Day 60 of Double Bigamy (All the Way)…
Way out-out past the edges of town, out in the Interzone, out past the blinking lights and the model communities full of their zombie commuters… Out where not even the fascist big city’s councils can lay their finger on ya and a man retains his God-given right to own oh, I dunno, let’s say a Siberian tiger if and when he wants to own, say, a Siberian tiger… Way out there’s where Dana and I – the both of us – we bought ourselves a little place a few years back.
Not to live in, of course – oh, God no! That’s not our scene, man, and we don’t wanna wind up tied to a flaming stake with a buncha inbred cousins with pitchforks recitin’ Leviticus as our blackened flesh crackles in the noonday sun.
But the thing about this place we bought is that it used to be a small town bank, back before all the small town people packed up their small town money and went somewhere else with their town and what used to be the bank got sold to two big city lesbians for their weekend getaway place.
But still, in this weekend getaway place there’s a room we rather unimaginatively call The Vault, because it used to be the bank vault back when our weekend getaway place was still a small town bank.
And I feel I ought to point out here that in small town Texas, a bank vault really is a bank vault, and half of the banks in the Hill Country purport to have been shot up and robbed by none other than Bonnie and Clyde themselves, or at least some more anonymous and less flashy variation thereof.
So the Vault is a real thing of beauty. Every paranoid’s dream. Several inches of pure concrete, in fact, and once you’re inside you are inside and the world is out-out somewhere else and my God… you might as well be dead.
So naturally, I did what anyone with a concrete bank vault at their disposal would do in my shoes: I took out all the lights, padded the walls and the floor, and I made a sensory deprivation chamber out of it.
Now, as you’d probably guess, a sensory deprivation chamber is just the perfect thing for some peace and some quiet away from the hoot and the holler you’re always getting in the big city. It’s a great gag at parties or if you’ve got screaming kids or you’ve got a friend who has to detox her way through a steaming case of the DT’s for a while.
And ayahuasca rituals and run-of-the-mill black art divinations – there really are a thousand and one everyday uses for your top-of-the-line sensory deprivation chamber, and I find it un-fucking-thinkable that they don’t come standard in every home on the market today.
And I myself have logged in countless hours of Vault time over the years. Oh sure, I suppose I could count them, if the need ever arose… but suffice it to say it’s more time than I care to admit, really.
And so it goes – not all the time, but once in a great while – we’ll be up at our weekend getaway with some friends, and it just sort of happens, all spontaneous-like.
We’ll line ‘em up.
Get ‘em to sign the standard waiver (“I have been warned I might go crazy. I consent anyway.”).
Toss ‘em in the tank, one at a time.
Twenty minutes. Two hours. Whatever.
Your average joe, he will just get bored in the Vault. Maybe a little edgy. Maybe start worrying about whether he’s missing “American Idol” or somesuch.
But, you know, it’s all in fun and we’re all friends here and… Well, the Vault is very well-padded, at any rate, so there’s never been any real “incidents” of note.
Until this weekend…
(Part 2 to follow soon…)