The Booth.(Kevin Hughes) Author's Preface:
Way back in Junior College, just after breaking up with my HS sweetheart…I wrote a Story. That story was called: “Booth.” Now remember, this was the era of “free Love”, “Bob and Carol, Ted and Alice,” and a feeling of expanding and exploring: your mind, your sexuality, and your spirit.
Drugs were for tuning in, and getting a glimpse of the Universal truths. Not for escape or to hide from depression or anxiety. It was a whole different “vibe.”

In my story some fifty two years ago, folks who wanted to “hook up”- simply went to a booth (picture an old fashioned glass Pay Phone Booth) and there they had their fingers pricked to check for any STD’s, or Contagious Diseases of any kind.

Once your blood work was cleared you were treated to a menu of things you agree to do with your new partner.
Down to the littlest detail. Like whether you can kiss on the mouth, or with tongues, or any of a host of things two eager young people might want to explore using each other's bodies.

Once you both agreed on what you would, or would not do, the booth printed out a contract. And you had to abide by that contract. If you said you would do something, and then chickened out, well the other party could still do it to you…because you signed the contract…in blood. Your blood.

The contracts were as short as an hour, or as long as two weeks. Anything more than that and you had to go back in the booth and update your wishes.

The only long “contract” was if you decided to have a child. In that case you had to agree to stay together until the child was 18. No exceptions. But even monogamous childless relationships had to be updated every year.

If, after a year, you didn’t want to be together, you just went to the booth and cancelled the contract. And that was binding. And if only one of you wanted to quit…too bad. You had to learn to live without them, because you couldn’t ever contact them again, unless they invited you to a booth for a renewal.
Usually though, both parties were fine with it.

That was the basis of my original story fifty two years ago. This is the updated, well into a new century adaptation.

I kept the title:

“Booth.” By Kevin Hughes,


******

She glanced at the Booth. It sat quietly in the corner of the Bar. Shimmering like a crystal, but subdued by a soft glow so as to make it …well, unobtrusive.

She had seen many of her friends meet someone, flirt for a while, maybe chat, and then slip into the Booth. Then they would come back out with their “receipt” signed with a tiny drop of their blood. It was really a contract.

Most of her friends only contracted for an hour. Some for four hours. And every once in a while, 24 hours. She thought that was too long to hang around a one night stand. I mean, really, if you just had some chemistry triggered by alcohol, or the horny's, what do you do after you fool around? I mean you don’t use the Booth to talk to someone. Although, she thought quietly, you probably could.

She had never used the Booth. She had a natural fling in High School, with a boy she had known for years. It was fun and kinda neat to discover each other and our bodies too- she thought back.

Without Bills to pay, jobs to hold, and going home at the end of each day to our own individual families, made it so easy.

It only took six months of living together to realize that was not a real love, just puppy love. Real world things brushed it aside like emotional lint.

Her friends had warned her:
“I know you two have been together for like ever…but use the Booth. Ask it to point out red flags. See if it would recommend even a two week contract. That’s what it is there for!”

She didn’t use the Booth. She thought it was scary enough that with that single prick on your finger, the Booth knew if you had picked up any contagious diseases, including STD’s. It could tell you your genetic make up, to include your phenotype as well. And it did a cursory scan of your brain in a tiny helmet you had to put on after the finger prick.

So nobody was ever going home with a serial anything anymore. Dating was no longer dangerous. The only thing you could hurt, were your feelings.

Sometimes the Booth would restrain, and not release someone filling out a contract…much to the surprise of the other person. In those cases, tragedy was avoided by the Booth sensing something was off.

Ted Bundy would have never picked up a single woman, nor would Jeffery Dahmer have managed to lure a single guy over to his place. The Booth brought those kinds of predators to a complete halt.

She was kicked out of her reverie by a nice sounding voice:

“I saw you looking at the Booth. Watching out for a friend?”

She looked up ready to say it was none of their business. But when their eyes met…she stopped cold. She could see his kind intentions…it was in his eyes. She held those eyes for a beat too long. She knew because he blushed almost immediately. Red heads do that - she thought.

“No. I was just wondering what it would be like to …you know…go in one.”

His smile and words were both warm and safe. Not a hint of condescension in either.

“Don’t tell me you have never used the Booth?”

She shook her head. He liked the way her hair moved, and the soft whimsical smile on her face melted what was left of his heart after that long look she gave him.

“How is that possible? I mean, you are stunning…and sweet. I bet almost every guy in this bar (he looked up in the air for a second- and smiled) and not a few women either- would love to take you into the Booth.“

She told him the truth.

“I am scared of it.”

“Scared? Why? It will do everything it can to keep you safe. And those contracts are binding. So they can’t do anything with you that you haven’t already agreed to.”

She shook her head again. Pointed to the seat across from her, clearly telling him to sit down without saying a word.

He did.

“You sure you want to hear my story? It isn’t a long one. Nor is it anything special.”

He laughed.

“I don’t even know your name yet." (Pregnant pause and one raised eyebrow)

She laughed. He liked that laugh.

“Darlene. Darlene Lanka.”

“Kevin. Kevin O’ hara.”

“That explains the red hair.”

He laughed. She liked that laugh.

His next line made her spit out part of her beer.

“Yep. 96% Irish according to Ancestry or the Booth. “

“What’s the other four percent?”

“Alcohol.”

That did it. She made him laugh by her answer.

“Well, that makes you 100% Irish then.”

They talked for an hour. Then another hour. Then the Band started. They danced for the whole evening. She told him she didn’t want the evening to end.

“My place…or yours?”

He asked with shy sincerity.

Once again, she made him laugh.

“Mine. Yours probably doesn’t have a single thing that matches in it.”

He took her breath away when he took her hand and said:

“If you are there with me, that is the only match we need.”

A year later they went back to that same Bar, on the anniversary of the day they met. She looked over at the Booth. He caught her looking.

“Think we should go in?”

She smiled.

“No. I don’t think we need it.”

“It will tell us if we are meant for each other, what our red flags are, and when we might fall out of love. It can monitor all those things …and more.”

She reached over and touched his finger tips with hers.

“You think we need a Booth to tell us what we have?”

He laughed.

“Nope. That’s what you are for.”

She threw water in his face, with no intent other than fun. He laughed as he spluttered.

“No Booth. Got it.”

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