Happystance

Happystance

A story in two acts  

The First Half of My Day

Day off, thank goodness.  Slept late.  Looked forward to a nice slow day with Marky.  We rode our bikes to the gym and talked about going to an early movie.  Anvil! The Story of Anvil finally made it to the Music Box, and we planned to hit the 5:30 show.  Worked out, came home, talked crazy talk about getting massages.  Then he got a call from a client.  This client wanted a session at 5:30.  Seriously?  Right when we were supposed to go to the movie?  Fine.  Fine.  Money is important, and whatever.  But Marky was still bent on getting these massages.  When I got out of the shower 20 minutes later, he told me he found a place in our neighborhood, and it was pretty inexpensive.  He booked an hour massage for both of us at 3pm.  

We drove to our massage locale.  I won't tell you where it is.  But it was skanky.  SKAN-keh.  There was an accordion-type gate covering the storefront, like the health department had shut her skanky ass down.  We found free parking, though, which is, I guess, worth the risk of SARS.  Upon our approach, we discovered that it was a cosmetology school.  Discount prices?  Check.  I had a sinking feeling when the botox-enhanced cosmetology madam greeted us and introduced us to our lady of the afternoon.  There was only one masseuse.  She planned on piggybacking us.  We didn't have 2 hours to spend.  The madam tried to convince us we just wanted to be in the same room for both massages.  No, we scheduled simultaneous slots.   We argued in three different languages, until the madam gave in with a grand "hmpf," and Marky and I ended up in two different rooms.  Against my better judgment, I disrobed.  

This hour, possibly the longest hour of my life, walked the thin line between a flaccid oily rubdown and borderline sexual assault.  To make matters worse, this learning area was less of a room, and more of a cubicle without a ceiling.  The lights were bright and hot, and you could hear everything going on in every other room through the hall.  Rather than unwind to the enchanting sounds of ocarinas and Native American drums, I listened to the school's administrator arguing with a young woman about her parents' inability to pay their taxes.  Kinda relaxing, I guess.  My mom paid her taxes.  Between the occasional bouts of relaxation, I imagined foreign tourists, quietly strolling through the instruction rooms, taking snapshots of the lavender eyemasked massagees.  I haven't had a lot of massages in my life, but I've never before wished for it to be over so badly.  My student masseuse instructed me to sit upright

And then it happened.  My most unrealistic fear of voyeurism came true.  No knock, no trepidatious entrance, in walked this random guy.  Not an instructor.  Just some guy.  He immediately realized his mistake and walked right out, but wow.  I breathed a sigh of relief, because it really couldn't get any worse than this moment.  A strange man walking into a well lit room to find  me, a small towel, and only a shred of dignity.  I mean, it could be days before I figure out I have ringworm.  

It was all I could do not to pee myself with laughter when the trainee summed the whole experience with, "You're tense!"  Damn right, I was tense.  That tourist that just walked out didn't say anything nice about my hooters.  She graciously showed me the way to the exit, but I had already worked out three separate escape routes in my mind while she was dousing me in Myrrh and Ylang Ylang.  I found Marky, looking disheveled as well, and we giggled nervously upon exiting.  

"Mmm.  Smells like you got some oil with your massage," he cleverly asserted.  

"Yeah," I replied, "didn't they use any oil on you?"

Marky choked with laughter, "No, they didn't even take my shirt off."  Hysterical laughter ensued.  But really, I feel badly for him, because he never even got the chance to be exploited on the internet.  I'm the lucky one.  

The Better Half of My Day

Marky finished his session, and we rode our bikes to the Music Box to see the 7:30 show.  Locked up the bikes, got some popcorn, took a seat in the intimate theater.  There's maybe room for 45 people, the screen is small, plastic grapes and vines hang from the ceiling, it's a terrific way to enjoy a weird documentary.  This guy a couple rows up from us turns around to face his friend.  Mid sentence, I stopped.  I turned to Marky and remarked, "That guy looks like Sting."

"Yeah," he agreed in a hush.  Pause.  "He really does.  I don't remember what I was just talking to you about."

My pulse started to race a little, and then I told myself it just wasn't him.  But then a line of about 10 people filed in.  And they walked right into this guy's row.  "Is it okay if we sit here?" The male leader of the line queried.

And with his telltale husky British tenor, Gordon Sumner quipped, "Well, there's room for you, but honestly, I'd rather sit next to your girlfriend."  

The next 120 minutes were spent trying to be incredibly cool.  Nobody asked for an autograph, no photos.  A pretty respectful crowd, it you ask me.  It was surreal, and I've never been that close to a god of pop music.  I can't say I'm the world's biggest Police fan, but I no one there could deny that we were in the presence of greatness.  And if it hadn't been for Marky's last minute change of plans, we would have missed watching Anvil with Sting.  Good end to a memorable day.