We never know to what, where, or whom an event will lead us.
Shiatsu is a relatively modern Japanese form of massage therapy derived from ancient Chinese principles. It’s practiced through loose clothing. Its system follows the same meridians as acupuncture, but instead of needles, fingers press, and often deeply. Its intention is to unblock energy flow, release knotted musculature, stretch and loosen connective tissue, and create a harmonic relationship between internal organs. The practitioner may also stretch the body as he moves and breathes with his client. Jonah said he liked to work with me because it grounded him. He considered what we did a form of dance.
Jonah’s apartment was on West 45th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues across from the Hirschfield Theater. My sessions there allowed me a personal foothold in what was not long ago called Hell’s Kitchen. He’d taken the apartment in the late 70’s and held onto it ever since. It was one of those old New York apartments where you felt the presence of generations who’d lived there before you. The paint on the windowsills was layered so thickly the windows didn’t close right, and there you could see the different colors the apartment had been painted through the years cracking in spiderwebbed patterns. The bathroom door I shut when I changed into my sweatpants and t-shirt didn’t close completely either because of the paint. Inside, a metal chain hung from the lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling as an on/off switch. The heavy, rounded porcelain sink and toilet came from eras back, and the bathtub sat off the floor on brass feet. Like many New Yorkers, Jonah kept the unscreened window cracked open in winter and summer, and through it came yells and sometimes the sound of bottles breaking from the homeless shelter across the alley. I would peer out, breathe the air drifting in as I watched the bodies shift through windows across the way, listen to them talk and laugh and argue, and think this is a real New York apartment.
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The only time our relationship faltered was in 2004 after Bush won the election. My body was tied in knots at the loss, and I dragged it to Jonah so he could disentangle it as he always did. From the beginning of our session I could talk of nothing else. Finally I lay on the mat and he did his thing. Usually I would leave a few minutes after a session, but afterward we began talking again. He looked directly in my eyes and calmly, but clearly and with anger, pain, and no small amount of alarm described how the extreme right wing had used fear and hatred of gays to whip up the electorate against the Democrats. And he’d thought it wouldn’t work, but it did. Jonah had moved to New York from Canada and become a U.S. citizen because he’d believed in this country. He’d wanted to be part of it. And now he wondered why. Why had he become an American? There seemed a trace of accusation in his voice.
It was palpable how exiled he felt. Even though my party had lost I was still part of the straight world, while he belonged to the “disease” the extreme right so publicly wished to excise. Also I was native born. He was seeing me for the first time as “other,” as “different.” Or at least I thought he was, so of course he began to look “other” to me. Didn’t he know I felt cast out too?
I could’ve told him he and I were on the same list, that if they got him they’d get around to me. I could’ve quoted the line, “First they came for the Communists…” But I hadn’t any words, and any words would’ve come up short. I stood, ready to leave, and gestured toward the mat. I said, “Well clearly I don’t have a problem with it.” He looked up at me, not responding, taking in my gesture. He turned to the mat; that bed, of sorts. I think it was at that moment he considered what a great distance a straight boy from Grand Prairie, Texas, might travel to come to a point where he could lie beneath him and trust him implicitly with his body. What happened on that mat, as well as my feelings for him, were hardly casual.
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The last time I saw him was shortly after Katrina ravaged New Orleans. I’d decided to fly down to witness the disaster and spend some money, as that city so badly needed it. Jonah was about to return to Germany to be with his partner and do his clown therapy in one of their hospitals. As I got to my feet I told him I was going down that weekend to New Orleans to put flowers on Marie Laveau’s grave. I felt a need to mourn, to ask forgiveness, to bring an offering, and I knew of no better place than the grave of the voodoo queen of New Orleans. I saw Jonah’s eyes widen in recognition at the name.
He’d recently stitched and restitched me back together as I went through a lengthy and particularly devastating breakup with a woman. Tears had run down my face as he’d worked on me, and he’d extended the sessions until he was satisfied I’d recovered enough to face the subway. During that time he showed me a picture of his partner, Michael, who was younger than him and stunningly beautiful. At the time I thought, Way to go, Jonah!
As wonderful as New York can be, you don’t last there without help. I felt lucky to call him my friend. I don’t know why but as I stood at his door that night ready to leave I had a subtle but unwavering feeling I might never see him again. An unlikely phrase popped into my head: “Don’t ever die.” But that is a horrible curse to lay on someone, so I substituted, “Don’t ever retire.”
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A few months later when it seemed time for him to be back I was overcome with concern. It was irrational, I knew, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. I began to wonder how I would find out if he were to die. Would I wander by his apartment and see if his name had been taken off his mailbox? It dawned on me we shared no friends, no family who could inform me. I experienced a sense of vertigo. To calm myself I decided to send him an email casually asking how he was doing. He responded within a day telling me he’d developed a health issue and was being treated in Germany. Oddly, this made me feel relieved. I’d reestablished contact and my intuition had not been entirely off. He said he had a tumor in his pancreas but was doing well; he just hated the nausea from the chemo. He said he’d be back, recovered in New York.
I happily took him at his word. After all, he was the health professional and should know. Still, something pressed me in my response to tell him I’d been planning, should I ever run across him on the street in Times Square, to introduce him to my friends only as “my shiatsu angel.” Years earlier when I’d told him I always staked out a spot at Spring Street to witness the annual Halloween parade, he’d informed me he would be participating as “Johnny Angel.” Bright eyed and excited, he’d asked me to look for him, and I did, but he was lost in the myriad bodies and costumes.
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In his next email he said he was making progress and he and his partner would be flying to New York soon. He was planning on teaching classes that fall. Again, about the time I expected him back my anxiety over his health, along with my fear of his disappearing swarmed me. I decided to call his apartment, carefully removing any note of concern from my voice, and left a message saying I was wondering if he was back and how he was doing and to give me a call. I left my number.
When I listened to the phone message from his partner, Michael, the following day saying Jonah had passed, I was only surprised by the degree I’d been expecting it. Michael’s voice was clear and measured, with just a trace of an accent. I called Jonah’s number and Michael picked up. I told him I was sorry for his loss. He said Jonah had been improving and they actually thought he was going to recover. But after they came back he suddenly took a turn, and within a couple of weeks was gone. Before he died Jonah had told him to let me know. There was going to be a memorial service at Circle in the Square the next night in the downstairs theater where The Spelling Bee was then running.
“Touch” was originally published in The Pinch, Spring 2012, and reprinted in The Pushcart Prize XXXVIII
—Photo Monja/Flickr
