Fleeced
Strapped for cash in Coolangatta.
One day, when I’m old and gray and my grandchildren ask for a story, I’ll tell them about the time I was fleeced at Coolangatta Beach by a pseudo-doctor with a calm demeanor and a shady promise of relief.
The whole ordeal started innocently enough, with a stiff neck and tight back. The weeks and months of pain plus the fruitless attempts to release the tension through self-massage, stretching, pulling, wincing, and twisting, lead me to try some non-conventional remedies.
Acupuncture will surely fix it, I thought. Those little needles will splinter the angry muscles and tendons, opening them up like clam shells.
So there I was, sitting shirtless and vulnerable in the quiet of the Asian massage parlor that masqueraded as a doctor’s studio. Rainforest sounds filled the tiled and janky room.
The doctor—a tall, quietly spoken man with large-rimmed glasses—asked me no questions before he pricked me in the back and all up the neck with needles. Then he left me in a shabby cubicle behind a privacy curtain that didn’t fully close. As I felt the dull ache of pressure simmer through my muscles, I locked eyes with another customer in the hallway and we both squirmed in the awkwardness of the moment.
30 minutes later the timer expired on the small digital watch and again I was asked no questions or given no assessment. He wiped me clean with rubbing alcohol before gesturing for me to dress and meet at the front counter.
At the counter, he plopped an old plastic bag filled with foul and foreign-smelling herbs in front of me.
“Herbal tea,” he said to me. “Drink twice a day for two weeks. Fix neck.”
He did some back-of-the-hand math before telling me the price. “80 dollars,” he said, holding eight fingers in the air. “Eighty dollars per week. Two weeks. 160 dollars, plus acupuncture.” He used a pencil to write up the total in a notepad, like documenting it on paper made the calculations more scientific and somehow justified.
I fingered through my colorful Australian cash, little of which would remain after I walked out. Unwilling to cause a scene, unwilling to haggle and fight at the injustice of what was transpiring, I wilted in the moment and would forever live with regret.
When I’m old and gray and my grandchildren ask for a story, I’ll tell them about this. I’ll plop them on my knee and they’ll sit and listen and surely be enthralled (aren’t you?). And as I relive the experience, telling them of the events that transpired and the howling wind that was blowing that day, there’ll be a moment when I look up to the sky, raise my arms, and pause for effect.
And as I do, I’m sure I’ll feel the familiar twinge in my still-rigid neck.
Ooooh - That burns!! (Could also substitute fancy hairdresser or day spa for the fleecing hahah)
but how much was the total???