cleaning up

A close encounter from this past week.

'Sir, sir. Come here.' My friends had come to a stop briefly in front of a cosmetics shop on a corner in South Beach's Lincoln Mall. A small latina grabs my hand. I smile, Kam makes a little hoot, and I'm guided into a chair just inside the entrance.

She is beautiful, dark with jet black hair and what happens next is somewhere between that old dishwashing soap commercial with Madge ('It's ok, it's Palmolive'), a home visit from the Jehovah Witnesses and a lap dance. In retrospect, I realize this is an awesome metaphor for South Beach.

'Here.' She scoops out a tiny spoonful of what looks like salmon roe and puts it on my wrist. Then she gently rubs back and forth. Kam and his son look on, his son slightly dumbfounded that this is happening; Kam, my friend who loves Krishnamurti, Proust and cigars, just takes in the amazing funkiness of the universe. Rubbing complete, she  spritzes my arm and dries it with a towel. My arms are two different colors.

'See?'
I'm not sure whether she's critiquing my general cleanliness or there's some other point to be made. One arm is brown and one arm is almost white. The difference is noticeable.

'This exfoliator paste is very effective.' I'm now sure that she isn't critiquing my bathing and feel much better. 'It only takes a small amount. See?' I think, yes, that's true if one just wants to have a whiter forearm. Then she takes another container and puts a small dab of gel and the erotic rubbing commences again. Kam and his son have now seated themselves in chairs just across from me, both increasingly open to having this experience themselves. I wonder why she pulled me out of the stream of people in front of the shop. Does my greying hair make me a mark?

'Ok, now watch. Is this something that you normally use for moisturizing? I nod. She rubs some on both arms. The browner one is obviously greasy while my new white one absorbs the oil and feels nice. She channels her inner used car salesman.

'This exfoliator costs 179.00 and is a very good deal. It's a three month supply. That works out to only two dollars a day. You spend that on coffee, no?'

I nod. 'But I'm going to buy that coffee even if I exfoliate.' Kam snorts, but I don't think she understands what I mean.

'Now, if you take this cream and this facial massage product,' she slides the three together on the counter and I notice how well they are packaged, how beautiful she is and how her black dress clings enough to keep us all focused, 'I can include these also for that price.'

She picks up a bit too quickly on my unwillingness to commit. The equivalent is handing the books back to the Jehovah Witnesses after you've held them.

'But I can do a little better tonight.' She moves closer, making her statement seem ambiguous; are we still talking about the exfoliation crème? 'For all three, you can have them for 99 dollars.' She bats her eyes and holds me in her gaze. They must have a rigorous training program.

'Honestly, I can't see parting with 100 dollars for facial cremes tonight. I would really have to think about it and come back. What is your name? May, I really think you did a wonderful job selling and explaining your products.' She attempts one more breakdown of costs, competing products and overall benefits, standing well inside my privacy zone. When she finished, I had the distinct impression that I would actually be making money by purchasing her products and would also have a more vibrant sex life as well.

I stand up. 'Thank you so much, May. I will come back to you if I decide I need your products.' She smiles and we return to the milieu of the outdoor mall. Now we're looking for the son of David Gilmour, who may or may not be playing jazz guitar at the Van Dyke.