Me Rub You Wrong Time.

Three nights in New York City can wear you out pretty quick. Walk, walk, walk, subway here, cab there, tip, tip, tip, watch out for potholes. My feet had been hurting a lot and I was pretty vocal about it. Last night, as we were departing my friend’s birthday party, I thought it might be a good idea to stop in Chinatown. No real rhyme or reason; it was on the way to Brooklyn and I had one of the best meals of my life there 20 years ago and am still trying to find the place again, and mainly, one of our posse hadn’t been to Chinatown. Within a minute of spilling out of the taxi onto Mott Street, my friend noticed a sign that said Foot Rub, One Hour $23, so she called to me. Just like crossing into the border of Mexico and being swarmed by children trying to sell you “chicles,” we were swarmed by Chinese women who had come out of “New Health Enterprises Inc.” at 10:30pm and instantly started giving teaser back massages to those nearest the door. Foot rub, eh? I didn’t actually think anyone did that, and who would want to rub my nasty feet in particular? As all 7 of us (our group and the extremely sneaky masseuses) were gathered on the sidewalk in the cold air, the women were cutting deals with us: “20 minute only 10 dolla.” I figured 10 minutes might be good, and my friend was already moaning at the teaser massage she was getting on the sidewalk so we all went in.

What a fabulous mistake. My moaning friend wasn’t about to get roped into a sales pitch so she came to her senses and took off looking for cigarettes. She was referred to as Outside Girl by the masseuses, which we probably would have thought was funny if we hadn’t all begun to melt in the palms of their hands. While Outside Girl was off seeking tobacco, the other two gals sat in these delish faux leather chairs and the smiling and nodding women began working on their feet. The Chinese women set timers for 20 minutes. My friends were goners within minutes. I had a little problem. I had on tights that I had purchased for $4 from Target to keep the wind in NYC from blasting through my thin $12 jeans I had purchased at Ross Dress Like A Mess.

A young Chinese gentleman sat down at my feet. And so began the surrealness of it all. He was tall, early 20s, and a little shy. I asked him if he could just take off my socks and cut the foot of the tights off. He smiled shyly, shook his head no, and proceeded to do what he could. Meanwhile, my two friends (Birthday Girl and Dude) were getting foot rubdowns galore. Fingers flying in between little toes and big toes! Oils and scents and moans and groans filled the air. I must have this fabulous foot rub they are getting! I asked an older man who appeared to own the “health store” if he had any scissors. He brought me scissors, and I stretched the tights out past my foot and snip, snip—the feet of the tights were gone. This seemed to give my foot guy some “wiggle room” and he went to town—Chinatown style. Outside Girl came back, sans cigarettes. “Prace croze” was the answer she got at several shops. She was dragged over to a back massage chair where she plopped down pretty darn compliantly, if you ask me. Soon, she, too, was a goner. Our cool headed Outside Girl was groaning with delight. Their evil plan worked!

Twenty minutes passed and the sad sound of the timer went off, signaling the end of our ecstasy. I was reminded of For Whom the Bell Tolls for some reason. But those Chinatown masseuses are so clever—and great saleswomen. They literally had us in the palms of their hands. In the sweetest, most innocent voice ever in the history of time, the leader of this whole operation asks me, “Would you like 20 minute more? Jus 10 dolla more.” “Sure,” I say, halfway groaning in pleasure while Tall Handsome & Chinese gets just the right spot on my bunion and I am foggily calculating the available amount of credit on my MasterCard.

I am seriously in the moment for a change, and I hear Birthday Girl and Dude being led away by the Chinese masseuses, who are whispering something about “Come to the table in the back…” I’m assuming they are getting some extra special foot thingy, but am too happy to think past that moment. Meanwhile, Outside Girl is hanging limp like a rag doll on the massage chair. It feels like we are in a lair and we can’t get out—like the Hotel California, only not in Beverly Hills.

My own timer dings and Tall Handsome & Chinese whispers to me “Come to the table in the back…” and slips on some huge rubber flip flops which even in my groggy state I’m certain are infested with athlete’s foot bacteria. But I am just a pawn now. I ask him if he will marry me. Of course I am joking, but one of the women says, “You single?” I hear giggles coming from the “table rooms” where Birthday Girl and Dude have gone. I follow TH&C like a cat sniffing a trail of catnip to a curtained room in the back of the lair. TH&C draws aside the curtain and says, “Put your stuff down. You lay on table. Take off your top.” GULP. He closes the curtain behind him. Thinking about it for half a second, I take off my top and lie facedown. TH&C comes in, begins slathering my back with oil, rubbing all those little places that have been needing to be rubbed for years—and, in great salesman tradition, sets the timer for “just 10 minute.” I’m an oonch nervous, being half nekkid and all. The last time I was naked from the waist up was three days earlier at the OB/GYN. But this is okay, right? I mean it’s a “health store” after all. And anyway, I’m covered with a towel and face down. I just enjoy the rubs and figure if Birthday Girl and Dude can do it, so can I. Since we are now in a more private setting, I am not quite so vocal with my moans and groans, but enjoying it nonetheless. And TH&C is a perfect gentleman—until the timer goes off. “You want 10 more minute? Hmmm? Give you gooooood backrub,” he says in a sudden throaty, quiet whisper. “How about 20 minute for 15 dolla?” Then, very quietly he whispers to me, “Special, only for you. Special jus for you.” I busted out laughing at the whole damn thing and he must have thought I was crazy but I giggled for a minute before saying, “Sure, why not?”

We spent an hour in that place and each of us were limp as wet noodles when we left and nobody was irritated with anyone and everything was rainbows and unicorns. Tips all around, business cards for everyone. “You come back tomorrow, right?” they asked.

Right. I wish.

I’m pretty sure this was as close to a happy ending as I’ll get—in a professional setting anyway. For the record, Outside Girl got her massage through her jacket, and I found out that Birthday Girl and Dude did NOT have their tops off. Only me—known now to this crew as Happy Ending.