Massage School Continues
For the next few weeks our lives were filled with endless lectures and unanswered questions. It was miserable, boring and nothing like I thought massage school would be like. Other students started missing a lot of class and the instructor would insult their attentiveness and intelligence in their absence.
Jarnell typically arrived before me, and we always got there before the instructor. We often spent time chatting but mostly we spent it studying or finishing up homework. One day I noticed a backpack on one of the tables. “Jarnell is that yours?” I asked him, his head was buried in a textbook.
“No, it was there when I got here.”
“Maybe it was left by one of the day students.” I said to myself and sat down.
Mr. Lounds arrived about ten minutes before class. He sat down and looked at us. “How many of the girls do you think will show up today?”
I chose to ignore him.
“Not a clue.” Jarnell replied.
“Call me Jeremy.” Mr. Lounds gave Jarnell a warm smile.
“What about you Shawn, what do you think?”
I looked up from my book. “Its not my business.”
“Of course its your business. When they don’t show up it hurts the class, it hurts everyone.” He shook his head.
“I’m not really sure how it affects me.”
“That’s because you don’t care about anything other than yourself.” His words didn’t antagonize me enough to get involved in his conversation. “It is their loss; I can’t make them come to class. They are the ones missing out.” He looked at the clock and stood. “I guess it is time to lock up.” He walked to the classroom door, but as he touched it a student tried to enter.
“You’re late!” He said firmly.
“I’m here, I’ve been here.” She replied.
“No you weren’t.”
“I have been here all day, I had to use the restroom!” She yelled.
“No you weren’t.” He said trying to push the door closed, but she was already half inside.
“My stuff is in the room.”
“It’s too late.”
“This is bullshit!”
“Its bullshit that you are not in class on time!” He yelled back.
“What do you want me to do? I had to use the bathroom!” Tears streamed down her face.
He looked inside the classroom and saw her backpack. “Fine.” He stepped aside and let her into the classroom.
The Weirdness Continues
Sometime later, a student vocalized she didn’t feel well and requested if she could refrain from hands-on massage. Mr. Lounds asked her if she felt nauseous, she nodded and said she might throw up.
“Are you pregnant? You know you have to tell me if you are pregnant, right?”
She froze, looked away, and began to cry.
He pressed again, demanding more information, this time louder as he rose from his desk.
“I just don’t feel well.” She was a quiet student who rarely pressed for anything.
“If you are pregnant you have to tell me. Tell me if you are pregnant!” As he stepped around the desk she became frightened and frantically ran from the room.
What just happened? I thought to myself. I looked at him, he was shaking his head.
“If you get pregnant you guys have to tell me. This is something I need to know.” He said as he walked toward the white board to start his lecture.
The next day she was absent from class. I was studying on break when I heard him sigh. I looked up and he started speaking. “You know why the girls aren’t in class don’t you? It is because they are on their period. Female students don’t like to come to class when they are on their period.”
I didn’t know what to say. I thought his statement was weird and crude. How in the world could he possibly know this? Even more so, why was he even saying it? I pretty much ignored him and went back to studying.
Income Exaggerations
When the other students came back into the classroom he stood and walked to the front of the room. We were in the business section of the book. He drew on the white board and explained how much money a massage therapist could make. He created a detailed presentation illustrating an impossible fantasy. He told us we should expect to make over $100,000 in our first year of practice.
I laughed to myself as he lectured.
“If you work 40 hours a week and charge $70 per massage you will make $2800 a week. Extrapolate that over 52 weeks and check out how much money you will make as a massage therapist!” He said as he wrote $145,600 in big bold letters on the board.
I raised my hand and he called on me. “I don’t think that is realistic.”
He glared at me.
“You are expecting the massage therapist to get paid the amount the spa is charging for the service. That just isn’t realistic. How is the spa making any money?”
His pale face flushed with anger. “What do you know? Have you ever been a massage therapist?”
“No, but..” He cut me off as I was speaking.
“You don’t know, you don’t know anything. You are the student, and I am the instructor. Keep your mouth shut and listen. Sometimes you can be a real asshole, I don’t think you know how rude and arrogant you are.”
“What?” I was confused. What was happening, why was he so angry?
“I am the teacher here Shawn. Let me teach the class. You think you are the smartest person in the world. You are not nearly as smart as you think you are. I think the rest of the class would agree.”
I did as I was told and stopped talking.
At the end of the hour he told us to go on break and he left the room. Most of the students remained at their desks, so I stood up and asked them if they wanted to see how much money they could actually expect to make. They were very interested.
I reexplained the breakdown of pay structure from employer to employee. My explanation revealed their income potential was a far cry from what the lecture suggested. I could tell they were sorely disappointed. When the instructor returned he saw my diagram on the board and was furious. “Shawn, stay after class I want to speak with you.”
After class I met with him, and he insulted me for calling him out in class. I was stunned, but not surprised. He went on to say that he knew his numbers were incorrect, but the reason he embellished was because the other students were undereducated and unintelligent people. They needed this kind of inspiration to encourage them to finish the program.
His words were appalling, and I wondered how he fell into his position.
“OK… can I go?” I wanted to get away from this guy, it was like he only knew how to say the worst things possible.
“Yeah.” He motioned toward the door. I picked up my backpack and started walking away when he called my name again, so I turned toward him.
“Don’t you ever question me again.” He spoke sternly with intense eye contact.
“OK.” I said and left.
