Once Over Lightly

" Once Over Lightly "

The Salon looked innocuous enough. It sat quietly in the corner of a small suburban Plaza. " New Age Tanning Salon" read the corporate logo, in large and colorful letters. The lights glowed brightly through the early morning gloom. " Open 24 hrs., beckoned the flashing neon. It was a welcome that few apparently resisted.

A string of people, in all shapes and sizes, lined up at the doorway, awaiting their turn to receive the tanning treatment. More out of curiosity than vanity, we decided to give the place a try. A " golden tan" is a much sought after cultural icon in our society, particularly in the Winter months. That is, unless of course the tan is " factory installed. Then, quite perversely, the process is reversed and the "paler" the complexion, the higher one ranks on some confusing social scale. I never could figure it all out.

In any case, our turn duly arrived. We chatted briefly with the healthy, smiling clerk who was manning the computer at the front desk. She asked our size, age and weight, and then looked us over for skin type and coloring. We felt like a Turkey, just after chatting with the chef about the best oven temperatures to use.

We were each assigned a cubicle. Then, the bubbly attendant punched in some cryptic instructions to the computer that controlled the entire tanning complex. Everything was pleasant and cheerful. The hallways were well lit and the rooms had the aura of a bright and cheery bakery.

Inside the cubicle, there were hooks for clothing and a deadbolt to fasten the door. The "tanning bed, for lack of a better term, looked like a combination of a new age coffin and a large toaster oven. The " basting bulbs " ran longitudinally along the base of the rectangular structure and inside the ceiling of the hinged cover. Dark red eye pieces were provided, to protect the sensitive corneas of the eyes from the ultra violate rays. I wonder if KFC has this much consideration for its' chickens?

After you arranged yourself in a prone position, on the bed, you had to push the start button on the apparatus and pull the cover over you. The pulsating ultra violet rays then bombarded you from all directions. Rock and Roll, from a nearby speaker, and at a raised decibel level, performed a similar function on your exposed brain. Both sizzled from the onslaught.

The mind wanders when lying in these new age frying coffins. "How long have I been in here?" " Did Dr. Kevorkian's secretary make a mistake in the computer commands?" " What if I am left in here for an hour? " All of this uncertainty blossomed, to a rhythmic syncopation of unadulterated hard rock, that rattled the cranium.

Finally, after what seemed an eon, the machine shut off its' lights and whispered to a halt. I did my best Bela Lugosi as Dracula impression, when opening the hinged hood, and sat up slowly. Did I have a golden tan yet? I dressed quickly and left the salon, amidst pleasant good wishes from the staff of the facility. I had the creepy impression that they were sizing me up for something. It left me with a macabre shiver. Scores of other patrons were still in line, patiently awaiting their turn in the microwave coffins. They were various shades of color, from pale white, to honey colored brown. Some looked like the Rock & Roll was gently grilling their gray matter a little too quickly.

We had signed up to return at least once a week for the next few months. But, now we were having second thoughts. Amidst all of the people who were crowding into the salon, we noticed that some few were not coming out. Occasionally, an attendant with the company's logo on his uniform, would come out and drive away in one of the parked vehicles. It didn't happen too often, so that anybody would notice, but regularly just the same. Where were the owners of the vehicles? I'm sure it was some type of courtesy valet service. What else could explain it?

On our next weekly visit, we repeated the entire procedure, including watching the car valet service afterwards . This time, we happened to notice a large freezer truck, with the company's log emblazoned on the side. It was parked behind the salon, at a loading dock of sorts. Curiosity drew us in closer. After a short time, two uniformed attendants emerged with large packages wrapped in butcher paper. These were placed in the freezer unit of the truck. The process was repeated several times. What could they possible be removing from a tanning salon?

We quickly tired of our surveillance, and headed home to dinner. Whatever was going on at the Salon would have to wait for another time.

The demanding routine of the weeks' activities soon commanded our full attention. The peculiarities we had seen at the salon soon faded into the background. It was about that time, that the local newspaper began to report on an alarming number of missing persons in the area. There was no apparent explanation in most of the cases. They were all solid citizens, with jobs and families, that had just simply disappeared.

