#Medical Benefit of Personal Massager: A Satire

Author’s Note: This is a satire about a certain medical condition. Some may find it offensive. As a retired physical therapist, I assure you what you are about to read is based on fact.

Mort ©

By

David Nelson

“Always in a hurry; everyone is always in a hurry these days,” Gertie complained as she adjusted the blue and white handicapped tag hanging from the mirror of the 2014 Cadillac Sedan Deville. She returned her right hand to steering wheel and looked over at Mort hunched down in the front passenger seat.

Mort removed his fedora cap, scratched his head and looked at Gertie. “Who’s Harry?”

“What? What are you talking about? Harry who?”

“You said something about everyone knows Harry. So who’s Harry?”

Gertie turned off the left turn signal that had been flashing since they drove on to I75 North fifteen minutes prior. “You deaf ole coot. I said everyone is in a hurry. Turn your head and let me if you have your hearing aids in today.”

Mort arched his back, pushed his tiny butt further back into the seat and straightened his yellow, wool sweater that was twisted against his back. He did as he was told and turned his head to the right to expose his left auricle. Sure enough, he was wearing his hearing aids. They didn’t seem to work as well as they did when he bought them two years ago at age seventy-eight.

Gertie nodded with approval and then turned up the volume as her favorite song started playing on the radio. It was New York, New York. Her eyes glanced into the rear-view mirror and she noticed a long string of cars behind her as a semi passed in the left lane. A light spray from the truck’s tires covered the windshield. She leaned forward and strained her neck as she fumbled to locate the wiper switch. Gertie wasn’t used to all the new car’s features. It had been two days since they bought the Cadillac. In the process of hunting for the wiper switch, she slowed from fifty to forty miles per hour. Eleven drivers behind her turned on their signals to change lanes.

Mort leaned sideways and picked at his top denture with his index finger. He squinted his eyes at the dashboard. His voice was louder than Frank Sinatra on the radio. “Where the heck is the temperature gauge on here? The guy said it would tell us the temperature inside and out.”

“You don’t have to yell so loud. I’m not deaf like you. It’s right there, those numbers in blue. It’s eighty-seven out side and seventy-four in here,” Gertie replied as she peered through the steering wheel at the road ahead.

“Well, I’m cold. How much further is this place, anyway? I can’t believe those ladies in your group at the synagogue told you about this. It does sound like fun though. I ‘ve heard about these places for years.”

“It’s the next exit, number 141. I want you to behave when we go in there. Do you understand,” she yelled while using both hands to steer the car onto the exit.

“What’d you say about being saved? That crap is for those Baptists.”

“Behave. Behave, that’s what I said. Not saved.”

“Oh I guess because I saw that huge cross up on the road I was thinking of being saved.”

Indeed what Mort saw was true. His eyes had not played a trick. Next door to their destination in Oneida, Tennessee was a stark white, fifty-three foot high cross that could be seen for miles in all directions.

Gertie put the car in park and turned off the engine. She opened the door and once more warned Mort to behave. He had just closed the car door, stood leaning against his adjustable, aluminum cane and looked up at the business sign. On the roof was a ten-foot by twenty-five-foot neon sign that read “Adult World.”

Mort bent his knees, leaned most all of weight on the cane, flexed his left arm at the elbow and proceeded to jiggle his butt left and right. “Let’s go have some fun Mama.”

“You damn old fool. You had better behave and not embarrass me in here. And don’t be yelling. Not everyone is half-deaf like you.”

The gravel in the parking lot crunched as each of them shuffled towards the front door. There was a buzzer that rang until Mort finally made it through the opened door and it closed behind him. The twenty or so patrons shopping in the six aisles all turned to see why the buzzer rang so long. Many squinted their eyes at the old couple. A few smiled and one guy actually laughed out loud.

“Hey, Sonny where do you keep the vibrators? I want one,” Gertie asked the bearded middle-aged man behind the counter.

The store manager looked up from his computer with a wide grin on his face. “You, you want a vibrator?”

“I sure do. Where are they? Oh shoot, where did Mort go,” she asked herself aloud.

The manager bit his lip and his beer-bellied stomach was bouncing. He wiped a tear from his left eye. “Over there against the far wall. That’s where you’ll find the vibrators. Is that old guy in the DVD section in aisle one your husband?”

Gertie didn’t thank the gentleman for directions. She was mad because he called Mort “old.” She was halfway to aisle one when the familiar voice bellowed so loud that everyone in the store heard him.

