The March Issue

While in Tokyo in February of 2008 I had the esteemed pleasure of bathing amongst old naked Japanese men in the onsens (public bath houses). Confused by their intricate methods of bathing and the proper bath etiquette and technique I emerged unsuccessfully in my eastern study of the male genitalia (see the blog post “The February Issue” http://observationsofasixbillionth.blogspot.com/2008/02/february-issue.html). Now one year later I opted to venture to Hot Springs, Arkansas, and was excited for the less communal and more American method of bathing that I had read about, where each individual is treated to his own private bath. This would be much more pleasant. My modesty and self-consciousness were not going to hinder my experience.

Recalling what I learned in the town’s museum and from the locals in the bar, I will give you a brief history of this unique place. Underneath a strip of land in the Ouachita mountains, smack in the middle of Arkansas, there is a spring that runs as deep into the ground as 5,000 feet. At that approaching hell level, the earth and rocks are very hot and heat up the waters. Due to some weird configuration of rocks and pressure that you have to be a geologist to understand, the water here is forced back up to the surface and forms pools that are 146 deg. F. After the Louisiana Purchase, Thomas Jefferson sent scouts into these lands so that we Americans could do what we did best—steal it from the natives. By the late nineteenth century the town became a last desperate refuge for the sick, a rich man’s get away, and a mecca for illegal gambling. However, by the mid 20th century a conservative mayor cracked down on all the gangsters and modern medicine emerged as more reputable than hot water. The city was able to transcend the loss of tourists by starting its own businesses and horse race track, and having the government declare it a national park. In addition it now has an enormous convention center, a huge retirement community, some New York defected artists that have inspired its own generation of artists, one of the most reputable documentary film festivals, and most notably, claims to be the hometown of our beloved Bill Clinton. Many of the old closed down hotels and bathhouses became extinct but some were refurbished, giving the town center a distinct aesthetic of grand has-been buildings.

After getting my bearings on a rainy late-afternoon, I parked my car, located the visitor center, and told the rangers I was in dire need of a bath. They gave me a listing of the bathhouses with the names and phone numbers, but unfortunately almost all of them had taken their last customers of the day. When the rangers saw the look of disappointment creep across my face they suggested an alternative.
“Young man, many of the old hotels have their own baths and if you’re comfortable with pretending to be a guest you could probably get by.”
“Not to worry” I replied, “I’m a professional.”

I called just in time to make their last appointment and showed up to the Arlington hotel, an enormous structure built in 1922 that looked as though it was on it’s latter legs. As I wandered the lobby in search of the spas, I became aware of a certain eeriness that seemed to emanate from the walls. It was as if the spirits of the gamblers, hookers, and rich that once populated this place still lingered. There was a sense that the building was angry that it was only lightly populated, and that it’s population had morphed from glamorous women in extravagant gowns and the finest of jewelry and men sporting pin stripe suits and top hats, to overweight tourists sporting packs over their protruding fannies and cameras for necklaces. The building’s columns and beams appeared cracked, worn out, and seemed ripe for retirement but were being forced against their will to keep holding and supporting, so the town could preserve this relic of its former self. Like an elderly person on life support, it wanted out. Later that night in the bar I met a man who had helped put a new roof on the Arlington Hotel and he told me through wild, but dead-serious eyes that while he was working on it there were numerous bizarre occurrences that thwarted their reconstruction efforts. “It was as if the building did not want to be redone”, he said. But I did not have time to worry about this stuff—one of the attendants upstairs, a woman named Lanette, was waiting to show me the facility so that I could get started.

