There are more than 50 rooms for rent. I'm told they're all occupied, but if I want one, they'll call my locker number as soon as one opens. I pay my 17 bucks and get a numbered padlock and a key. I sign a temporary membership card affirming that I am a gay man and warning that if I am not, I am thereby invading the privacy of those inside. This card describes the Chute as a gay men's health spa which enables its members to explore the issues of identity and spirituality.
Snakebite kits are available behind one counter.
The Chute reminds me of a Halloween spook house, groans and all, except the heads jerking up and down in dark corners are not exactly bobbing for apples. I navigate a labyrinth of intersecting passageways made of wood and corrugated steel, lighted throughout by dim, red bulbs and lined with numbered doorways. Some doors are closed. Others open into small chambers where naked men lie intertwined, or sit alone, towels around their waists, whispering invitations as I pass. They are uniformly white and middle-aged, and most could use some time in the mirrored gymnasium situated next to a cramped locker room in the center of the warren.