“Hey little Mama, how about this movie, Nine Different Sex Positions On a Motorcycle. Mort’s laughter was as loud as his speaking voice. He kept yelling out title names between guffaws. Gertie picked up her pace to reach him so she could drag him away from the videos.

The shoppers began moving toward the old couple like the fog running up a mountainside. One patron almost cantered from the end of the store seventy-five yards away. A lady dropped a sixteen-ounce plastic bottle of “Lady Lust” massage oil. She bent down to pick it up and noticed the written advertisement: “The more you rub, the hotter it gets.” She replaced the bottle and joined eleven other shoppers in aisle five who had gathered to glean a better vantage of the vibrators and the two octogenarians standing next to them.

Mort stood back a few feet so he could see the top row of dildos. The arthritis in his neck locked his head in place so that he could only look up about half the normal range of motion. He spread his feet for stability and used his cane to reach the top items. “Hey, Mama look at that pink one. It has little wiggly projections on it. The package calls them rabbit ears. What in the hell would you do with that?”

The store erupted in laughter. One guy knocked over a line of “D” size batteries on a shelf as he reached to steady himself from cracking up. There was a loud slap against the front counter. The manager had hit it with his palm and now was bent over laughing while grasping the counter’s edge.

Even Mort heard hurt the gaiety behind them. He turned with cane in hand and exposed both his top and lower dentures with his wide grin. “Oh hi, folks. How is everyone? My little bride and I are looking to spice up our sex life.”

“Mort! Shut up. You’re making a spectacle of yourself. Leave those nice young folks alone.”

Mort ignored his bride of fifty-five years and revealed another side of his personality. Just like at country club with his buddies, he now had an audience. He was in hog heaven for now he had strangers to entertain. He assumed the same posture as he did in the parking lot. He wiggled his little butt back and forth and yelled, “Yahoo! We are going to have some fun tonight. Hubba Hubba.”

Aisle six now had several people shaking Mort’s hand and laughing. Gertie ignored the shenanigans. She was busy reading the front and back of packages. Mort turned his head left and right to see if the coast was clear. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth several times to get everyone’s attention. “With me being eighty-years old, little Mama here says she never had it so soft.”

“Mort you’re disgusting. Now stop it. There are ladies here,” Gertie insisted while reading the package of a nine-inch “Hum-Dinger.”

“No Ma’am, it’s OK we like you folks,” one lady said.

Suddenly there was more tongue clicking from Mort. He did this between each story as if it signaled the end of one joke and the beginning of another. “I saved a lady from getting raped last week. I couldn’t catch her.”

Just like before, the store erupted in laughter. The manager turned the key, locked the cash register and came to aisle six. Two guys walked through the front door of “Adult World.” They heard everyone laughing and came to aisle six with big grins on their faces. They didn’t know what was so funny. They just knew the laughter was contagious.

Click, click, click. “So this lady’s dog has a hearing problem because of all the hair inside his ears. She goes the pharmacist and asks if he has hair removal. He tells her where to find it and adds some advice.”

He says, “If you use that on your legs, don’t wear any nylons for two days.”

“Oh no. It’s not for my legs,” she replied.

“Hmm,” replied the pharmacist. “Well, if you use it on your underarms, don’t use deodorant for three days.”

The lady says, “No it’s not for that either. It’s for my schnauzer.”

“Well in that case don’t ride your motorcycle for two weeks.”

The patrons went crazy with laughter. A couple guys removed their hankies to wipe their eyes. One used his fingers to wipe tears from his cheeks. People who didn’t even know each other slapped one another’s backs. Mort straightened his back, puffed out his chest and grinned at all the folks laughing.

Click, click,click.  “So this husband stands next to his wife who is on all 4’s cleaning the oven. She’s deep inside the opened door and scrubbing away. The fella tells his wife her rear end is getting as large as a six row John Deere corn picker. She rises up quickly and smacks her head on the top oven element. Her looks could kill and the husband felt awful. That night he wanted to make it up. They are in bed and he snuggled and wiggled up next to her. The wife says, “Hold it right there, Buster! Don’t think for a second that I’m starting up this million dollar piece of equipment for one tiny little ear of corn.””

Adult World rumbled and rattled with sounds of laughter. Mort could have charged a fee for his show and those folks probably would have paid it. But all good things come to an end. “Come on, Jack Benny,” Gertie said. “I have the one I want. Let’s go pay for it.”

Mort had difficulty making it to the counter, what with all the hand shaking and backslapping. He was heard to say aloud, “This is the best I have felt in years.”

