Let there be light

by RAF KATIGBAK

“Will you do it too?” V. asked with the unmistakeable half-excited/half-desperate tone of peer pressure. “It’s kind of scary and it’s better if you do it with someone. It makes you feel really happy, but I don’t want to do it alone.”

I had a to take a moment and think about it. I was also a bit scared. I heard that this shit will really fuck you up, like, some serious irreversible damage. Or maybe all that was just urban myth, you know, the kind of made-up bullshit fear-mongering the establishment uses to keep you in line, like the Boogie Man and AIDS.

But then again, I’ve seen what it does to people who abuse it. Sometimes I see them downtown, looking worn out and haggard, like zombies; their bodies, their lives, their families destroyed. “That won’t be me,” I convinced myself, “I know when to stop.” Was it a moment of weakness? Or maybe it was the danger of it, that giddy feeling when you know something is wrong, but damn it if you aren’t gonna do it anyway. Finally, I looked over at V.’s pleading eyes, “Fuck it,” I said. “Let’s do it. Let’s go tanning.”

The girl behind the counter had a small, square face, bleach-blond hair and was alarmingly pale. “Hi,” I said. “We would like to go black and never go back.” Without looking up she handed us a laminated card laid out like a diner breakfast menu. “Each row is broken down by the number of lamps, minutes and price,” she droned.

The smallest one was occupied so I opted for the next level up. “I’ll take medium rare,” I chimed. “First door on the left. Give me a sec while I sanitize.” She disappeared with a towel while V. and I perused the myriad of hi-end tanning lotion for sale. Was I feeling cheap and abstract, like the $55 bottle of Scientific Velocity? Or was I feeling more conceptual like the $75 bottles of Mind Eraser or Almost Famous? Perhaps I was feeling extravagant and wanted to spring for the $105 bottle of “designer tanning silk” called Black 20x…

I was led into the chamber and introduced to the ’90s futurist-looking pod that would soon transport me beyond time, space and good taste. I got naked and pushed the button. I wasn’t sure if I was more excited about climbing into something that looked like it was from Star Trek: TNG or putting on those weird eye thingies that make you look like that weird screaming guy on Scorpions’ 1982 album Blackout. The machine flickered on and I lay down with the door ajar, trying to position myself. I then realized that I didn’t know how. Palms up or down? I figured I had to keep my arms and legs spread so that I didn’t get any weird white racing stripes at my sides. Thing is, because of the curvature of the bed and the fact that it’s been greased up by so many previous clients, no matter how hard I tried to spread my appendages, they would just keep sliding down. I finally settled on a system where my legs and arms were propped up by small items I had in my bag: a sharpie, a high-lighter and my day planner notebook. Just as I was resigning myself to the strange untanned spots that would no doubt be left by these objects, something hit me like a punch in the gut.

It was a smell. Not just any smell, but a very particular mix of cheap perfume, tanning lotion and cooked meat that had me fighting to keep my lunch down. It took a moment to acclimatize, as I breathed through the mouth getting used to the taste of fake coconut, roasted human and JLo body spray.

Finally I calmed down. “Okay Raf,” I exhaled triumphantly, “how worse can it get?” Once I got the door closed and started baking, it hit me: I hate confined spaces. Especially ones that feel like I’m trapped with a stripper soaked in pina colada and launched toward the sun. What if the coat rack is over burdened and falls over, both short-circuiting the on/off mechanism and jimmying the door shut, trapping me until I emerged dark and wrinkly like a sweet fried Filipino sausage? Could I reach my phone to call for help? Would it explode because of the UV radiation? Holy shit, am I lying in a human fucking microwave?!

And just as I was about to completely lose my shit, just as I was convinced I was about to explode like a burrito that’s been zapped on high for 10 minutes, the fans whirred down. The thing shut off, and I was left in the dark silence, cold, alone and naked, but relieved. After a moment, I realized I was even more than relieved. Beyond the fact that I didn’t die a fiery death in a human George Foreman grill or end up permanently disfigured like an Asian Freddy Krueger, I actually did feel happy. In the foyer, V. asked me how it went.

“Well I feel like I crawled up a Moroccan bodybuilder’s ass,” I said, “and I think I can still taste the coconut and Zubaz, but it was totally worth it.”

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA