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The Confession Booth
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It was midnight.
I stood in the plaza of the Seattle Art Museum and pulled
my collar tight against the seeping rain.
I stared across the street at the doors beneath the
flashing marquee of the Pink Pussycat
Theater.
A few people hurried past, but there was no one near
me in the large stone plaza, but for Hammering
Man, the two story high black metal statue outside
the Museum’s doors. For the past half hour I had
stood there, and every eleven seconds Hammering
Man’s motorized arm had swung down, as
if he wanted to smash me.
I’m being ridiculous, I thought. What if someone
from the firm sees me? I’m leaving.
But I stayed. I stood there in the rain because ten
minutes earlier I had seen Peter Simon, the Managing
Partner of the firm, and my mentor— go inside the
Pink Pussycat Theatre.
The minutes went by. The rain slipped past my collar
and chilled my neck. I wondered how people could ever
want to work out of doors. I like working in a snug
office, with its grey carpeting, recessed lighting and
controlled climate. I like the view from the top two
floors of a downtown skyscraper. I like having a secretary
who answers my phone and processes my words. I like
being a corporate attorney.
I looked at my watch; Peter Simon had been inside twenty
minutes. What the hell could he be doing?
I scooted out from beneath Hammering Man’s lowering
hammer, strode across the street and under the garish
marquee that flashed: Safe
Sex Is XXX-citing Sex!
I opened the darkened glass door, expecting
to feel something sticky on the handle. I wished I had
gloves on, and a hat I could pull down to hide my face.
In the darkness there was loud, pulsing music. A woman
was half-singing, half-moaning “Oh, baby!”,
over and over and over.
I went down a curving hallway that had dozens of half-doors
built into the outer wall. Men, milling about the hallway,
were going into and coming out of the half-doors. From
behind each door I passed came the sounds of women groaning
and gasping. Beside each door was a sign, Quarters
Only!, and a full color poster of climactic
scenes from the sex-films to be viewed inside.
Above each door were lighted signs: red for In
Use, green for Available.
I thought that Peter Simon could be behind one of the
red-lighted doors. I gasped, “My God! Peter!”,
and felt equal amounts of pity and contempt. He had
been my hero; the smoothest, most successful, most prestigious
attorney I had ever worked with. How could he be one
of these shadowy men, these perverts, moving in the
darkness?
That thought made me worry that someone among these
men might know me, see me, and think the same of me.
I kept moving. In the deepest part of the curving hallway
I noticed a large glass window built into the wall.
Through the window I saw a woman with long black hair,
wearing a purple negligee and reclining on a small,
gold painted bed. Next to the window was a full-sized,
green door. A poster beside the green door had color
photographs of the black haired woman wearing a purple
bikini. Large letters above the photos said, APPEARING
11PM — 3AM: Tiffany!
The green-lighted sign above the green door said, Available.
I went out of the theater certain that Peter Simon had
been behind that green door, and had left the theater
just before me. Yet, when I stood again in the drizzling
rain I was swarmed with guilt. Having stumbled upon
Peter Simon’s ugly secret, why had I felt compelled
to investigate it? Why hadn’t I just turned and
walked away?
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This story will appear in Velocity Nine Stories of People In Motion Autumn 2008 Published by Green Flash Publishing |