The manager finished blowing his nose and unlocked the cash register. He scanned the vibrator and told Gertie it was $39.99. She fumbled in her pocketbook and presented a red, white and blue Medicare card along with her Tennessee Blue Cross Blue Shield card.

“Ma’am, what is this for? I take only credit cards or cash,” the puzzled manager said.

Gertie ignored him and searched through her purse. She then gave the owner a prescription from her doctor. On it was written, “One vibrator that is medically necessary.”

“I can’t use any of this. I can’t file insurance. What’s this all about?”

“Well, ya little whipper snapper, older ladies who are incontinent can benefit by using this. I’ll bet you didn’t know that, did you. It’s reported in medical studies. With these cards I shouldn’t have to pay a thing. It should be free.”

Then Mort chimed in. “Yeah, I used to call her my Little Poodle. Now I call her my Little Puddle.

The fella laughed again and shook his head. “OK, I’ll tell ya what. Because of Mort, I will give you this for free. Is that really true about it helping with incontinence?”

“Sure is. Check it out. Thanks for being so kind to us.”

Mort and Gertie shuffled toward the front door, their arms hooked to each other’s. When they left the store, the buzzer didn’t ring nearly as long as it did when they entered.

The manager pushed the last number on the telephone. On the other end, a woman answered, “Shady Rest Nursing Home.”

“May I speak with the administrator? I’d like to talk with him about some medical equipment I sell.”

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Hunt

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Hunt: The Hunt © The sudden spring shower earlier that evening was enough to get them moving. The grass felt damp on my hands and knees as ...

The Hunt

The Hunt ©

The sudden spring shower earlier that evening was enough to get them moving. The grass felt damp on my hands and knees as I crept along in total silence with my flashlight. Above me was my second grade classroom, and directly above that was my older brother, Richard’s fourth grade room. I was in the front lawn of one of the oldest elementary schools in Dubuque. Audubon was probably one of the oldest schools in all of Iowa.

In my seven brief years of life I had come to know each and every square foot of Audubon playground. In the dark that evening in 1957, I was learning every square inch of the front lawn. My heart raced with excitement but my eyes were focused on the moment. I felt every muscle tighten in my little body as I crawled on all fours. It was the first time I had been invited to go night crawler hunting with my brother, Richard.

I looked behind as if to seek approval from him each time I dropped a juicy, slimy, seven-inch worm into the once empty, three-pound Folger’s coffee can. I saw Richard’s light at the far end of the lawn by the flagpole near Johnson Street and imagined he was having as much success as I was with the hunt.

I poked and prodded at my half-filled can and knew my brother would be proud of me. He could once again set his wooden sign against the front of our house at 617 Lincoln Avenue that read “Night Crawlers 25¢ a dozen.” A few days earlier he had sold the last of his stash to a fisherman.

I felt the eerie quiet of the evening. And that was strange because Audubon was anything but quiet in the daytime. Hundreds of children from surrounding neighborhoods played at Audubon year round.  The playground was the place where I learned to play baseball. In winter we played basketball on the snow-covered ground that earlier in the year was center field.

Every summer, the Dubuque Recreation Department offered playground activities for children of all ages. We played foursquare, tetherball, horseshoes, and Ping-Pong. We had coloring contests, played word games and assembled puzzles. Relay races and individual sprints prepared us for the all-city track meet. Those meets were a great training start for me becoming the fastest sprinter in all of Dubuque County while in high school.

Suddenly, a night crawler slid across the back of my hand and brought me back to the night. I lifted it with my fingers and dropped it into my can. That evening was a special time and place for me. And still is.

David N. Nelson

The Shade Tree Choir - Song: I'm Not Alone

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Ice Skating in Dubuque, Iowa

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Ice Skating in Dubuque, Iowa: Nelson's Story Won in Dubuque Writers Guild Contest Traditions © By David Nelson The traditions we had a...

Ice Skating in Dubuque, Iowa

Nelson's Story Won in Dubuque Writers Guild Contest

Traditions ©

By

David Nelson

The traditions we had as kids have given us fond memories as adults. I like traditions, perhaps because there were lots of them when I was a boy. Of course, I didn’t realize I was creating memories each time I played a game or had fun with a sport. None of us did.

Growing up in the North End of Dubuque, Iowa during the 1950s and 60s, my favorite tradition in the winter was ice-skating. Each year the City flooded Comiskey Park with huge water hoses. The event was something hundreds of children anticipated. Some kids walked from miles away to play activities like Crack the Whip, Figure Eights and Tag. Some little children learned to skate with two blades on each skate and eventually graduated to one blade. Others learned to skate backwards or skate in circles large and small.

