One toe over the line

Bob Morrissey

I caused quite a stir recently when I went for my semi-annual pedicure — the one I get before every golf season.

As I entered the establishment, several women clients getting their feet treated peered over in my direction as if to say, “Who does this guy think he is, coming in here?” Even the five busy pedicurists dropped what they were doing.

Surprised, all I could think of to say was, “You people look like you’ve never seen a man before.”

With that, one of the woman spat out, “And we still haven’t.”

I let it pass. Instead, I suggested to no one in particular, “You’re all busy. Maybe I should come back another time?”

But that didn’t sit well with the head pedicurist. “Please come in. You can sit here,” she said, motioning me toward an empty pedicure spa chair.

After almost tripping on a little step up, I gingerly settled into a plush red leather seat. I removed my jacket, shoes and socks and waited, with my feet dangling into an empty built-in tub at the bottom of the chair.

After being kept waiting for 20 minutes, I’d had enough. But as I was reaching for my socks, the pedicurist tending to a woman four chairs over intercepted me and said, “I’ll be free soon; you might as well stay.”

Then a second later, she began filling the foot tub with water, but it was so hot I yelped like a dog whose paw had been stomped on.

She apologized and went back to her client while I went back to waiting. After 15 minutes of staring at a bonsai plant, I again got up to leave. But that same employee caught me out of the corner of her eye and almost tripped rushing over to me.

“Just give me a few seconds,” she said, emphatically. I just smiled, even though by now I felt more like a hostage than a client.

With that, she reached over and pushed a button. Suddenly, my chair began vibrating — slowly at first, but gradually ramping up until I felt almost seasick.“These things could use a seatbelt,” I said, trying to brighten the mood.

When the thing stopped vibrating, it pounded; when it stopped pounding, it squeezed. Then it did all three together. A younger me would have thought “Hey, you could have fun with a girl on this thing,” but the 82-year-old me said: “Yikes, my poor bladder.”

“Do you like it?” the pedicurist asked. I didn’t have the heart to say no. Even knowing this was another delaying tactic, I said, “Yes, it’s very invigorating.” My voice quivered so much I sounded like the cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz.

She left and returned to her client. “Just be patient,” she said.

Instead of getting all frustrated and edgy, I decided I’d lie back and just relax. Before I knew it, I fell fast asleep, dreaming the same old dream we’ve all had: the one where it’s summer, you’re lying at the base of a big oak tree, and the Dalai Lama comes over and asks if you want Jell-O.

But before I know it, the same pedicurist gives my shoulder a gentle nudge and wakes me up. I’m startled; I can’t get my bearings. Where am I? Is this a restaurant? I’m confused, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “May I see the menu?’ I ask.

The pedicurist laughs. “Sir, you’re not in a restaurant … you’re at a salon. Now, let’s see those toenails.”

With that, she wheels over a cartful of various stainless-steel instruments, including nail files, nail clippers, callus scrapers and numerous lotions. She places her cart beside the low stool directly in front of me. After sitting, she grabs my left foot, swishes it in the foot tub, smiles and asks if I’m ticklish.

“No,” I say, adding, “please, no more personal questions.”

As she’s filing away on my toenails I can hear her, head down, mumbling behind a Covid mask. But is she talking to me?

I can’t make out a word she’s saying because I’ve left my hearing aids at home. I keep interrupting her when there’s a break in the conversation by asking, “Sorry, would you mind repeating that?” But she doesn’t answer me. Then it dawns on me: she’s carrying on a conversation with a co-worker busy, head down, four chairs over.

When she realizes what’s happened, she clams up. The silence is deafening. We both wish it was all over but she has four toes and a little heal scraping to go.

I tell myself that this might be a good time for some friendly small talk, something I’m very good at. Nobody on this Earth has said “Nice day out, eh?” more often than I have.

But how can I communicate? We have nothing in common. To her I’m just a handsome stranger.

Anyhow, I give it a try.

“How many clients have you worked on today?” I ask, feigning interest.

“Eight, counting you,” she replies.

“Hm,” I say. “Interesting. That’s 80 toes.”

Her ears perk up. My small talk is working. I have her undivided attention. Toenails are her thing. Maybe mathematics, too.

“How many people do you work on in a day?”

“About 12,” she says. I imagine her blushing under her mask.

“That’s 120 toes; that’s 600 toes a week.” Then: “Don’t you get bored?”

“No, because there’s so much variety. Like you with your ingrown toenail. Sorry, I hurt you with the pick. But look! It’s stopped bleeding.”

Suddenly, I’m sensing a certain magic is in the air. Something strange — almost feral — is happening. Now she’s not only massaging the bottoms of my feet; she’s up to my calves. My pacemaker is going haywire. My Depends are moist. I’m humming “Sexual Healing.”

Time to dive into the deep end.

“Um, when do you get off?” I ask, delighted by my unexpected double entendre.

“In two hours,” she says.

“Care to join me for supper?”

“Sounds good,” she says and adds, “I know a really nice restaurant nearby with a really good menu.”

“Any Jell-O on it?” I ask.