I don’t tell client stories as a rule, but I can’ t get the music out of my head.
He lifts in my gym — one of the few clients I ever ambulance-chased, overhearing some complaints about a cranky shoulder — but lately the muscles that need work are all involved with his guitar playing, a passion which overcame him at the half-century mark and can devour four or five hours of time in an ecstasy of Flow. I try not to tell him how much I envy him (two decades of bodywork have murdered whatever agility I ever had at the frets and keys), even though his style of music is, so far as I gather, the kind that people play in clubs and restaurants, probably nothing that I could stand for more than a half-hour without a breath of fresh air.
“I just start and I can go on and on,” he said. “It’s what makes sense when nothing else does. It fixes all the other crap.”
I had his adductor pollicis about half released but stopped what I was doing and sang the first two lines of this. Felicity Lott does it better.
I don’t know whether I choked up on the third line or just realized how goofy it was to be serenading someone in a vague haze of arnica and sunflower oil.
“My father used to play that record,” he said.
I think we were both about to cry.
I got the knot out of his thumb somehow.