Am I nuts? I might be. It’s not easy being the little guy on the intermediate care unit of a fancy private hospital, and with every shift it just seems to get prissier. We’re always short-staffed, snarky attitudes fill the ward and the nurses sit like queens while I run from room to room doing all of the physical labor.

"You should be a doctor," an elderly patient said to me, a woman who became quite fond of my story as a writer working in health care. "We need more people like you in the medical field: the hardworking kind."

"I’m more drawn to publishing and media. It’s my passion," I reminded her.

"I think it’s better if you start thinking of a career here," she said, taking my hand in hers, a veined thing reminiscent of a grandmother’s touch. "Dreams are nice, but careers are what are in demand at the moment. You need money to live. You’re such a nice boy."

Since when did being "nice" have anything to do with career motives? If that was the case, the world would be quite askew—if it isn’t already. Most people are not nice, and you don’t need me to validate that fact.

"And where did you graduate from?" Her questions just kept coming.

"Baruch." "Great school. Known for business." "Yes, but I studied journalism and creative writing."

Imagine it: City boy, born and raised in Queens—accent and all—dreaming of dripping ink onto ruled paper and filling Microsoft Word documents with beautiful words while he bangs his head against a wall working at a hospital. I’m like Batman disguised in scrubs, practicing this lovely vocation on Long Island.

Nothing against it, but coming from where I was raised, I love mass transit. To drag my pathetic Volkswagen on the Long Island Expressway every shift, watching my beautiful borough fade away as I head east, passing the same dented guard rails and the one smashed street light that has yet to be fixed, is a chore. Nobody gets why I do this to myself, and I don’t expect them to. Not everyone is driven by their dreams. But like I was told, I need money to live. Such is life.

Then the lady patient waved her finger and waggled her eyebrows, like worms cut in half, from some apparent shock and horror as we turned to head back to her room: I had let my seedy secret slip and decided not to elaborate, but she pressed me to talk.

"Remember, we have to do 120 feet," I said to her. "You just had a colon resection."

"Don’t change the subject. I want to know the other thing."

"I do dabble in the dark arts," I joked. She shook her snaky hair and flashed her big blue eyes at me as I held her torso so she wouldn’t fall down—that’s all I needed, to get fired for letting a patient hit the ground. A top priority at the hospital is to never let a patient fall: it’s their mantra or something.

"Oh! I know—like Stephen King, right?" she said as if a little light had gone off in her head, all of a sudden commercializing the dark.

"Not exactly," I said, giving up the conversation.

Stephen King should share some readers, I thought, or I’ll be working at the hospital for a very long time. 

Arthur Jaffe is a modern medicine man practicing a mixture of Eastern and Western philosophies to cure muscle pain.

The Midtown massage therapist uses spiral techniques, a system of neuromuscular therapy for everyone from the functioning to the injured that helps stimulate the mind and body. The techniques are a formulated blend of hands-on healing traditions, including Chi Qigong, the Dyal Singh Khalasa method, Shiatsu and more. The process is a body rub that penetrates more than a massage and is more integrative than a chiropractic session.

"I traveled the world to learn these techniques after receiving my formal training in massage therapy and combined my knowledge of human anatomy, pain management and the teachings of Mark Lamm and Dyal Singh Khalasa," Jaffe said.

The office where Jaffe practices is small, intimate and easy to relax in. He sees clients three to four days a week, and has trained Carine Vermenot, another spiral techniques practitioner, to take care of weekend appointments. In a one-onone appointment, Jaffe finds where the pain lies in your body then sits you at a rubbing station (similar to those used in a chiropractic session) and begins working on the muscle groups. Using a towel as a barrier to skin-to-skin contact, Jaffe gives a thorough explanation of what he’s going to do, relaxing any of the client’s tension, and then jumps right into the spiral motions with his elbow and forearms.

"Breaking up blockages in the muscles releases an energy flow. It gives people back their life and detoxifies human cells," Jaffe said.

Spiral techniques eliminate a wide range of painful conditions related to muscle, nerve and tissue dysfunctions. Jaffe works with muscles, releasing pain by moving his limbs across them in a spiral motion. When exposed to spiral movement, the body works with it. Some of the techniques he uses are deep tissue, mobilization, assisted resistance, stretching, energy work and other bodywork procedures.

