The Sauna
There is a fine line between pain and pleasure in the room I visit three times a week.
The fresh, aromatic scent of fresh-cut cedar is faintly noticeable. Over time, the scent
has been eroded by the constant oppressive heat—windless, sunless heat. Once
fragrant and earth-toned, the planked walls and ceiling have weathered to a pale
brown. Ceaseless contact with the sweat and humidity of a thousand bodies over a
dozen years has left its mark on the cedar. A single light bulb seems larger than actual
size in the small room. Square box. Wooden desert.
There is no furniture, just a bench at knee level and another set back above it at waist
height. One can tell that the benches have been varnished, peeled, and revarnished.
The treated wood has darkened with age as it baked and cooled and baked and cooled,
countless times. A finger nail can scratch the edge of a crusty peel of varnish and
uncover an older heat-baked layer beneath it.
The room is windowless except for a hazy Plexiglas porthole set in the undersized
door. You fixate on objects in the room, a pitted metal thermostat and a thermometer
registering somewhere above 200°F. Most significant is a sheet-metal-encased
radiator bolted to the floor in the corner. It clicks as the electrical elements adjust in
tune with the fluctuating temperature. Someone topped it with real lava rocks for
effect. These rocks, charcoal gray by nature, have baked into an ashen white from the
scorching they receive day after day. Oddities in the room are magnified: a missing
piece of trim molding, a loose board, scratched initials, and a dangling sheet metal
warning sign.
I don't read in the box. Magazines left in the box turn yellow, bumpy, and crispy. When I
enter, a shock of blistering heat stings my lungs and nasal passages. The hair on my
head gets hot and I grimace and hold my hand to my forehead. If a visitor enters, quick
glances sometimes are exchanged, but rarely is there conversation. Coping with the
intensity is a solitary pursuit.
The space seems to close in as the body signals that the time limit might be
approaching. The small wooden door is just an arm's reach away with a blast of cool
relief as reward for endurance. Voices from just outside and the heavy bass music
rumbling through the walls beckon me to re-enter the world. "Just two more minutes. I
can't leave. I'll count to 100, no 60, wait 10...9...8...7...6...5 ...4... haaaa, whoa, pfuee,
haaaa. I did it! I feel great. I'm ready. I'm new."
The fresh, aromatic scent of fresh-cut cedar is faintly noticeable. Over time, the scent
has been eroded by the constant oppressive heat—windless, sunless heat. Once
fragrant and earth-toned, the planked walls and ceiling have weathered to a pale
brown. Ceaseless contact with the sweat and humidity of a thousand bodies over a
dozen years has left its mark on the cedar. A single light bulb seems larger than actual
size in the small room. Square box. Wooden desert.
There is no furniture, just a bench at knee level and another set back above it at waist
height. One can tell that the benches have been varnished, peeled, and revarnished.
The treated wood has darkened with age as it baked and cooled and baked and cooled,
countless times. A finger nail can scratch the edge of a crusty peel of varnish and
uncover an older heat-baked layer beneath it.
The room is windowless except for a hazy Plexiglas porthole set in the undersized
door. You fixate on objects in the room, a pitted metal thermostat and a thermometer
registering somewhere above 200°F. Most significant is a sheet-metal-encased
radiator bolted to the floor in the corner. It clicks as the electrical elements adjust in
tune with the fluctuating temperature. Someone topped it with real lava rocks for
effect. These rocks, charcoal gray by nature, have baked into an ashen white from the
scorching they receive day after day. Oddities in the room are magnified: a missing
piece of trim molding, a loose board, scratched initials, and a dangling sheet metal
warning sign.
I don't read in the box. Magazines left in the box turn yellow, bumpy, and crispy. When I
enter, a shock of blistering heat stings my lungs and nasal passages. The hair on my
head gets hot and I grimace and hold my hand to my forehead. If a visitor enters, quick
glances sometimes are exchanged, but rarely is there conversation. Coping with the
intensity is a solitary pursuit.
The space seems to close in as the body signals that the time limit might be
approaching. The small wooden door is just an arm's reach away with a blast of cool
relief as reward for endurance. Voices from just outside and the heavy bass music
rumbling through the walls beckon me to re-enter the world. "Just two more minutes. I
can't leave. I'll count to 100, no 60, wait 10...9...8...7...6...5 ...4... haaaa, whoa, pfuee,
haaaa. I did it! I feel great. I'm ready. I'm new."
© 2007 by Michael Domino
by Michael Domino