Idiom Prompt - Crack Someone Up - 1. Crack Someone Up

The vigorous aroma of garlic, capers, and clams wafted upwards from the plate, circling Jeremy’s nostrils, enticing him to indulge. Marco had prepared the meal especially for him, just as he did every Tuesday evening, al dente with extra clams and a full glass of the restaurant's finest pinot grigio. Each Tuesday, it was the same for Jeremy – the meal, the wine, the table where he sat, a dimly-lit booth near the rear of the establishment, somewhat secluded from the other patrons, which was required.

On Tuesday nights, no one else was permitted to sit in that booth. It was reserved exclusively for Jeremy, like clockwork. For the most part, the man sat alone, ate alone, undisturbed except for quick moments of accepting more wine from Marco or when the occasional client appeared. Even then, verbal exchanges were brief, succinct. Jeremy minced few words, even with Marco, whom he’d known for three years and who was, for all points and purposes, his business partner. On occasion, Jeremy indulged in dessert after his meal, but those indulgences were rare. He was a man disciplined in his routines, focused on his purpose. Personal health and wellbeing were important to him. Extravagances were not. Hence, he only dined at Ricci’s one night a week.

Consequently, his services were only offered one night at week.

That evening, the restaurant was bustling with activity. Nearly every table was occupied by couples, families, small groups celebrating something. With the crowd came the cacophony of conversation and laughter, and Jeremy concentrated his attention on spinning the creamy linguine noodles around on his fork until he could cleanly scoop them up into his mouth without dripping clam sauce and capers into his beard. He hated getting food in his beard. Just as he disliked being in a crowd. The snippets of dramatic discussions and frequent guffaws surrounding him could have easily been distracting, but he’d taught himself long ago how to tune-out the noise and exist in his own world, his own bubble, even in the midst of public commotion. Peace was found in practiced meditation.

From the periphery of his vision, he watched Marco quietly approach the booth. The man set a folded piece of paper onto the linen tablecloth, then moved on without a word. Jeremy eyed the newly-arrived item with interest, counted the number of folds creased into its surface: two. A single fold meant that it wasn’t worth his time. Two folds meant someone was willing to pay well and should be considered. Setting his fork down, he brought the cloth napkin up to wipe his mouth, then carefully laid it back across his lap. Each movement was precise, calculated. He reached out his fingers, picked up the note, and plucked open the folds until the paper lay flat in his large hands. Once the message had been read and digested, he slowly refolded the note and tucked it under the rim of his dinner plate.

Marco stood near the bar, watching, waiting. The moment Jeremy gave him a perfunctory nod to indicate his approval, he turned and made his way back up to the front of the restaurant.

The client’s name was Robert. He was a tall man, lanky. Walked across the floor as though he had a hunchback and his knees were made of lopsided springs. As he neared the booth where Jeremy sat, he slowed his pace, approached very cautiously, made slight eye contact but then quickly looked away. His hesitation to commit was little surprise to Jeremy, and he waited patiently, sipping his wine, keeping his vision focused on the prospect before him.

Finally, Robert took the final step to the booth. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said meekly.

Jeremy motioned to the empty spot across from him. “Take a seat.”

Robert obeyed. Slid into the booth, dragging the tails of his long trench coat with him. His hair was greasy, his eyes tired, no life in them. Jeremy guessed his age to be late-fifties, akin to his own. “Tell me what you want,” he said. No mincing words, that was his protocol. Get to the point and get going.

A significant pause followed as Robert took time to respond. Jeremy could practically see the wheels of the man’s mind turning while he vacillated. His eyes were fixated on Jeremy’s hands, the tools of his trade. Finally, he answered. “I need you to crack someone up.”

“I see." Jeremy sat back against the booth. "Who would that be?”

Another long pause followed before Robert replied, “Me.”

Jeremy raised an eyebrow at the remark. It had been a while since someone had approached him and requested service for themselves. Usually, it was for a spouse, a partner, a companion. He finished off the last of his wine, wiped his mouth with the napkin once more, then said, “All right. Cash only.”

From within his coat, Robert retrieved a wad of bills and passed it across the table. Jeremy picked it up, took quick inventory, and placed the money into the right pocket of his corduroy jacket. “Follow me,” he said. Slid out from the booth, gave Marco a nod, and started down a short hallway at the back of the restaurant with Robert following close behind. Bypassing the restrooms, he opened a door that led into a space not much larger than a broom closet. A small wall sconce illuminated its contents, which consisted of one lone piece of furniture: an oblong leather-bound table on four steel legs. The sparsity of the room represented the succinctness of the task.

Before he could further vacillate, Robert was ushered inside. The door was closed. The white noise of the restaurant turned muted, and the two men were left acutely aware of their close proximity to one another. Jeremy regarded the nervous tension which creased Robert’s gaunt face and thought, This guy definitely needs to be cracked. “Take off your coat and lay face-down,” he instructed.

Robert obeyed. Shucked off the long trench coat and hung it on a hook beside the door. Gingerly, he laid down across the table on his stomach and let his arms drop to the sides until his fingers touched the cement floor. Due to his height, his loafers dangled over the edge, and Jeremy pulled each shoe off and tossed them aside. Through the fabric of Robert's socks, he gripped and twisted his ankles, then ran his hands up the length of his legs, all the way up his crooked spine to his hardened neck and shoulders. There, he momentarily rested, breathing quietly, gauging Robert's emotional and physical levels. The man was a giant ball of exhausted anxiety. Clients often came to him in this condition.

“Is this your first time, Robert?” he asked.

“Um... Y-yes it is.”

Jeremy moved back down to the space between Robert's protruding shoulder blades and positioned the oblique arches of his hands against his spine. “I won't lie, you'll feel some discomfort. Try to relax, clear your mind. Eventually, you'll feel good.”

Robert nodded. Clamped his eyes shut in apprehension.

Standing over him, the clandestine chiropractor inhaled a deep breath and concentrated on funneling the heat and energy from within his own chi up through his lungs, down through his arms, and out the tips of each finger until it touched Robert's body like a spirit, ready to penetrate the man's broken existence.

Then, carefully and precisely, he administered the first crack.