A bathhouse story

It’s probably a New York sort of thing that the craziest shit that happened to me last weekend was not the part where I got stuck in an elevator and had to call the obscenely hot, yet totally wasted on me, New York Fire Department. This did happen. I have two sisters and a few nieces and one thing you just sort of get used to is waiting around while they shop. If you’re lucky, it’s a vintage store and they’ll try on silly hats to make you laugh. Less lucky, when it’s Marshall’s and Woody had to come because I couldn’t leave him home all day. The niece and the sister were trying on shorts so I wandered off, or meant to. They had an escalator but we haven’t navigated escalators yet and I’m not sure I can convince him the metal jaws won’t eat his paws when I’m not entirely sure the metal jaws won’t eat his paws. But they had an elevator. So Woody and I boarded. A lady with a stroller boarded. The door closed, and didn’t open again for thirty minutes or so, and only because these guys pried it open.

Woody was a perfect angel throughout this ordeal and honestly the woman I was stuck with should thank him for babysitting as her toddler was much more interested in Woody than in her mom’s slow-burning panic attack. I don’t blame her for panicking a little. She did an impressive job holding her shit together considering we were actually stuck in a fucking elevator. I might’ve had a panic attack too. But I think I mentioned I was hanging out with family by which I mean I was stoned out of my fucking mind and just so fucking happy to find a bottle of water in my tote bag and kind of excited about firefighters. What if there was a hot dyke fire fighter. There wasn’t. But what if there had been.

That wasn’t the craziest shit. The craziest shit was I had promised to take my dad to the Russian Turkish Baths on East Tenth. Then everyone else decided they too would like to go to the “spa.”

The baths are not a spa. I tried to tell them this. This is not a spa. I’d never been, to be clear. I’ve never been to a spa either. But I’ve seen ads and movies and had conversations with spa-going friends. And I’ve walked past the baths nearly every day and since I googled them, I’ve been served their insta reels. That’s how that works. So I felt somewhat confident that this was not a spa and anyone thinking they were going to a spa should be disabused of that idea before committing.

I don’t actually know the name of this place. I flipped away to find the name of this place. That was two hours ago. I still don’t know the name. This is one of the benefits of the Russian bathhouse, which is what we’ll be calling it. You can’t use a phone when your body is no longer sweating but you have become sweat itself.

It starts with the taking of some amount of money as an entrance fee. You hand over your wallet and keys and are given a locker key on a rubber band. Then a terrifying Russian man, who may not be Russian. I talked to a Pole too. Or my dad did. My dad was already best friends with the Pole when I arrived to find my sister, her husband and kids, and my dad’s wife sitting on the steps outside the bathhouse. “Dad’s inside being Dad,” and “You know Joe,” are the things my sister and stepmom said. I knew what they meant. My dad’s who I only am when stoned—a chatty motherfucker who’s genuinely interested in everyone he meets. So now he’s best friends with half the dudes who work at the baths, and a young Polish woman who works the front desk.

Anyway. The terrifying Russian dude will ask what you want while two young Russian dudes hand you towels and prison slippers. This should be your seventh or eighth clue that this is not a spa. The first should’ve been my telling you “Dude. It’s not a spa. You keep saying spa and I’m worried you’re getting the wrong idea and you’ll be disappointed.” This was after the conversation about “Jesus. You have to stop saying the word bunion. I know. It’s fine. Everyone has them. It’s the word. You’ve gotta stop.”

The locker room is a something of a relief after the entrance. You could be forgiven for thinking oh, this place might not be the stuff of nightmares. It’s clean. They have a jar full of q-tips and a hair dryer. Yeah, it’s an open locker room and you tell your niece, “Dude. If you want to change in the toilet next door, I’ll stand guard.” But otherwise, mostly you wore what you were going to wear, but with a shirt. So it’s just remembering to take your watch off.

Then you go downstairs. That it’s down a narrow white tiled staircase is sobering. You come into a hallway. That’s all it is down there. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust. But then you’re in a hallway and there are a few people standing around looking like they’ve just gotten some bad test results and are still figuring out who to call. A couple finance bro looking dudes are in front of the showers, hyping each other up in bro-speak, but only they know what they’re talking about. You figure out on your own, because you can read signs, of which there are many, that you’re supposed to shower first. So you do. The water’s freezing cold. You think then, that you know something about freezing. You don’t.

You start with an impossibly steamy closet. And these are just closets. Not rooms. They are closets, four or five of them off the hallway. Each member of your party, you will learn, has gathered a separate but useful piece of information about this place. They all quote “someone” they heard. The information will be doled out slowly and usually too late to be of any use. “You go from hot to hottest” someone else says as they enter the steam room. Your niece says what you’re all thinking, “This is the hottest though, right?”