An unnamed wag in the Police Department joked that the only similarity involved was that most of the missing people had been "on the portly side. It was being cynically referred to as the "missing mountains" case by the more hardened detectives. Not in public of course, they wouldn't be so indelicate. But, these things have a way of getting spread around from one gossip to another, along the usual back alley grape vine.

I read of the events with as much dismay as everyone else, but soon became preoccupied with the daily business of life. It was the '57 Thunderbird that first aroused my suspicions.

In an interview with a local reporter, regarding one of the recent disappearances, the anxious spouse had asked the public to be on the lookout for her husbands prized possession, a 1957 Thunderbird. If the vehicle was found, the man could not be far away, she tearfully related.

I didn't think too much of it at the time, until I saw the Thunderbird at the tanning salon the very next day. Now, most people might not know what a 57' Thunderbird looks like, but I do. It was an unattainable trophy that we admired while we were growing up. The sleek angular lines, of the low slung vehicle, were designed like the solid propulsion rockets of the early fifties. It had both looks and performance. I remember admiring the lines of the vehicle, as the uniformed attendant drove off with the car from the salon. I also remember thinking that I don't know if I would have trusted a parking valet with such a prized possession.

So, somebody who had lived near me and used the same tanning center had disappeared. What is the world coming too? Crime keeps getting closer and closer to us, even out here in the suburbs.

Our routine continued, week after week. We were developing a light tan on our bodys, but we seemed to be getting mentally sluggish and apathetic to things that used to interest us. I no longer cared about the valet parkers or the freezer trucks that appeared at the salon regularly. I wanted but to feel the artificial warmth and the deadening sonic rhythm of the accompanying Rock & Roll. We increased our visits to two per week and then three. We were beginning to look like a walking version of a brown stuffed sausage, with a vacant eyed stare where intelligence had once shined.

It was the broken eye piece that saved us. While readying to perform the tanning ritual, I discovered that one of the red eye pieces was broken. I exited the cubicle and walked up the hallway towards the front desk, to ask for a replacement. As I was about to round the corner to the desk, I heard two of the attendants talking. " About three more visits for that short heavy guy, in cubicle 43, ought to do it, said one. "Yeah, said the other, " he ought to dress out at about 150 pounds, after we debone and gut him.

I didn't make the connection, until with a jolt, I realized that "I" was the short heavy guy in cubicle number 43! What the hell were they talking about ?

Even with a brain dulled by massive doses of hard rock, I realized that something here wasn't quite right. I collected my wife and after shushing her a dozen times, we made our way out of the facility and off into the night.

Now, picture taking a story like this to a hard bitten police officer, who is already over worked and pressed for time. I thought that it would be a better lead, if I mentioned the '57 T-Bird and let the mystery unravel from there. I didn't begin to get into what I really thought. I was afraid that they would put me in the booby hatch and forget about me. There was enough suspicion raised however, to warrant a plain clothes surveillance of the Salon. God bless the maker of T-Birds!

I avoided the salon from there on, and after a few weeks, began to forget about the whole affair. The Police, as usual, were closed mouthed about an " investigation in progress." We went about the usual business of living our daily routine.

A few months later, I happened to be driving by the old tanning salon, and noticed that it had gone out of business. The windows were boarded up and the interior gutted. I wonder when that could have happened?

Curiosity again piqued me, and I phoned the detective that I had first talked to about the '57 T-Bird. He was somewhat cryptic in his comments. He advised me that he couldn't really comment on the results of the investigation.
Then, he asked me the strangest question that I could ever have expected. He asked me if I ever ate a specific brand of locally produced pork sausage. I told him " no, I am a vegetarian. " Good" was all that he would reply. " That's good to hear. Further inquiries on my part proved futile, and I hung up the phone more confused than ever. Life gets " curioser and curioser."

It was about that time, that the paper noted that there hadn't been any missing person cases in months. They also made note of something else that seemed a little odd. A local pork sausage manufacturer had gone out of business. Now, I wonder what the heck that was all about ?

Joseph Xavier Martin