"Why?"

The Booth. Located deep in the heart of the Mojave Desert, 75 miles southwest of Vegas, 15 miles from the nearest highway, stuck out in the middle of nowhere like an afterthought’s afterthought. What was it doing here? More importantly, what were we doing here? Well, we were here to fix it. We’d just gotten up early on a Sunday, left our wives and daughters behind to fend for themselves, and spent five hours driving 240 miles to see this phone booth just because it had been busy when we’d called it. We’d come to hang it up so we could go back home and call it and hear it ring. And the damned thing wasn’t off the hook after all. It was out of order. Damn. What do you do when you’re stumped in the middle of the desert? Take a leak. That’s one of the pleasures of being men. No matter how bad a situation is, no matter how miserably you’ve failed, no matter how powerless you feel, you can always whip it out and pee standing up. If you’ve got enough saved up you can even write your name. So we wrote our names in the desert and took some solace in that.