A Great and Dreadful Day - Part 1

[_Doctor CamNC4Me]

Bob,

Why don't you publish? I'd straight up by anything by you on Kindle/Amazon, whatever. You're an author, my friend.

- Doc

[_Bob Bobberson]

- THREE -


When Sam drove back from Misty’s apartment in Reno, his truck began to make a strange knocking noise, and when he tried later to start it, the engine wouldn’t turn over. He wound up having to call Misty to take him to work. The next day he had Mike come down to try and give him a jump, and then the two of them tinkered under the hood until they gave up and decided that it would have to go to the shop. So, Sam was essentially marooned in his house at the edge of town. Misty offered to let him stay at her place, but he told her that he needed a little space, and though she sighed in exasperation, she told him she understood and that the offer still stood. He didn’t care, though. More and more, his mind was occupied with thoughts about Mormonism, and so he was anticipating the missionaries’ next visit.

Their second arrival happened in precisely the same way it had happened before: they knocked, Sam answered, and there they stood, wearing what seemed to be the very same clothes: suit jackets, ties, white shirts, and shining black nametags. Parked a bit off in the distance were two bicycles.

“Come on in, guys.” He said, and they both enthusiastically shook his hand.

He was glad to see them. Since they’d last visited, he’d made several more attempts at praying, and he continued to spend time reading the Book of Mormon. He tried to devote at least half an hour every day to making his way through the often dense text. Every time he read it, he felt a sense of calmness, almost like he was floating. Though he didn’t understand everything the book said—its archaic language and strange names often seemed foreign to him—throughout all the reading, Sam felt unaccountably that there was at base something fundamentally true about the Book of Mormon. He couldn’t explain how or why he felt this way.

The two young Elders walked into the living room and sat down.

“It’s so good to see you again, Mr. Younger,” said Elder Miller.

“It’s great to see you guys, too. And you can just call me Sam.”

“Okay, Sam.”

They sat down on the couch, both cradling their scriptures in their laps. “Well,” said Elder Miller, “Do you mind if we open up with a prayer?”

“Go for it,” said Sam. He watched them both with extra care this time in order to see how they did it. They folded their arms across their chests and shut their eyes and lowered their heads till their chins were resting on their chests. Elder Miller seemed to have moved into a state of deeper concentration, and his voice took on a more sonorous tone.

“Dear Father in Heaven,” he began, “we come before thee this afternoon to thank thee for all that thou hast given us. We thank thee for leading us to Sam, and we’re so grateful for his kindness in allowing us into his home. Father, we pray that we will have a clearness of thinking this afternoon and that our hearts will be open to the spirit. We pray that thou will bless us with the power to discern that which is truthful, and that which is false, and we pray that Brother Younger’s heart will be open to the promptings of the spirit. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

“Amen,” chimed Elder Cummings, and Sam added one as well.

The two missionaries both looked up at him and smiled.

“So,” said Elder Cummings, his smile spread wide on his chubby face, “have you been reading the Book of Mormon?”

“I have.”

“It’s really something, isn’t it?”

He thought about that. “Yeah, it is,” he said at last. “And I never thought I’d be saying something like that. Back when I was—” he was about to say, “in prison,” but he caught himself. “Back when I used to hear these guys carrying on about the Jesus, or the Lord’s word, or the Bible, or any of that stuff, I always thought they were crazy.”

The two Elders glanced briefly at each other and smiled, passing along some kind of private acknowledgment. “Well,” said Elder Miller. “Last time we told you some of the basics about the Church, and so we’d like to continue with that discussion.”

“Okay.”

“Today we want to talk about our Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation.” He knitted his fingers together and leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “Each of us has the chance to move beyond this world,” said Elder Miller, staring out at him intently. “You see, part of the plan is that each of us has to live a mortal life as a kind of test. But we’re all promised eternal life. This is the result of Jesus having died for all of us. Does that make sense?”

Sam nodded, and Elder Miller went on: “We still have to work and fulfill the terms of Heavenly Father’s plan in order to achieve exaltation, though. We believe in being saved through ordinances.”

Elder Cummings was nodding, and he added, “There are three degrees of heaven. Each of them is pretty great—greater than life on earth, but only the truly righteous and obedient will make it to the highest kingdom.”

“That’s the Celestial Kingdom.”

“What are the other kingdoms?” Sam asked.

“The Telestial and the Terrestrial Kingdoms. The Celestial Kingdom is the very highest degree of glory. The Terrestrial Kingdom is for people who have lived righteously, but who didn’t fulfill all the terms of God’s plan. And the Telestial Kingdom is for those who committed bad sins, like murder.”

“Oh, okay.” Sam frowned. Did this mean that he would be relegated to the lowest kingdom? “I think I understand what you’re saying.”

