ALMOST CARRIE ~ Almost Carrie Gets a Massage

Anyone who has ever given me a haphazard pat on the back knows the consequences of that simple gesture. Touching my back—out of necessity or concern or coincidence—means subjecting yourself to one of my full meltdowns. Literally I melt—my spine curves into a hump, my shoulder blades poke upward, and my chin falls to my chest. I will stand that way until the culprit gives me a complete massage or back-scratch, and if they don’t comply I will shimmy backwards toward them until they’ve no choice but to contend with my desperate posture. I crave back rubs the way Atkins subscribers crave white bread; give me one bite and I will eat the whole loaf.

My sister, well aware of my addiction, gave me a gift certificate for a one-hour hot stone massage and 30 minutes of foot reflexology as a Christmas present this past year. She got the deal for half-price on Trubates, a Groupon-type company that has since folded. I’d been waiting for the perfect moment to cash it in, and my recent wedding anniversary seemed ideal. (Really, it is a gift for him too—a night off from my incessant begging that he rub my feet with lotion, a request that triggers his gag reflex.)

When I called to book the appointment, a woman answered the phone with a very aggressive “What?”

“Is this the spa?” I asked.

“How’d you get this number?” she replied.

I explained the Trubates deal and the Christmas gift and told her a little bit about my sister to soften her up, and finally, when she seemed convinced that I was sincere, she asked when I wanted to come it. I mentioned Tuesday at three.

On Tuesday, I made my way to the blurry line where Chinatown meets Little Italy and looked for the street number. I found the address, which—if you can picture this—was not attached to a door, but to an elevator that was positioned on the sidewalk as if it were a door (even in New York this is strange). I pushed the up button repeatedly until a burly man from the shop next door sort of grunted at me that the elevator was broken and pointed to an entrance a few yards away. “Use that instead,” he said. “The power’s out.”

Inside this alternate door, which was propped open with a rusted folding chair, there was a staircase in the pitch black. Now I really, really wanted my massage, but I could hear my husband’s voice in the back of my head preemptively reprimanding me for doing something flaky and dangerous, so I paused to consider the situation. In the interim, a man (well-dressed, effeminate, trustworthy?), descended from the darkness, and I asked him if I’d find light at the top of those stairs. “Yeah,” he smirked, “eventually.”

I held on to the wall as I climbed. At the top, I stuck one foot out at a time, feeling my way through the dark until I hit a doorknob. On the other side of that door, the lights were on, and I saw a hallway of unmarked entryways (offices? apartments? it was impossible to tell). I snaked around until I hit a dead end and one final door with a plaque announcing that this was, indeed, my spa.

The door had a glass window, and I could see that the lights inside were off. Also, it was locked. I tapped on the window and then glanced away. In the half-second it took me to look away and then look back, a woman’s face had appeared in the glass. I jumped and let out a scream.

The woman ushered me in, apologizing for startling me. There was a reception area, a massage room with two beds, and a bathroom, and she and I were the only people there. I stripped down, got in position, and proceeded to enjoy, I must say, the best massage I’ve ever received. The woman hopped and thumped and squeezed with a sort of vigor you don’t find in more traditional places, and she was as personable as could be. And the fact that the business was clearly a front for some sort of drug trafficking or other criminal activity didn’t detract from the pleasure one bit.

Emily Sproch is a writer and a Sex and the City tour guide. Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”