Love in the Third Age

‘Aaargh!’ Bruce failed miserably at being brave as Ana Komorowski, his long-suffering osteopath, kneaded and pummelled him like a piece of lumpy dough. ‘Go easy Ana, I might have slipped a disc.’ ‘Disc be buggered! You’re about as firm as a jelly in a heatwave. I’ve told you too many times, the problem with your back is your front. Until you get into some sort of shape that doesn’t resemble a balloon half-full of water, you’ll be keeping me in luxury for the rest of my life.’ Bruce listened but didn’t hear. He was more than grateful that she had squeezed him in before the interview. He was prepared to suffer anything to relieve his pain. He knew better than to disagree with Ana. She had his future in her very firm hands. Ana stopped manipulating, picked up the towel covering Bruce’s legs and his modesty, and dried her hands. Those hands, the tools of her trade, were strong. He had always remarked that, for a woman, she had hands like a man. It comforted him because all his painful, muscle- and back-spasmed life, he had only been to male osteopaths. Ana was his first female and surprise, surprise, she didn’t disappoint. Her hands were connected to muscular arms that were joined to broad, round shoulders that mounted a stocky frame. She was well into her fifties, sturdy but still feminine, with a pretty face that was always warm and welcoming, if not sometimes a little stern when Bruce’s waistline and general fitness were the subjects of the conversation. As she dried off the last of the massage oil, Bruce heard the vibration of his mobile going off in the pocket of his pants. Someone in the world needed him at this moment. At this moment he couldn’t have cared less. ‘Do you think I can manage the interview I’ve got today?’ ‘After I’ve done the adjustments you’ll feel a lot better. You can go if you have to. Please breathe in and relax.’ He did what he was told as she brought all her weight down through her hands onto his mid-thoracic area and there was a loud crack like a dog munching a bone. ‘Aaaaargh!’ Bruce groaned, not holding anything back. ‘Sorry about that, Bruce, it had to be done. Please roll onto your right side.’ Then Ana twisted his none-too-flexible body into a series of contortions that always bamboozled him and gave him a further series of bone-crunching adjustments that had him chorusing with pain for the next five minutes. While not altogether successful from Ana’s point of view, the adjustments had Bruce feeling a lot better. Miraculously, he could feel that the pain was now more manageable. He could move with a great deal more freedom. He was able to slip off the massage table and put on his business shirt and suit pants without too much protest from his lower reaches. He was now confident he could make the interview. What a relief! he thought as he took out his debit card to pay the bill. ‘You’re a miracle worker, Ana. I really appreciate you squeezing me in like this.’ ‘Make my day by doing something about that beer gut, and I’ll believe in miracles too.’ ‘You never know.’ ‘You’ll never ever know if you never ever try, Bruce. After the interview, go home and rest. The back will take a couple of days to repair. Maybe even a week. Here, take some Tiger Balm and rub it in at any time to keep your lower back warm. Have plenty of hot baths and showers. Now, you’ll need at least two more appointments.’ *** Driving through drizzling rain to the interview at the Fleurieu Council at Aldinga, the main town of the Willunga Basin, Bruce started to relax. An uncontrollable feeling of elation came over him. Half an hour ago he had been flat on his back contemplating the end of the world. Now he had considerably more freedom of movement and mind. Ana’s massage and expert adjustments, the scented oils and that amazing Tiger Balm warming his lower back, were all having a magical, soothing effect. Even the vibration of his mobile phone near his crutch felt more pleasurable than usual. He snapped out of his euphoria and tried to dig out the phone but was too late, as always, to catch the call. Why don’t these bloody things ring until you answer them? he asked himself. Because the phone companies would only make half as much money. He pulled over to the kerb, adjusted the mobile sound setting to normal and waited for the text message. Bruce’s heart skipped a beat as he read the text. Oh, oh, what the hell does she want? It was from Angela Stinger, his ex-girlfriend. Angela: Call me arsehole. 14/09/2014, 10.04 AM Why does she want me to call her an arsehole? He sniggered, taking guilty pleasure at Angela’s expense. A moment later he was in a rage. How dare she talk to me like that! That manipulating, unfaithful sliver of selfishness. She’s trying to white-ant my job prospects. I’m glad I broke it off. She can take a flying shag at the moon for all I care. He deleted her message with all the venom he could muster. He pulled out from the kerb and was back on his merry way to what he hoped would be his date with destiny – the interview for the job of Manager of the Fleurieu Peninsula Regional Cultural Centre of Excellence. He was well prepared. He’d done his research. The day before he had googled the Regional Arts website. He knew the Cultural Centre of Excellence project had Ministerial support that separated it from any run-of-the-mill funding stream. They had a cool million bucks to throw around the Fleurieu arts communities for the coming year. The more he had delved into the project, the more he loved the sound of it and the more he could see that he was the one for the job. He pulled into the council grounds, parked the car and checked his mobile. Great, I’ve still got fifteen minutes to relax and centre myself. At that moment his mobile went off to the sound of a recording his son, Eli, had made for him: ‘Dad! Pick up the phone!’ repeated in increasingly louder ring tones. He grabbed the phone in a panic, saw from the screen that it was Angela again and let it ring out. Bugger her! I’m not going to let her ruin my hard-won good mood. So he turned the power off on his phone, focused on the raindrops on the windscreen and began to visualise how he would successfully manage the Fleurieu Cultural Centre of Excellence.