While in NYC (getting treated for cancer), I suddenly craved a massage. A google search turned up Anna and Lucy; Reflexologists located only a few blocks away. I walked into a very narrow basement and was greeted by a slight, tough looking, straight-faced Asian woman who I’d soon find out barely spoke English. 

“I’m looking for reflexology,” I said.

“You want now?” she asked taking hold of my wrist and leading me into one of the small curtained chambers where she had me lay down on a very slim, low-to-the-ground table. Then she went to put on some music. The first song skipped and stopped playing entirely, but that was not about to be remedied. The massage had already started. My eyes darted between a pipe that ran across the center of the ceiling and a part of the ceiling that was falling down. The silence between us was deafening.

“Ouch!” I said when she hit a hot spot on the bottom of my foot. 

“That your bow-less,” she exclaimed rubbing the spot even harder and laughing, “It hurt?” 

“Yes!” I said praying she’d get the hint to stop rubbing.

“OK,” she said, “No worry. I fix.” And then she picked up my entire leg by my formerly broken big toe and laughed even more. When she rubbed again, the pain was gone. Bow-less. Right, bowels, I thought. I would learn her way of speaking.

Other than a few mishaps and her style of aggressively pushing the table around the tiny room with her knee so she could fit beside it, the massage was quite good. When my time was almost over, I asked, “Do you do full body massage?”

“Yes. Hour and half. You want?”

“Uh, well, maybe…” I started and before I could finish, she somehow flipped me on my stomach and pressed into my upper back. It felt good. But the awkward silence became even more acute. To break it, I asked, “Were you always located here?”

“We close-ed during CoVid,” came the response. It was apparent, I had to connect in an entirely different way. “Are you Lucy?” I asked and with that she jumped across the table nearly landing on me and said, “You know Lucy?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Lucy no here anymore,” she said while pummeling my buttocks.

“Then you must be Anna,” I murmured through the donut hole. 

“I know you!” she exclaimed. “You Susan!” (Susan and I must have the same backside).

“Not Susan,” I said, “Ramona.”

“Yes, I remember you,” she said even though she couldn’t pronounce my name. 

She and I had never met before, but now we were best friends. I took another deep dive and asked, “Do you know anyone who teaches Qi Gong?” I could tell she didn’t quite understand the question so I waved my arms to mimic as best I could some Qi Gong movements. Like Helen Keller discovering the word water, she became ecstatic. She stopped the massage and pushed her cell phone underneath my nose to play an interview between some man and woman that was entirely in Chinese. Looking through the donut hole, I surmised that the man was a Qi Gong master whom she might know.

At the end of the $75 massage, I offered a 15 percent tip, which she instantly indicated was not enough. She then insisted on a $30 tip, which I gave. And for that, she continued to massage my shoulders as I exited.

A day or two later, I got this voice mail: “Hi. I…Anna. You…like it…uh…teach you…Qi Gong? You call me talking for you?” Now that I was fluent in Anna, I knew that she was calling to offer to be an interpreter between myself and said Qi Gong instructor.  I declined the offer. Though in need of energy healing, and in consideration of over-the-top tips, I decided not to get into that potentially twisted triage. 

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.