Barter

Gregory accosted me as I hobbled back to the locker room: “You cursed me,” he said conversationally.

I’ve been accused of various forms of witchcraft but this was new. He indicated his left lumbar region. I protested that I had never sent the imps and elves to help me drum up business.

Gregory works out at more or less the same hours of the day I do. I have already squelched him a few times for swanning about advancing age. He’s a likable, well proportioned, fiftyish guy who is either so campily gay he catches the curtains on fire or has no idea how much he lisps.

“Right there?” I said, sticking my thumb in the middle layer of his quadratus lumborum muscle. A lively discussion ensued about deadlifts and the Roto-Tiller he had rented the previous weekend, and he went off with advice about ischemic pressure on trigger points and stretch protocols. Passing me as he exited from the gym, he thanked me again and said “I’m in the sock business. I’ll bring you a bag of free socks for all your help.”

I am really in the market for some fresh work T-shirts but he doesn’t handle that item. “Pajamas?” he asked.

I have no idea of my pajama size. I stuck with the socks.

I know Ron Paul had this idea about paying your doctor with for instance a couple of chickens but I didn’t know how widely it would catch on.

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