I paid the $25 and the man behind the desk pointed me in the direction of the waiting room. I sat for a moment and in walked Lanette, a husky 6 ft. 4 black man, outfitted top to bottom, in white scrubs. He introduced himself and through a quick tongue and a thick southern draw he instructed me to undress, put my things in the locker, and then follow him. It didn’t sound quite like my language but after taking a second to process, I understood. But then, something weird happened, and that something, was nothing. He didn’t leave, he didn’t move, he just stood there. Was he really going to stand, all 300 pounds of him with folded arms and watch me undress? This big black man was going to watch this little skinny white boy with an inferior sized weener (it must be said here that in this regard I hold my own given my proportions and skin color) get naked right in front of him. I hid my discomfort by looking around the room as I de-robed.

I had never seen anything quite like it and yet it looked exactly as I would imagine a bathhouse from the 1920s would look. The giant open space was white and gray. It was made up entirely of old tile and marble interspersed with beds similar to massage tables, and curtains that were used to hide small rooms from view that housed showers, sitting baths, and regular baths.

Once I was fully nude Lanette wrapped a towel around my waist. Okay, that was awkward but it was over, it couldn’t get any worse. Now I could look forward to the healing and cleansing waters. He lead me into a room with nothing but a big old white bath tub that was half filled with water. “Okay sir, hand me the towel, and git in”, he said, as he stood there and waited. ‘Interesting’, I thought, ‘he’s staying to watch me bathe.’ I handed him the towel and did as I was told. At first I was too emotionally uncomfortable to notice how physically hot the water was. Once I was settled he poured soap into the tub and turned on the faucet, which caused a chain reaction known as the bubble bath. “Lie back sir and hold up both yer arms.” At this point I felt it was better not to question his instructions and try and relax and submit. As soon as I held up both arms he reached for his back pocket, picked up a scrubber that amounted to a rough giant sponge, dipped it into the soapy water and began scrubbing my arms. “Now yer legs sir.” I regretfully complied. And so it was that at twenty five, twenty years later than I thought I would ever be bathed by a man (thanks dad), my ass was occupying the same space as the asses of soldiers who fought in World War 1, the asses of Al Capone’s cronies, and the asses of those battling the grip, having a bubble bath, and being bathed by a large southern black man.

After the hot wrap stage and the steam room stage, came what I was looking forward to most—the needle shower—a shower with water pressure so intense that it was painful. Lanette ran the water for me and waited just outside the room with my towel as I got in. Immediately I noticed that something was wrong, terribly wrong. The water was cold, horribly cold. I cried out,
“Lanette, the water’s cold.”
“Supposed to be that way sir. This here is your cool down.” This last stage was a terrible let down. It was fifty out and raining and I was sleeping in an unheated van that night. I wanted to emerge piping, with steam emanating from my head not with a cool down. And worst of all, everyone knows what cold water does to even the most manly of men. When I was ready Lanette shut the water and I walked towards him to retrieve my towel feeling as little as I have ever have before.

The next day I took to the track and drank a brew and gulfed down a dog. With my manhood restored I was off to Mississippi.

A Spas in Arkansas

I was visiting the tallest point in Arkansas—Mount Magazine at a whopping 2,753 feet. While on the summit I met an Arkansanian family to whom I complained about the lame view. They said that by far the best look out point in these parts was the one in back of their “lodge.” I was intrigued by this so-called lodge, and after further discussion found out that it was a mere stroll away. So I made said stroll and found a massive extravagant building extending as long as a New York City avenue block, set just in front of cliffs that looked out over the surrounding Arkansanian lakes, hills, and farmlands.

