False Advertising and Happy Endings

I promised Sloper I would tell this story, so here goes.

A couple of weeks ago, I walked over to a massage place on the beach in Mexico.

$60 for a 90-minute, four-handed massage?

Sign me up!

Or not - they weren't taking walk-ins.

But no problem. In this part of Cabo San Lucas, massage places are everywhere, and the owners and massage therapists often advertise out front.

"Massage, senior?"

I picked one that looked about like any other and stepped inside.

Right away, I noticed it was a little dark inside.

But things in Mexico are different than back home. For example, there's a mix of the nice and the not-so-nice everywhere. We saw many new houses and condos built right beside neglected or abandoned buildings.

We found ourselves in nice, upscale restaurants serving excellent food on old, chipped plates and dull silverware.

And we stayed in a casita we found on Airbnb. This was the guest house of a multi-million dollar mansion overlooking the sea but with a ratty, run-down outdoor bathroom and a pool missing 20% of its tiles.

In that context, the dimly lit spa didn't seem too far from ordinary.

Nor did the request to pay upfront.

$40 was fair enough based on the prices I saw passing by other places.

And while it felt odd to hand the girl $40 right there in the hallway - there was no counter or waiting area - I'd seen plenty of odd stuff by then, so I chalked it up to "being in Mexico."

It wasn't until she led me to the treatment room - actually, I should put quotes around that term, so the "treatment room" - that I began to consider the possibility that I was in the wrong sort of place.

For starters, the room was dirty.

Not filthy - it wasn't crawling with bugs or anything like that - but there was dust on the cheap light fixture and cobwebs in the corner.

Hmmm.

And there was no art on the wall.

No fake plants in the corner.

No miniature water fountain, essential oil diffuser, or robes hanging on the wall.

There was nothing other than the massage table, which was also dirty.

My spidey senses were tingling.

Still, I remained calm and reminded myself that a mere 18 hours earlier, I'd had one of the best ribeyes of my life at the top-rated steakhouse in Cabo, only to discover that it was a front (and probably a money laundering setup) for a brothel.

"It's just Mexico," I thought to myself.

Then I realized there was no door in the room I was in. A thin, translucent sheet from a frayed wire cable hung in its place.

It, too, was dirty.

And still, I thought things were just different south of the border. I unbuttoned my shirt and looked around for a place to put it.

But, as noted earlier, there was no place to put it.

No bench, basket, or hook - where in the hell am I supposed to put my shirt?

Then, the massage therapist walked in.

Massage therapists—at least the ones I'm used to—typically have some sort of uniform. Maybe it's a T-shirt with Massage Envy® embroidered on the chest pocket. Or perhaps it's a set of scrubs in colors matching the business's logo.

The young lady I was now facing wore nothing of the sort.

In fact, she wore very little at all.

Painted-on jean shorts and a halter top.

"Massage?" She said.

"Uhhhh. . ."

"And a happy ending?" She said with a smile.

Wait, WHAT?

OK, this isn't just being south of the border. I was in the wrong place, and this ain't what I was looking for.

I froze.

I didn't know what to say!

She sensed my discomfort.

"Are you OK, señor?"

"I'm fine, but, uh, I mean. . ."

I looked around.

"Can I get just a regular massage here?"

This was not a question she was used to.

"Uno momento, por favor," she said as she stepped back through that dirty curtain.

In the hallway, I heard a flurry of Spanish that I could not follow.

After a minute, she returned and said we'd move to another room.

No thanks; it was past time to bounce.

"You buttoned your shirt back?" She said.

"Uhhh…yeah, I mean, um, I need to make a phone call. I'll be right back."

Of course, I had no intention of coming back.

I wonder what they thought as I hightailed it out the door, across the street, and around the corner.

I glanced over my shoulder to see if I'd missed anything, and I drove by the next day to take this picture.

Nope.

Looks like a regular massage place to me.

What do you think?

All I know is it caught me off guard.

It reminds me of the time Julia and I pulled into a Lady Bug Espresso in Seattle. It's a drive-through coffee stand with a big surprise that may have scarred two of our children for life.

But that's a story for another day.