hiking boots, just a little way, until I could make out the unlit sign for Nacho"s Bar, where my friend Cooper worked. It gave me a sense of satisfaction to see it, not that I"d return during the day when it was inhabited. I just… It felt good knowing the place that Cooper had told me about was there. I was glad to know it really existed. That I"d found it.

My cell phone burned in my pocket. I wouldn"t call Cooper, because Cooper was happy and healthy. Cooper had moved on with his life and his new lover, Shawn. It wouldn"t be easy to tell Cooper I was here in town, because there was so much about me that he wouldn"t understand.

First and most important, that I wasn"t here to get Cooper back. I would hardly be able to convince Cooper of that fact, though, and didn"t care to try. I hadn"t left a trail of truth in my wake at the best of times, and Cooper had seen me at my worst. When Cooper found out I was in Santo Ignacio, he would believe I was here for him. That I wasn"t over him, that I was still blaming him for the accident in our past, that I wasn"t better at all. That I hadn"t thrown the switch on my life that would make it possible for me to move beyond him.

But I
had
done just that.

Proving that I"d changed would require a tincture of time and patience. I"d come to Santo Ignacio in the hopes of finding what Cooper had found here—not love, although Cooper had surely found that. For me it felt as though love was too much to ask. I"d been given my share and expected that was as much as I would ever be allotted.

Maybe I wanted to find peace. Maybe I had come to Santo Ignacio to put down roots in a place where I knew I had friends. Maybe I finally wanted to give something away instead of taking it.

I turned away from Nacho"s Bar and left my cell phone in my pocket. Santo Ignacio was a very small town. Sooner or later, Cooper would find out that I was in it.

Maybe it would be far enough into the future that he wouldn"t see me as a threat.
Maybe
not.

Folding myself into the front seat of my Civic, I gave a last cursory look around.

Clouds moved quickly past a wet-looking three-quarter moon. Rain was still falling down, spattering the car and dripping into my hair as I pulled the door shut. Just the little walk I"d taken down the strand had me soaked to the skin.

I returned to the hotel and peeled off layer after layer of wet clothing. It hadn"t been a waste of time to go out and look around. St. Nacho"s existed very much as Cooper had described it.

I felt the faint stirrings of hope for the first time in years.

* * * * *

The next day I took my own unofficial St. Nacho"s tour on foot, walking down the small streets at six a.m. with a large cup of coffee in my hand. The rain was letting up, Physical Therapy

3

but everything was damp and soggy, awnings still dripped, and tires squelched as the occasional car drove by. Everything was still pretty quiet so early in St. Nacho"s, even on a workday, I guessed. There was virtually no traffic yet, and only the coffeehouse was open. It didn"t seem possible, but St. Nacho"s appeared even smaller than River Falls, Wisconsin, where Cooper and I grew up.

This could be both a blessing and a curse. On the whole, I liked small-town life, but once a man messed up in a place where everyone knew who he was and what his mama cooked for dinner the night before, he could never go home again. I had already learned that lesson the hardest way a man can and I"d very nearly let it destroy me. It had taken Cooper and his fathomless friendship to keep me from throwing what was left of my life in the toilet with both hands.

I found the building I was looking for, a shabby brick industrial-looking rectangle, sprawling impressively over almost an entire block. Such as it was. A small-town block, anyway, and part of it was taken up with parking spaces. It certainly didn"t look like a gym. The double doors were closed and locked still, but any minute now they should be opening.

The marquee-inspired sign that stretched across the sky above the glass doors in the front of the building said it all. DAY-USE EX MACHINA, FITNESS SOLUTIONS.

OPEN EVERY DAY 6:00 A.M. TO WHENEVER? The lettering on the door read, IMPROBABLY THE BEST.

Yeah. There it was, I thought. St. Nacho"s. Cooper could not make this shit up. I hid a smile and cupped my hand against my eyes to peer through the glass. I thought I saw movement inside from the way the light was flickering. Maybe the shadow of someone moving around. I knocked three times on the glass, trying to make it the kind of knock that sort of grins and says,
Hey, I’m a friendly guy, just came by looking for a job.

A woman who I guessed was in her midfifties peered around the door behind the reception desk. She was carrying a squirt bottle and a rag, and when she saw me she grinned and came forward. She opened the door and greeted me warmly.

“Is it six already?” she asked, craning her neck around to look at a clock on the wall. “Ah. Almost.”

“I"m sorry,” I said, now that I"d gotten her to open the door early. “I saw you moving around and—”

“Never let it be said that I don"t welcome someone who is enthusiastic enough to get here before I even open in the morning.” She gestured with her spray bottle. “I"m often here in the early-morning hours. If I don"t keep after the men"s locker room every day, it starts to smell like ass crack in there. Men are really so different from women.” She sighed.

It took me a moment to realize she was waiting for me to say something. “Um, yes they are,” I said. It was hard not to stare. From a distance, the woman I was looking at hadn"t seemed… Well, she"d seemed quite tall, certainly. But the woman who currently stood before me was two inches taller than my six-foot frame. She had the muscles of a 4

Z. A. Maxfield

bodybuilder and an unnaturally dark tan. I"d never seen anyone quite so…
robust
up close.

“So, you here in town for a while? Or do you just want a day pass?” she asked, going behind a counter and turning on a large, aging computer. “Or would you like to see the facility before you make any kind of commitment?”

“I"m looking for work,” I said. “I came about the ad. On the Internet.”

“Really?” She looked at me owlishly, which made me think her eyesight wasn"t very good.

“Yes,” I began, kind of flustered under her gaze. But it wasn"t like I hadn"t practiced my speech for a week. “I"m a college graduate, I have a massage therapy certification in thirty-two of these United States and the District of Columbia, and I"ve spent the last year in San Francisco earning a certificate as a massage therapist and personal trainer in California. I specialize in athletic rehabilitation. I have no objection to any kind of work, though. Cleaning, bookwork. I was thinking about moving to St.

Nacho"s. I Googled it and saw your ad.” I spread out my arms. “Here I am.” She nodded, and I felt I ought to go ahead.