Those who walked to the rink often carried their skates across their shoulders with the laces tied together. Late at night on the walk home, the blades of the skates became weapons of protection from the Hoods looking to accost a girl or beat up a smaller boy.

Some kids walked in the snow banks from their houses wearing their skates, but I often skated the ice-covered streets to Comiskey venturing from one streetlight to another. All was well until I’d hit a dry spot and crash to the street like an ice cycle falling from a gutter on a house. It was all part of the fun.

Some kids snuck onto the rink after it was closed and skated passed house porch lights that lined the rink. When the rink was open, the music could be heard from blocks away. When it was closed, it wasn’t as much fun without that music.

I started skating at around age six and the music had no affect on me. It was just noise. I was more interested in throwing snowballs from my piled stash that I had strategically placed along Jackson Street. The passing bus was my target.  If caught peppering the bus, by the Skate Patrol, we might have been kicked off the rink for a week. Some guards might even have called the cops on us.  

The older I became, the more music impacted me. I’d stand at one end of the rink where the snow bank was three feet high in places. My modus operandi was like other boys I suppose. I watched for girls slowing down to make the turn by the barrels that acted as markers for skaters to turn and head the opposite direction. When one girl in particular caught my eye, it was fun to speed down the rink, catch up with her and take her mitten-covered hand in mine and begin skating. Most girls I knew, some I did not. And that didn’t matter to me. We skated to the songs like Barbara Ann, Return to Sender, and Donna.  I was ten years old when I began holding

the hands of girl skaters passing by. For some strange reason none of them ever refused to take my hand. Do you see now why I like traditions?

The colored pom-poms on the toes of the girls’ white skates snagged my attention. The yarn-like material blew in the breeze of the fast moving skaters and was too much temptation for a little boy, especially if the pom-poms were two different colors. I always suspected that girls who wore those were a little wild and probably more fun to know than the girls with plain pom-poms.

The boys wore two different kinds of skates. There were figure skates that were always black in color. Then there were hockey skates. I always wore figure skates. I could dig the serrated tips into the ice and sprint on my toes for twenty-five yards before my skating actually began. I was a fast runner and even a faster skater on the ice using this technique. I practiced my speed skating over and over in order to catch up with the girls.

The sub-zero temperatures drove me and all other skaters to seek warmth in the Clubhouse at least once or twice each day or night. Oh, the Clubhouse. No matter the age, everyone had to hold on for dear life to negotiate the sloped ramp that entered the “IN” and the “OUT” doors. The rickety, wooden rails were of little help in preventing some kids from falling. The rotted plywood base with gaping holes forced both kids and adults to walk with extreme caution. I made certain I never fell while going up or down the ramp. That would have been a disaster for a boy who tried to impress some young girl wearing colorful pom-poms, or an older, high school girl wearing stretch pants.

Pulling open the heavy wooden doors, the first impression was the smell. The warm stink blew into my face each time I entered. I grew up blocks away from the largest independent meat packing plant in America and was used to obnoxious odors. But, the piercing, pungent, putrefied air of the Clubhouse was almost too much to bear.

To me, it was a combination of urine, wet wood and sweat. It stung my nose to go into the Clubhouse. Some friends said the smell was like a barn or a locker room. The snow that covered the mittens and socks quickly melted, and as a result, the wooden floor was always soaked. That wet wood probably created much of the stink. Or, maybe it was the bathrooms at the end of the building.

Children who walked to Comsikey, and carried their skates, stored their street shoes inside the Clubhouse. There was a teen-aged Recreation Department employee who stood behind a closed half-door with an attached countertop. His job was to guard the large closet housing the shoes that were stored on shelves in metal baskets. He exchanged round, metal, numbered tokens for the individual street shoes from those same baskets. At the end of the night the exchange was made and everyone’s shoes were returned. At least most of the time.

Flat wooden benches lined the walls of the dilapidated building and more benches were placed in the center of the room. The benches were used for changing shoes or for simply resting.

 The slotted floor made walking an event that required strict attention. One misstep and a kid could easily sprain an ankle or take a tumble. The wood was soft and the sharpened sides of figure skates shaved slivers from the wood.   

Those childhood memories from Comiskey skating rink in Dubuque, Iowa, flood my senses when I find the rare opportunity to skate now as an old man. I no longer chase after white skates decorated with those colored pom-poms and filled with the delicate ankles of youth. However, I still hold the mitten-covered hand of a female. It belongs to my wife. She helps me keep my balance. After all, I sure don’t want to fall. While she would still love me, she would not be impressed.

Shade Tree Choir Song