The whole scene reminded me of the Overlook hotel from Stephen King’s/Stanley Kubrick’s, “The Shining,” minus the scary little girls and a crazed Jack Nicholson. Finding the setting behind “the lodge” (actual name of the hotel) to be tranquil, I sat down on some rocks and whipped out a pen and paper. After bearing my soul in blue ink I was ready to head back up the trail and return to my car. Figuring it would be quicker, I walked through the hotel rather than going around the massive structure. Upon my entering I found a gorgeous lobby with a very soft sofa that was too enticing to pass up. I whipped out a book, melted into the fabric, and fell into dreams. It was a wonderful little nap that found me waking to a renewed energy. If only I wasn’t so damn hungry, I thought, I could spend more time here. As I departed for the hike back to the van for an emergency peanut butter sandwich I had a revelation—this was a huge, massive hotel, with many rooms, and therefore numerous human guests who require sustenance. In addition it is set in a remote location with no local businesses around. They must have food here. Perhaps I would not be able to afford their all glass restaurant that overlooked the surrounding landscape but they had to have snacks. I approached the front desk and asked how I could go about finding some munchies. But they were on to me. It may have been the drooling in the sleep in their lobby, the backpack I carried with me, or the nalgene I held, that made me appear suspect and prompted the concierge lady to ask “Sir, are you a guest at this hotel?” I figured I had to say no because it seemed quite obvious, given the circumstances. that I was an outsider and I would no doubt receive a follow up question about my name and room number. However, in that moment, I was reminded of the staunch lesson my Dad had instilled in all of us Ehrlich brothers whenever a really nice hotel beyond economic means presents itself—lose all sense of shame and locate and utilize all offered conveniences. Remembering this code I dug not-so deep into my core and found my shameless strength and said "yes of course I am." I braced for a retort, but that was it. She smiled and pointed me in the direction of the vending machines. She actually trusted me. What a moron.

With chex mix in hand I cased the joint by following the signs to the swimming pool. En route I noticed a board with a password to access the free wifi, a second lobby with a breathtaking view, comfy chairs, and a fire place, and a game room that contained my favorite arcade game “Off-Road.” As if this wasn’t enough, I came upon a massive pool, an adequately hot hot-tub (yes I of course checked the water temperature which was 101, not perfect but decent), a locker room with showers, and a work out room. Sold.

I took note of the road The Lodge was on and hiked back to the summit, and back down the other side of the mountain to retrieve my vehicle. I changed into my bathing suit in the car, entered the hotel, walked to the pool, and went for a wonderful dip in a room that boasted glass windows that overlooked all of Arkansas. I was so inspired that I even strapped on my goggles and had myself a 20 minute lap swim before seeking a soak in the hot-tub. While pruning I met many friendly individuals who told me of their love for reality TV shows like Wife Swap and were fascinated to hear that I had actually worked on MTV’s “Sex with Mom & Dad.” I spent the rest of the time talking to a teenager who reminisced about this past Halloween when he entered a Wallmart and ate 100 warheads (a type of hard candy) in one day and at his next dentist appointment emerged with 6 cavities, and this past New Years' day when he jumped on the back of his dad’s truck while it was moving and broke his collar bone. He seemed in need of guidance so I gave him some elderly words of wisdom “kid, listen, anytime you’re in the midst of a physician for something pain related, make sure you ask for diloditt, that shit will change your life.”

After an extended shower, I exchanged bills for quarters, gamed, and then returned to the lot so I could drive down to a lake a half hour away to find a nice place to retire. As soon as I plopped into the driver’s seat I quickly realized that leaving this heavenly oasis for the cold, dark, rainy lake when I had a hotel with awesome furniture and free wifi at my finger tips was borderline psychosis. I was not going anywhere. I spent the night wandering the vast universe of the web, reading by the fire, and relishing in God’s construction of a world with hotel amenities. When sleepiness struck, I succumbed to it in my room in the parking lot.

I awoke early the next morning so that I could conduct my “Y” routeen. I hit the gym for a half hour of cross country ski walking (the elliptical) and mock stair climbing, jumped in the pool for another session of laps, hopped in the shower for a scorching one, entered the lobby bathroom for a teeth brushing and a #2, and departed refreshed, renewed, and ready for the two hour drive to Hot Springs National Park.

