Infinity Paradise Oblivion Cubicle
- Jan 29, 2021
- 4 min read
by Matthew Burnside
When you’ve finally had enough go to the designated vending machine, the one on the corner of Sidereal & Main, take out the little slip of paper—the one you pocketed from that strangely glowing misfortune cookie with the unique alphanumeric sixty-five-string-long-combination. Carefully punch in the numbers, letters, symbols. When it opens, squeeze yourself inside, close the door behind you, and upon hearing it latch shut forever with a pneumatic hiss, never go back to that dreaded place from whence you came. Life inside the vending machine will at the outset seem very crammed. Your back may have to adjust some, spine curving to acclimate to the crookedness of the interior, curlicue teeth of springs poking at your knees, hips, bellybutton. You may suspect you made a terrible mistake, but in time you’ll find it’s bigger on the inside. And it will be dark, very dark at first, until someone comes along to type in “lightbulb” at which point a lightbulb will appear over your head, granting you just enough grace to behold your own digits again. This is a reverse vending machine, you see, and people are more generous than you think—their donations will be gracious. Then one day some kind soul will type in “book” and “reading glasses” and, though it will still be a very tight fit, you will at least have something to clutch between your digits then, and even more, something to clutch in your mind. It will be enough, just enough, to distract from the lack of wiggle room. At this point most passersby will still grimace as they pass you on the street: What a life! Can you imagine being stuck in a tiny cubicle for eternity? Can you fathom what kind of person would voluntarily choose such a life? they’ll remark to their bewildered companions, as you ogle back face squished against the cold glass. It may be small in here but that doesn’t make the world out there any less smaller, you’ll think, returning to your book. You know what you’re about. One day someone will snap a Twitpic of you and you’ll go viral. Perhaps it’s just pity, but from that point on the more extravagant donations will flood in. Like I said, it’s bigger on the inside. This reverse vending machine expands. Is elastic—like all magic boxes. The litany of gifts will come in a stream, a rush of generosity: “Blanket” + “Good Tasting Food” + “Toilet” + “Toilet Paper” + “Wine” + “Comfortable Chair” + “Incense” + “Furry Slippers” + “Fancy Robe” + “Smoking Pipe” + “Newspaper” + “Record Player” + “Voluminous Collection of Records” + Etc. The passersby who previously grimaced at you will grimace no longer, instead growing slightly pink with envy: Why do they get all that free stuff? Why do they deserve it? Why not me? One day, a wealthy donor types in “Beach” and this, perhaps, is where the real trouble begins, when the trolls show up. “You can’t have a beach without a shark!” laughs one kid mischievously while typing in “Great White” . . . later, he and his friends nearly pass out watching its fin tracing its way toward you through the waves. The look on your face, flush and fear-stricken, paddling for dear life back to the sand. All the bad things come out of the woodworks, then: “Tornado” + “Bear” + “Centipedes” + “Booby Traps” + “Quicksand” + “Candy Corns.” Crowds gather to watch you struggle, escape the next novel scenario by the skin of your teeth. It’s televised, in fact, highest rated show in history, pre-approved for ten seasons. The donations turn wickedly imaginative, insidiously effective, determined by dial-in fan voting: “Carpet Made of Legos” + “Barbwire Bed” + “Bomb in a Birthday Cake” + “Rain of Needles.” In the season finale, finally another person is added into the mix but fated to end badly when the host types in “Heartbreak” which proves all the rage for ratings . . . all the punishment you’ve endured is nothing next to losing them instead. You want to weep but can’t, nothing comes out, because no one has donated “Tears.” Banging on the glass, you beg: Just me, please. Drag me through the abyss. Concoct a new hell every hour. But make it mine and nobody else’s. Well this is no fun, watchers will say then. This show has really jumped the shark! All donations will cease. No one will walk by your vending machine anymore and, in time, it will shrink back down to its original size. You will be grateful to feel the little springs jabbing into your sides again, your measly book that you’ve read a hundred times. Your one dim and lonely lightbulb. One day someone unplugs the machine. Silence is nice, darkness too, but only ever for a little while. One day vandals shatter the glass with a sledgehammer and you step back out into the world, never to return to that dreaded place from whence you came. Life outside the vending machine will seem very scary at first, very scary indeed. You may suspect you made a terrible mistake, but in time you’ll find it’s bigger on the outside.
Matthew Burnside is a writer.