“Don’t worry! I mean, I’m sure you haven’t murdered anyone, right?”

“No, no. No murder here,” he said.

“Well, then, you’re fine! And besides, if you were to get baptized into the Church, all of your sins would be washed away. It’s like a totally new start.”

“Huh. Okay. I got to admit that this is a little confusing.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to understand every last little thing at this point,” said Elder Miller. “The main thing is: Do you understand what happens to us after we die?”

“As I understand it, we go to some kind of afterlife.”

“That’s right,” said Elder Cummings. He was pointing at Sam and nodding his head, like a teacher expressing approval for a student. “That’s exactly right.”

“The important thing to remember is that, if you’re righteous, you’ll be resurrected, just like Jesus was, and your spirit will be reunited with an eternal, glorified version of your body.” Elder Miller glanced up into one of the corners of the room. “You know,” he said, touching himself over his heart, “it always really gets to me, to think about Jesus’ sacrifice for us.” The familiar tremor came into his voice: “Sorry,” he said. “I just get kind of emotional about it, it’s just so wonderful. He died, so that we could live on after death, and that’s just…”

“It’s amazing, is what it is,” said Elder Cummings. “What you need to know, Sam, is that there are some obstacles in the way of achieving Heavenly Father’s plan.” A cold shimmer came over his face. “Basically, it all comes down to something pretty simple. What it comes down to is a battle between good and evil. Each of us has our own free agency, and so we can choose to do good or evil. And that’s basically what our mortal lives are about. You see, we’re being tested by Heavenly Father. He’s testing us to see how we’ll act. Each of us is given a certain set of challenges, in order to see how we’ll react, and in order to see whether we choose to do good or evil. And the thing is, all of us will sin,” said Elder Cummings. He had a bit of a double chin which was emphasized as he leaned forward. There was a very slight darkness beneath his eyes, and his voice had lowered to a soft hum. “We can’t help it. We’re human beings, after all, and none of us is perfect. At least not in this life. But, we can be forgiven for our sins if we repent. Heavenly Father will forgive us for our mistakes. It was Jesus’ sacrifice for us that allows this to happen.”

“I’m still confused,” said Sam, shaking his head. “Some parts of this I get. Jesus died on the cross so that we can all have eternal life. Is that right?”

“Yeah—that’s right. You’ve got it,” said Elder Miller.

“And each of us will receive eternal life, no matter what.”

“Yeah, you’ve got it.”

“So, why do we need to worry about sin, then?”

Elder Miller grinned. “Boy, Sam, if only every investigator was so on top of these basic gospel principles as you.” He and Cummings chuckled.

Sam smiled at this, though he didn’t know why. It seemed almost like they were laughing at him.

“The answer,” Miller continued, “goes back to what we said earlier about exaltation, and the different levels of heaven. Plus, you’ll just plain be happier if you keep the commandments. I know that I always feel a little bit lighter in my step when I do the right things. Heavenly Father blesses us when we’re obedient to his will. If you sin, you’re just going to bring misery down on yourself. You’ll feel guilty. You’ll feel depressed. You’ll feel alone. But if you genuinely ask Heavenly Father to forgive you for your sins, you’ll be forgiven. The main goal, in achieving eternal exaltation, is to live your life following the example of Jesus.”

“But obviously, none of us can live as good a life as Jesus lived. So, that’s why we have repentance.”

“This is an absolutely a key part of the gospel,” said Elder Miller. “One of the most important things. Reading the scriptures, keeping the Sabbath holy, obeying the Word of Wisdom, all those things are important, key parts of the gospel, too. But the main point we’re trying to get acrost to you is about repentance.”

“What’s the Word of Wisdom?”

Elder Cummings tilted his head to the side, his lips curling at the corner of his mouth. “The Word of Wisdom is kind of a general guideline that was given to Joseph Smith by revelation. Basically, it just tells you to avoid unhealthy substances, like tobacco and caffeine.”

“Do you drink tea or coffee or use tobacco?” asked Elder Miller, smirking slightly.

“Yeah, of course I do. And I’ve smoked since I was a kid, though to tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking a lot about quitting lately. But coffee? Is that really forbidden in the Mormon Church?”

“In the LDS Church,” Elder Miller corrected. “And yeah, that’s really something you’d want to try and give up. But we can work on it!”

“It’s basically just good, healthy advice,” added Elder Cummings. “All that stuff is bad for you. The caffeine can’t be good for your heart. I’ve known people who drank too much coffee and they said it felt like their heart was going to explode out of their chest!” He had tucked his hand beneath the left lapel of his jacket, and his eyes were wide.

