Happy Endings

New York City, Summer 2009.

Lazy afternoon at a modest, neighborhood nail salon in Manhattan , not far from Times Square .

Five Spanish-speaking manicurists. One Korean-speaking owner. Three English-speaking clients, one at the manicure table, two up on the pedicure chairs, including me.

Killing time reading the latest celebrity magazine take on Jon & Kate plus 8's marital woes. Wondering what demented mind designed straight-hair-in-front-spiky-hair-in-back haircut.

Yawn.

Two good-looking men, dressed casually in jeans and summer shirts, suddenly appear in doorway, disrupting boredom. Dark-haired and tall, in their late 20s or early 30s, they look innocent enough, not unlike the scene inside the salon. Maybe lost tourists about to ask for directions?

"Do you do happy endings?" the shorter one asks.

Women exchange glances, I pretend to go back to my US Weekly.

Men leave within seconds, after getting no reaction.

"Unbelievable," I say when it's safe to look up.

"What did they say?," one client asks.

"They were asking for happy endings," I reply.

"What's that?"

Oh, boy.

I explain in English. To expectant faces all around, I explain in Spanish.

Clients laugh a nervous laugh. Manicurists recoil in horror. They seem appalled, but they also break into laughter.

Tri-lingual owner doesn't seem to register the explanation in either language.

"An erotic massage!," another client cries, and chatter about the request goes on for the next half-hour.

Finally, an epiphany. The nail place's name on the glass window, we all realize, is enclosed in a purple neon heart.

Of course. A girlie heart meant to appeal to women looking for their mani-pedis, waxes and neck massages. And look what it drags in.