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 midd
le 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 distin
ct 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 h
olding 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.
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