2002:May:8 Not far from here, there is a water- ice booth that does more business than any in the area. From opening to close, a fleet of quaking pickups descends on this tiny Fotomat of a building in the center of a broiling parking lot. The big deal is that the woman in the booth wears a bikini, which, out of context, makes a lot of men in giant trucks horny enough to pay four dollars for frozen lemonade. It must be the juxtaposition of a fragile, fertile human body against a cracked and littered, tar-reeking cesspool, that attracts them. I mean, the beach (where people are pretty much nude) is not that far away. But the idea of this one woman spending the day with all of that horse power and sexual angst bearing down on her, just makes me sad. She must witness a lot of feeble desperation- guys who believe they will one day find a small bit of perfection, of cleanliness, far away from the politics of the stereo store, bank, or construction site for a bank. They line up for an infinitesimal shot at permanent pleasure, a reminder of the bliss once suggested by their mothers or baby sitters. Their frion sickness or sun stroke is temporarily washed away. But it's just a water-ice stand. That's why all of these places: strip clubs, dentist offices, hair salons, bikini car washes, Fox News; they all remind me of the suicide booths from Welcome to the Monkey House. I suppose it's a concept as ancient as Odysseus, sirens and all. But when you consider its current manifestations, the future becomes just as vivid as a Hooters billboard. As we, Generation X (sorry), tip the population scales to a senior citizen majority, hobbling around, childless, still looking for irony on TV, I can see well designed suicide booths becoming a boom- industry for the smaller generation of nihilists raised on Grand Theft Auto and Slipknot. The booths will be small, and positioned near the Piercing Pagoda, which will by then of course be a lip-disk, flesh-hook-suspension pagoda. (or tattoo removal) You will be able to choose from a variety of "hosts." Men will browse a menu beginning with Winona Ryder and ending with the woman from Fashion Emergency. Women will choose from a pantheon highlighting a young Rasputin and the guy from Incubus. The lights will dim and someone will play Smells Like Teen Spirit and/or a Helen Reddy song on a piccolo. You'll view super8 films of ancient bowl-cut children climbing on truck-tire jungle-gyms. Then there will be a Karaoke option to last as long as you would like, though at your signal the room will finally mist over, begin to smell like almond extract and then....you know. This is becoming more depressing than I thought it would. But I do remember feeling like I was in a suicide booth, once, when I worked on the GM assembly line for two days in 1988. By the middle of the second day, demented, and with hands that, as far as I could tell were broken in several places, I asked to see the nurse. In stark contrast to the rest of the plant, the medical office was carpeted and air conditioned and the nurses were very tall and seemingly conjured from confectioner's sugar and candy cigarettes, a heavenly antidote to the gang of dim beflanneled auto workers on the other side of the door. I lie on a crisp hospital bed and the nurses washed my hands and wrapped them in gauze, after which, I would have done just about anything to avoid returning to the greasy, sweaty psychotic minutia of the assembly line (If you've ever worked in one of these places, I'm sure you understand.) During that short respite, if I had been unaware of a larger world-with blue skies, books, and Freedom Rock-I would have gladly accepted a purple pill and a farewell kiss on the cheek. ›comments[0] ›all comments ›post #5 ›bio: todd ›perma-link ›5/8/2002 ›09:47 ›archives ›first post ›that week
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