Monday, 20 October 2003 | The woman with the curler

It was a new experience for both of us. It had been suggested by friend of mine, and I talked Sarah into joining me, with little effort. We stepped off the subway and threaded the border between Chinatown and Little Italy, alternating between blackout-sized throngs (Chinatown) and pesky restaurant hostesses who try to swindle you into dining with them (Little Italy). We finally found it on the Chinatown side, right on the edge.

"A fifteen-minute back massage for ten dollars?" That was the promise. A slight Chinese man waved his arm in a circle, and a woman with long dark hair and a single curler lodged in her bangs walked past us. Sarah and I instinctively followed her. We walked several blocks, weaving among people, trying to keep up with the woman with the curler. We glanced at each other, shrugging and smiling.

On the way, Sarah pointed out an enormous gray trash can full of living, blinking frogs, creatures who were piled on top of each other and submersed a broth of water, ignorantly waiting to lose their legs. She pointed out rows of fish, and litter.

We made our way down a narrow alley that had been painted yellow, briskly chasing the elusive curler woman. When we reached our destination, Unicurler pulled up two blue massage chairs that had been resting on the wall, the sort of chairs in which you lie in a forward-reclining position and put your face through a hole, like the silly painted bodies you try on at amusement parks. I got the woman with the curler.

I couldn't tell what time was doing, exactly. It could've been racing or crawling, but, to me, it felt completely still. I was nervous that my bag was sitting beside me in a busy lobby, out of reach, while I was being asked (via my shoulders) to forget about my bag. (At this point, I still believed my wallet had been stolen a few days before, which inflated my anxiety.)

The woman with the curler kneaded in quick, strong swoops, and remained completely silent except for the few Chinese words she exchanged with Sarah's curlerless woman. She didn't seem to tire. When it was over, Sarah and I stumbled out of the building and down the alley, dazed; we agreed that it felt like our experience hadn't happened at all, that it was like a story inserted into our memories from a paperback, or a dream.