The tanning beds at Foxy Jeans were housed in the back room, side by side, twin coffins containing the sun. For twenty-five dollars a month, you could tan as often as you wanted. Adventurous types availed themselves of the complimentary Playboy stickers provided by management. They placed the decals on their naked bodies, a white mark preserved against their darkening skin. Most never lined up the stickers the same way twice, the icon mutating until it looked as if the bunnies had been born after a nuclear accident, the product of a poisoned land. I could never bring myself to seal my body into one of the beds, trapped in the artificial brightness, no matter how many women flashed me a hip, butt cheek, or cleavage adorned with their deformed bunnies, proud of what they’d done, assuring me it was worth the trouble.