I fear the Apple Store. It’s a disorienting cross between a Los Angeles hotel lobby, the place where everyone over 30 gets killed in Logan’s Run and the headquarters of Hydra ™ ®. The protocols for attracting a staff member seem inexplicably opaque, like the rules for bidding in an auction, or initiating a new friendship. They induce mild panic attacks and my heart flutters as groomed twentysomethings, who could be customers or staff, waft by me, geishas for Steve Jobs’s ghost. Why aren’t there any queues? Can I just sit in here quietly and eat the things from my bag? Is there a duty free section?
In the Apple Store, I never know if a commercial transaction is taking place, or if I am just involved in a continuing discussion about my “needs”, a situation I admittedly find replicated in my dealings with my therapist and people generally. And there is now a raised area at the rear of the Regent Street branch in London that suggests a ziggurat. Here, ancient Aztecs tore out people’s hearts to appease Quetzalcoatl, a sacrifice still less demanding than the financial one required buy a new Apple laptop. When I mentioned, to the charming young man attending me, that the shop design made me think of the death rituals of the winged serpent worshippers, he just smiled, as if I were complimenting Apple’s bold aesthetics. But I will have to go to the Apple Store again. Soon.
