It’s a structure made from wood panels and torn out, pink insulation. Catch it quickly and it looks like a shelter for homeless, only without a roof and a northern wall. If you head west on rt. 40, just out of Tucumcari, New Mexico, snap your head toward the far right side of the highway, as you’re pointing the front end of your 1972 454 Plymouth Roadrunner toward a flooded Los Angeles, and there she is. The graffiti-tagged Fuck Booth welcomes all doomed retirees, caravan dwellers in search of some nostalgic Route 66 shit, or thousand-yard-staring young men fresh out of film school heading for that Tinseltown toilet of a city, with big dreams of working the dirty dishes at Musso and Frank’s.
Fuck the meteor crater in Arizona, fuck the petrified forest in Navajo county, and fuck the Kachina dolls and shitty arrowheads that American Indians sell on the sides of this concrete snake. The Fuck Booth is the quintessential landmark out west. Nothing else needs to be seen.
I despise the American Indian. He looks at me as if I stole it all from him. All of what? I’m a lousy immigrant who hates this land and its human melting pot concoction. And the American Indian who wants to eviscerate me can suck my Middle Eastern dick. We’ve been chopping heads in the name of Hammurabi for thirty-seven hundred years; no fucking cold stare from some leather face pseudo chief with a weathered cowboy hat and cliché snakeskin boots can take my doomed ass down. My hatred for all men in general far exceeds his. No country should be for men; old or young. My grandpa owned pigs and chickens and pissed on the walls inside his house every night, drunk and demented, while he beat every living, breathing soul inside that concrete bunker. The animals got theirs in the morning, while he worked through his hangover. My father only managed to hike it up one small notch above that. One very small notch. I was brought here against my will. So fuck the American Indian who looks at me as he looks upon every white man.
If you blink twice you’ll miss the Fuck Booth. You’ll cross the continental divide into the Cibola Forest, chasing after the sun and subtracting hours from your ETA. It’s all weird perception; man-made cage with golden bars: drawn-out frontiers and timelines.