January 16, 2009
Would you be buried alive for a day? You’re guaranteed to survive.
Holy crap, this question scares the bejeezus out of me. Have you ever seen the The Vanishing – not the shitty American remake but the real one? The good one? The one where you never see Keifer Sutherland’s 2.0 breathalyzer blowing face? You should. But if you haven’t, so you know: A woman goes missing and her husband spends the next three years obsessively trying to find her. The crazy kidnapper makes contact with him and promises to explain what he did to the wife by showing him; the husband agrees to experience exactly what his missing wife experienced. Cut to the end: The poor, desperate husband is willingly drugged, awakes in total darkness, and realizes … HE’S BEING BURIED ALIVE.
I think that shit is right up there with “The calls are coming from inside the house.”
I feel like the fact that just writing that made me dizzy and twitchy should mean I wouldn’t do this, but this question is actually a yes for me. First of all, you’re guaranteed to survive. That takes care of 1) the torture of knowing your life will be slowly snuffed out through suffocation and 2) the anxiety of not knowing just how long it will take or which breath will be your last. I think I’d just treat the whole thing like a long flight: Take some Xanax, have a stiff cocktail and climb right into the box. It’s plenty dark in there and soundless (people actually pay to have this experience when the box is called an “isolation tank”), so I’d probably just sleep the whole time. And I love sleeping.
Then they’d dig me up and I’d be a millionaire. Tax free, bitches!
A million for just climbing into a light-tight environment and going to sleep? Sounds too good to be true. And in my case, it is. There is no fucking way that you’d get me into a closed coffin for any length of time, let alone a day. While I’ll admit that I actually like sleeping in tour bus bunks, a situation that has caused some less hardy folks I know to wake up gasping and screaming, it’s important to note that when in one of those you can always just stick your head outside of the curtain for some good old fresh air. You can’t do that if you’re buried in a box. Another thing I’ll admit: I’m one of those suckers who paid for an “isolation tank” experience. And you know what happened? After five minutes I was kicking, struggling, and sweating in the thermal blanket, and shortly thereafter the attendant had to come free me from the bonds of relaxation (and a full-blown panic attack). True story!