Wednesday, July 25, 2012

The Vortex of Eeeeeew

Following my horrendous experience at Essential TherapyRayne and I decided that the best course of action would be to write the owner a letter. I had, after all, been a patron of his business since 2005. We thought writing would be safer than risking another explosion, more for the deleterious effect a repeat of that scene would have on me.

My goal of the letter was to 1) explain why I was never returning to his business and 2) ask for a refund of the $192.40 we paid for the service (via pre-purchased gift certificate). If he also happened to 3) fire his assholic office manager, well, that would just be a bonus.

I wrote a draft of a two-page letter. I couldn't remember the owner's last name, so I Googled "Carlos Essential Therapy NY" and came across this choice bit of information from March 2007, the fourth link from the top:
Police arrested Carlos Araque, 44, who operates Essential Therapy, a massage therapy studio at 122 E. 25th St., on March 9 and charged him with sexual abuse of a woman client, sexual misconduct and practicing massage therapy without a license.
Um, what?

I went back to my search and a few links down, discovered this from the Daily News in April 2007:
Marty Jaramillo, who rented space from Essential Therapy, is suing the spa and its owner for soiling his reputation by allegedly ... regularly rent[ing] out his space for swingers and porn stars to do their thing. 
...Araque, known for satisfying patrons with what he calls the "make-nice massage," has since pleaded guilty to not being a licensed masseur and is barred from performing massages.
Eeeeeeew. I mean. Just eeeeeew. I used the jacuzzi (only once!!) and the sauna and the showers in that place. Argh. It was always a little dirtier than I wanted it to be, but on-location porn? Swingers? Come on. I took my mom there for Christ's sake.

But above and beyond the eeeew factor -- which is mighty difficult to get past in and of itself -- I'm pretty sure this guy is not going to give a flying flounder about my appalling experience with his daft office manager or my $192.40. He's got bigger fish to fry.

It reminded me of the terrible landlord my sister and I had when we lived together on the Upper West Side. The apartment was advertised to us with a roof deck, but after we signed the lease and moved in, we were told that the roof deck was off limits. I tried to complain to the landlord instead of continuing to deal with his two pot-smoking, brain-deficient brothers who "worked" in the office, but in the process, I discovered that the landlord was actually a former anesthesiologist who had lost his medical license for falling asleep during surgeries and writing false Oxycontin prescriptions for himself and others. Classy.

He definitely did not give a flying flounder about me or my being duped by a real estate ad. 

Sigh. I learned my lesson with the addict landlord; I'm not going to knock my brain case against a brick wall. I guess I'll have to be content with Yelping.