All You Need Is Morbid

Tactile Darkness

or, Seeking Out that Dry-Mouth, Heart-in-Your-Throat, I’m-Going-to-Suffocate-in-the-Dark Feeling

I suspect that claustrophobia is the most common fear, one faced by rational beings whenever nightclubs are jammed body to body, buses are packed like sardine cans, airplane seats are the size of TV dinners, and the only way to the exit is over the backs of everyone else. How long have we known that they couldn’t really evacuate the cities in eight hours?

My claustrophobia, even if rational, hindered me. If fear faced is fear mastered, then I had to get wrestling with mine.

The old Exploratorium at the Palace of Fine Arts was a hands-on science museum that topped everyone’s list of Where to Go in San Francisco. Inside the museum, past the giant pin-pressions screen, the spin-it-yourself models of gas giants and tornadoes, the cow’s eye dissection booth, and the xylophone room, rose the Tactile Dome. Advertised as “a pitch-black crawl-through tactile experience,” it was open only by appointment.

For me, the Tactile Dome provided a chance to confront my claustrophobia. When friends of my friend Ron scheduled an hour inside, Ron invited me and Mason along.

Ken, our Explainer, told us to empty our pockets and remove shoes, socks, belts, earrings, dangling necklaces, rings that came off, and watches. We complied like children, rustling and giggling.

No light sources were allowed inside the maze, Ken said. Liz had considered buying a glow stick in the Exploratorium store. I’d left my flashlight, unintentionally, in the car. Just as well:  no temptation.

Glasses had to be left on the desk before you went into the maze. If you wore contacts, Ken recommended keeping your eyes closed. He said that wouldn’t be a bad idea anyway.

He had a two-way radio and would check on us several times as we went along. He mentioned that he could hear everything we said, so “Be careful.”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve heard?” Liz asked.

“Well… This woman was saying,” he grinned and made his voice squeaky soft, “‘How do you like the feel of this?’ and ‘Do you like it when I touch that?’” In his normal tone, he spoke over our laughter: “The funny part was that when she came out, she wasn’t with her husband. She was really embarrassed. This guy worked with her husband, but she didn’t know him that well.”

Back to business, Ken said he’d let us through in groups of three, but we could go in couples or alone. We each could go through three or four times, depending on how much time we took. Who wanted to go first?

I told myself to relax. If I panicked, Ken would rescue me. It couldn’t be too bad or they’d have some sort of disclaimer. I resolved to do this. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t go through a second time.

I felt better after Ken checked in with the first group. No one had freaked out yet, but I felt ready to get it over with. For me, the dread is always the worst part. Mason and I went as the third group. As if we entered a haunted house on Halloween, I asked Mason to go first to ward off the bogeymen.

Padded cylinders, swaying like punching bags, filled the first room. Light trickled in from the lobby, enough that I saw tiny flowers on the corduroy of the closest bag. You had to shove the bags out of your way, then dodge before they swung back. I fought my way to the back wall and discovered rubbery fabric covered it. When I couldn’t find the entrance to the next room, panic swarmed up from beneath my heart. I gritted my teeth, determined not to give up before I experienced real darkness.

“Found it,” Mason said. “Let me have your hand.”

Gripping his fingers steadied me. The opening rose high enough that you could walk upright on your knees, flailing with your hands. I didn’t test the ceiling height for fear of aggravating my claustrophobia.  Instead I crawled all the way through on my hands and knees.