Physical pain comes from a number of sources, such as stress, a sedentary lifestyle (which can bunch up muscles from lack of flexing) and injury. Most of the pain balls up in the abundant connective tissue in the human body, Jaffe said and, like the brain, muscles have a memory that remembers pain and tightens in various places on the body to protect itself.

"The most important thing that the client will take out of the session is the ability to unwind. It’s one of the most profound aspects of the session," said Jaffe.

As humans age, he explained, physical and emotional pain are increasingly linked, ultimately locking muscle memory in place and making a person prone to a number of diseases and creating major discomfort. When injuries occur the body can usually repair itself, but often it requires therapeutic assistance. That’s where spiral techniques become especially useful.

"Every adult should have at least one session in their life, to free them of issues right on the surface just waiting to be released," said Jaffe.

Arthur Jaffe Spiral Techniques Neuromuscular Therapy 

156 5th Ave., Ste. 900 

646-644-0990

I met with two friends by the barricaded entrance, where the breeze swirled a choking stench of fresh black top and dust that could turn anybody away, but I also caught a whiff of golden carbonation and my liver quivered, ready for its weekly exercise. Drink tickets are sold from a ticket booth; buy as many as you want if, well, you want to drink. Beer is $7, wine is $9, water is $2 and juices/ sodas are $3.

Lot on Tap was opened by famed Top Chef judge Tom Colicchio (and sons). It’s a good old-fashioned biergarten full of music, food and laughs, but with a New York tinge

(you can literally see the huge neon New Yorker sign in the distance). Everything was open, airy and friendly. Food trucks were sprinkled about in the back, contributing the smell of delicious grease vapors.

Tickets in hand, we moved to the huge bar stretched in front of the seating area. The taps stuck out like bad hair and our beers were served with a good frothy head (and it seemed no one expected tips, which was fine by me). The back walls are lined with bright orange boards, but I wasn’t sure if this was a cute way to match the ongoing construction project or an inadvertently apropos style choice. The beer menu is small (only five seasonal brews from Brooklyn Brewery), but I was told they rotate to spice things up. I went with The High Line Elevated Wheat all night, a Belgian pale ale with a light flavor and hint of fruit made especially for the new addition of The High Line. I was feeling especially fruity that night.

By the time the sun went down, the patrons turned clique-y. Hipsters scrambled to one corner, tourists to another, and my two friends and I were left sliding into one of the dozen finely polished wood tables, happily buzzed after a few drinks. (Word of warning: Be careful if you sit on the edge of a bench by yourself; you will tip it over.) Looking above, we waved to High Line stragglers peering their heads over the side. Then fluorescent lights were lowered from the tracks, temporarily blinding us.

Music blared from a few old speakers, reaching every part of the lot. The mix was as eclectic as the crowd; I never heard the same song twice, a phenomenon that bogs down so many bars in the city, and I barely heard the same genre twice. It was as if the music represented the people who cross The High Line daily.

I was drinking on an empty stomach, so my friends and I headed to the food trucks, which operate on a rotating schedule and are worked by a butt-load of hipsters who take cash only. The popular guys seemed to be Rickshaw Dumpling and Eddie’s Pizza, so I indulged. Six dumplings for $6 gives three choices: edamame vegetable, Thai or Chinese. Go for the Thai if you’re drinking pale ale.

Still hungry, we hobbled over to Eddie’s Pizza and created our own whole wheat pie. Starting at $7, these "bar pies" are made fresh to order. The pie was thin as cardboard and drenched in oil, but our time at Lot on Tap meant we didn’t care.

Upon leaving, the Van Leeuwen ice cream truck (known for its artisan, chemical-free ice cream) started calling out to my sweet tooth. Reading the list of abstract flavors like palm sugar and red currant, I just couldn’t resist topping off my night at the tap. A small cup or cone is $4.50 and you don’t need any more than that, trust me. I played it safe and went for old-fashioned vanilla, not regretting a thing as I saw the sad look on my counterparts’ faces as they dove into the palm sugar.

"We need water to eat this. Too sweet." "Water?" I asked incredulously. "Have another beer!" 

>> LOT ON TAP Southwest corner of W. 30th St. & 10th Ave., www.thehighline.org/the-lot.