The shops near the hotel were the kinds that sold paper-thin Florida T-shirts, ashtrays, key chains, coffee cups, stuffed animals, and the other commodities of the tourist trade that one feels compelled to purchase when they're more than a hundred miles away from home. Sun-dazzled from a walk on the beach, Janice, too, spent more time ogling these trinkets than she might otherwise have.
The first place that she stopped in was a sprawling structure topped with a corrugated steel roof that sat just off the beach. A sign in the building's gravel parking lot proclaimed simply "Flea Market."
Inside, there was a carnival of stands and small, open shops. Janice passed one where a young Vietnamese boy sold fake Rolex watches. A stand where a Mexican woman made her examine the quality of the vinyl luggage she offered.
She came to a shop on the corner of the main thoroughfare. A sign near the shop's entrance read "ARE YOU KILLING YOUR NAILS? DO YOUR NAILS CHIP, SPLIT, CRACK OR BLEED? THEN YOU NEED BELINA'S NAILS."
A half dozen color Polaroids showed hands whose nails were seriously diseased. Some were thick and yellow, like an animal's claws. Some were split to the flesh, and a pinkish ooze welled from the cracks. Some simply had been gnawed, and were scabbed with old blood.
A large, dark-haired woman wearing a garishly printed caftan stood up from the table at which she sat. "Let me see your hands, young lady," she said in a commanding, Slavic-tinged voice.
"No, uhh, that's OK," said Janice, trying gently to extricate her hand from the woman's plump, tight grip.
"Nonsense. Here, sit."
Resigned to the demonstration, Janice took the proffered seat.
The woman touched each of Janice's nails briefly, rubbing over their ridges, tapping the cuticles. Janice squirmed in the metal chair. She sometimes bit her nails, and she was not comfortable with people looking at her hands.
The woman, however, had no problem drawing attention to her hands or any other part of her ample form. She must have been in her fifties, and she wore at least one ring on every finger. Her face was lit with wide swaths of rouge and eye shadow, framed by large hoop earrings and dense, black hair. Her nails were beautiful; wide, tapered and shiny red.
The woman did not let go of Janice's hand. "I am Belina. Your nails," she made a dismissive gesture, "are a mess. What's your name?"
"Janice."
"Well, Janice, let me demonstrate what I can do for your nails. You like, you buy."
Since Belina showed no sign of letting Janice's hand go, she felt resigned to accept the offer. "Sure."
Belina took a small, tan-colored cloth and buffed each nail on Janice's right hand.
"On vacation?" Belina asked.
"Yes, from Chicago."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a secretary for an advertising firm."
Belina took a bottle of a clear, strong-smelling substance. She used a little brush to apply the liquid, and then removed it with a cloth.
"No wonder your nails are such a mess," she snorted, picking up a thick wooden wand, one side of which was covered with fine sandpaper. As Belina's strong hand held hers, moved the wand back and forth over the nails, Janice relaxed, loosened the muscles in her arm.
"Feel good?"
"Yes," said Janice. "It feels wonderful."
)
