The Scrub

A southerner’s first northeastern bathhouse scrub-down. What follows is the record.

First came the head massage. I lay flat on a bed while the attendant went to work on my skull, chatting all the while. He covered the brain drain plaguing the northeast, then pivoted to how northeastern loyalty and unreliability are separated by the thinnest of margins, before abruptly shifting course: Your friends all ordered the salt bath — wouldn’t it be awkward if you didn’t? I’ll throw in a free back massage too. Fine. Let’s do it.

Step two: the milk scrub. The attendant put on a pair of gloves whose surface texture closely resembled a spiked massage ball. There I was, stark naked, as he poured what appeared to be freshly squeezed milk over my body and started scrubbing. Every inch of skin below my neck felt like it was being rolled over by a Tiger tank. Eyes wide open, I endured the twinned assault of pain and itch, bracing myself as mountains crumbled and rivers broke their banks, and found myself feeling an unexpected flicker of sympathy for Li Hongzhang.

Then the attendant thrust the scrubbing glove in front of my face: Look — all dirt. I snapped awake. This wasn’t dirt. These were the stains of my life. I needed to confess, to atone. The attendant was a priest administering my baptism. This was no bathhouse — it was the Western Wall, the Al-Aqsa Mosque, the fallen Hagia Sophia. I couldn’t help but murmur: Yes, yes, I’m a fool, I’ll never touch Chinese tech stocks again, I should never have listened to Cathie Wood’s siren call.

Step three: the salt bath. The attendant poured a bag of honey-and-salt mixture over my body. My solid slab of abs became the biblical land flowing with milk and honey. Then he began kneading my entire body with the technique one uses to work dough — like the Buddha’s Palm Strike descending from the heavens. I thought of Kung Fu Hustle, thought of Stephen Chow, thought of his God of Cookery, thought of the pissing beef balls, thought of those brief and beautiful days in Shunde, and found myself uncontrollably salivating.

Last came the complimentary back massage. A pair of powerful hands began striking my back with force, and gradually the blows fell into rhythm. Ah — it was the March of the Steel Torrent, it was the Yellow River Cantata. Two characters materialized faintly on my chest: “China.” On my back, four characters were being carved: “Spare me, hero” — no wait, “Loyal to the Nation.” But the tempo kept accelerating beyond anything a human voice could follow. My back had become a drum kit, and the bath attendant was the demonic conductor from Whiplash — only then did I notice that he, too, was bald. Spare me!

At last it was over. I lay naked, not a trace of grime or burden on my skin, as though returned to the very beginning of life. My soul had left this body, wandering through the void. I was a retainer of the Quraysh, an ascetic in India, a slave on an American plantation, a founder of Northern Qi. I led camel caravans out of the peninsula, I fasted, I crossed the Atlantic in a cramped ship’s hold, I sang the Ballad of Chile…

The attendant’s ultimate question dragged me back to reality:

Feel good?

That’ll be 188.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I simply raised my wristband. The band was such a perfect circle — without God, how could such a perfect creation exist in this world? I understood. Ha — God, you got me again.

As a certain internet comedian once said: the end of the universe is in the northeast. He did not lie.

I wouldn’t dare call myself a spiritual northeasterner. I’m merely a passerby — a convert and a deserter both. Better to say: the northeast is my Medina.

One day in the bathhouse, a thousand years in the world outside. Beyond the window, night had fully fallen. Heavy snow.

So I turned and walked up to the third floor, and ordered a bowl of chicken stewed with mushrooms.

2022-02-27 @Jilin