‘But you’ve never actually stood in one, and standing is all you could do!’ You hear the Bright Young Guy mansplaining to the Bright Young Girl with him.
They have convenience at their fingertips, these Gen Zs. Too many choices, on silent first thing, last thing, and in the middle of the night, and they regard this exhibit as romantic from their distance. But they’ve never known the lived experience of the thick and heavy, pissy and fuggy. You had to trudge out in all weathers, no longer able to bear sitting on your mum’s wobbly hall chair and poking your finger through the infernal curly cord with its impossible knots nobody could unwind, while stimming your way through cross, puzzling, exciting, devastating words with your friend/lover/sibling/boss. (You learned ‘stim’ from the Zoomers).
Instead, you glided your thumb down the little metal ridges on the cord in the vertical urinal, just thankful it was in working order. You made do, as you fidgeted your way through cross, puzzling, exciting, devastating words with your friend/lover/sibling/boss.
They were sturdy, you could say that for them. None of the words slipping beneath the door to be overheard by im/patient people out there stamping their feet with cold, or passive-aggressively peeling back their sleeves to regard the time, silently rolling f-bombs under their tongues and forcing you to turn your back on them for an ounce of privacy. You felt their accusing eyes on you – time’s up – whenever you shifted to your other foot, sensed their huffing when you fed in more coins.
Once, when you were fourteen, you hitch-hiked to an autumn fair with your sister without considering how you would get home to the holiday farm your parents had rented in the middle of nowhere. When the fair finished, you both squashed into the kiosk in the village square, looking in the yellow pages, writing down taxi numbers with her Max Factor eyebrow pencil. But the numbers just rang out or were engaged. The people waited outside, patiently at first, the British way. You saw the queue grow, but you didn’t know the etiquette and you needed a taxi. For your sister’s sake, if nothing else. You were the elder. It had been your idea to thumb a lift. You were in there for so long. When you and she finally emerged into the crisp night, mission still unaccomplished, one of the queuers shouted, ‘Why don’t you take the bloody phone box with you?’
But you got home. You drew upon your Boomer knack of hanging about in the village pub until some country stranger offered you a lift.
You observe now how the piece de resistance is pretty authentic, tucked, as it is, into a dim alcove. The curator approaches, tweaks the lighting. At once, the recess is transformed with an eerie hue.
He gestures to the kiosk, opens the door. ‘You can go inside for a more immersive experience.’
You take the door from him, remembering its weight, and your relief after someone replaced the receiver and collected any unused coins. There’s even a dialling tone soundtrack here as you pick up the receiver. Simulated car lights flash through the glass periodically.
And then you are back there. A view of litter bins and the empty bus terminal. You’re 27. Isn’t that a vulnerable age? You have no sister, no father any more. You’ve fallen out with your mother irretrievably. You have no work and you drink too much. Your relationship is toast. Some of your own wiring has come loose and you don’t know who you are or what the point is anymore. People don’t talk about mind things, so you have to make these furtive sorties. There are many abortive attempts before you finally do it. But someone at the Samaritans probably saved your life that day.
You stay here a while, head bowed, arm trembling. As you emerge, Bright Young Girl is passing, Bright Young Guy trailing behind and ogling some other retro exhibit. She’s already clocked the tears you thought you’d concealed. There’s concern in her eyes. She is putting an arm out and offering you a tissue.
You accept, knowing that, in all likelihood, your Old Cynic persona will also be toast.
Kate Rigby is widely published and has been writing for many decades. She writes mainly edgy or retro novels, flash fiction, short stories, and poetry. She is currently writing memoirs. Late in life, she was diagnosed with autism and ADHD, which has been life-changing.
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