Road trip beginnings

The first time I realized I had a problem was in the Summer of '96. My friend Jake and I, who were 14 at the time, bought tickets to some revised rendition of Disney's "Fantasia" and then, as was customary, wandered into an R-rated movie. This time it was action duo Nicholas Cage and Sean Connery teaming up against Ed Harris in the Michael Bay thriller, "The Rock." The film was impeccable but I was unable to enjoy it because in the first half hour there was a line of dialogue that deeply troubled me.

It is uttered in a scene where special agent Paxton (William Forsynth) and veteran FBI director Womack (John Spencer) are scheming about what to do with their archrival, Mason (Connery). They had held the poor man captive for many years without the right to a fair trial due to his impressive espionage skills, but in a twist of fate they now may need his help in diffusing a hostage situation on Alcatraz, AKA “The Rock.” The elder Womack is trying to convince Paxton that they should remove him from his cell and try and utilize his abilities to save the day, but Paxton thinks that despite his age, Mason is just too dangerous. Womack tries to make his case with the line,

"He is my age now for christ's sake. I have to wake up three times at night just to take a piss!"

That’s when a feeling of deep confusion and panic overwhelmed me. At the time I was seeing this movie I had just been bar-mitzvahed. I had just begun my path of manhood, and until this moment I thought that my three to five trips per night to the bathroom was a shared human plight. Peoples' nightly #1 schedules had never come up in a conversation in which I was present so I believed I was the norm in this regard. At this point in my life I had already contracted tendonitus in both knees destroying what certainly would have been a promising career as a distance runner, my pitching arm was in dire straights, I had tennis elbow, and now apparently I suffered from frequent urination. Over the years some of those ailments have waned but the frequent pissing at night symptoms remain fully intact.

At my parent's place, my Brooklyn apartment, or any other standard living quarters the problem is a minor nuisance. However, I recently opted to change my shelter to that of a soccer mom van, which I packed with clothing, camping gear, and a little mattress, and drove to the warm and cozy Southwest where I would sunbathe by day and gaze at the stars by night. However, I noticed that as the further south I got the weather was not changing. In fact, when I arrived in Amarillo Texas strung out from a 750 mile day, I hit a minor snowstorm and passed a thermometer that read 24 degrees f. It was cold, late, and dark.

I sought out the back of a Best Western parking lot, taped some sheets up to the windows, juiced the heat for a moment, and crawled into my sleeping bag to retire outfitted in every article of clothing I had packed. I grabbed my one empty poland spring bottle and hugged it like a teddy bear before dozing off. At about 2 am it was time to excrete some of the pepsi I had consumed much earlier and so I grabbed my plastic sleeping companion, lined up my hole with his, and went to work. When I sealed it shut I took stock of the situation and realized there was only another 8 ounces of empty volume left. I passed back out and awoke again at 4:00 am and again with an urgent need to relieve myself. This was not good. I knew I should have gotten the can over the 20oz. soda. Going outside would mean losing valuable heat from the car, needing to dig out my sandals and possibly alerting the cameras, which I imagined were monitoring the Best Western lot, that there was a homeless man with a terrible bladder lurking on their premise. Plus, the expedition would no doubt get my nerves pumping and destroy any chance of a full night of sleep. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. I narrowly escaped an overflow, sealed the bottle and passed back out praying for at least a few hours before a next wake up. I lasted only another two hours. The jig was up. I gathered my sleep deprived self and watched the sunrise while letting my stream flow onto the tire of a benz.

As the sun began to show signs of its emergence I looked out into the surrounding lands and saw that there was only vast emptiness with a light sprinkle of snow precipitating down upon it . For as far as the eye could see there was nothing, just space. I imagine the nothingness may be a pleasant place to be for a monk as there are no distractions from the depths of the psyche, but for a neurotic paranoid northeastern Jew, sleeping and now pissing in the lot of a Best Western, with no clear destination, shivering from the cold, and sleep deprived, the last thing you want to be is alone with your thoughts, and that indeed was where I was. However troubling the moment was, it seemed that I had already encountered the purpose of this expedition – to learn to be okay with just myself, pitiful bladder included.