Sam laughed. “Well, okay,” he said, “I guess Heavenly Father probably knows better than I do.” It tasted strange coming out of his mouth, saying “Heavenly Father.”

“Yes! That’s exactly right,” said Elder Miller. “In the end, each of us has to make sacrifices. It’s all part of Heavenly Father’s plan. We each have to face our own set of challenges.”

“That makes sense.”

Elder Miller shrugged his shoulders a bit, and looked over at Cummings. Then he turned his thin, rather wolfish face back to Sam and said, “Well, there’s just one thing more to cover for today. We actually touched on it a bit before. And that’s baptism.” He coughed into his fist, and then he went on. “What I’d like to do is to invite you to think about getting baptized and becoming a member of the Church. We’d like you to continue praying and reading the Book of Mormon, and to consider getting baptized.”

“Tell me more about how it works,” said Sam.

“Well, in order to fulfill Heavenly Father’s plan, there are certain ordinances—certain ceremonies—that have to be performed. These things have to happen, and they have to be done by someone with the right authority. Among these ordinances is baptism by immersion, and what this does is it washes away all your sins. You get a totally clean slate after that.”

“Normally,” interrupted Elder Cummings, “what happens, if you’re a member of the Church, is that you get baptized when you’re eight years old. But, the main point is that everyone has to be baptized in order to achieve true exaltation. This is an important step in bringing us closer to Heavenly Father. It’s part of his plan.”

“And this is what inducts you into the Church?” asked Sam. “After you get baptized, you’re officially a member of the LDS Church?”

“Yep, that’s right.”

“I see.” He thought about all of it for a moment, and it was clear they were waiting for him to respond. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m ready for that quite yet,” he said.

Elder Miller held up his hands: “Oh, no, no! We don’t want you to feel rushed at all. This is an important decision, after all. One of the most important decisions you’ll ever make in your life.”

Sam could not detect any irony in Elder Miller’s expression.

“We definitely don’t want to you agree to get baptized until you’re ready.”

“All right,” said Sam. “I kind of wanted to get further along in this first anyways.” He tapped the Book of Mormon which was sitting on the table beside him.

“That’s great,” said Elder Miller. He coughed into his fist again and cleared his throat. “In the meantime,” he said, “we’d like to invite you to come to church with us this Sunday. Would that be all right?”

“Yeah, that’d be terrific. I’d like to learn more about all of this,” he said. “You guys might need to give me a ride, though.”

“I’m sure we can arrange that,” they said, and they stood up to depart. Elder Miller held out his hand: “Well, thanks again—so much—Brother Younger. Keep on reading that Book of Mormon, and keep praying about it, and we’ll be back to see you on Sunday morning, at 9 o’clock.”

“Sounds good,” said Sam, and he shook both their hands and they were out the door. Through the curtained window beside the door, he watched them go. Miller gave Cummings a playful shove as they made their way down the dirt path. When he had been their age, he had been smoking marijuana, drinking beer, listening to heavy metal cassette tapes, getting into fights, and wishing that his life was something other than it was. Things had scarcely changed since then, and he found himself wishing that his life was more like theirs: clean, polished, earnest, and with clear direction. Looking forward to a clean and honest future, with a pretty wife and three or four children. He watched them climb on their bicycles and pedal away, and then he let the curtain fall.

There was little to do. He could watch television, but didn’t much feel like it, and so he wandered into the kitchen, where he saw the coffee pot and remembered what they’d said about the Word of Wisdom and having to give up caffeine and cigarettes. Sam wondered how hard it would be and considered throwing all of it away on the spot. He stood looking over at the trash can near the sink, wishing in a sense that he could peel off his skin and throw it away, too. He felt half-born, like he was moving out of some stale womb and into a new state of being. It was like straddling a doorjamb. At least, he thought, Sunday wasn’t very far off.

He went back into the living room and sat down in his chair and began reading the Book of Mormon. After a few minutes he found that he wasn’t retaining anything, and he felt almost as if he were about to nod off. In the background he could hear the electric hum of the refrigerator, and then, almost imperceptibly, he heard a very small, quiet, childlike voice: Get down on your knees and ask if it’s true. At first he wondered if it has simply been in his head, though it clearly wasn’t the normal voice that narrated his thoughts. It was something else. He set the Book of Mormon down on the end table and he got down on his knees, closed his eyes, folded his hands in his lap, and he began to pray.

“I just want to know if it’s true,” he said softly. “Just tell me whether it’s true or not.” He opened his eyes and sat there, drawing in long, measured breaths. His body was swaying almost imperceptibly and he was aware of the warmth of his own clasped hands. Everything was still, and he looked around the living room. It looked exactly the same as it always did, with everything in its usual place, and as Sam knelt there on the carpet, with his shoulders stooped forward and his neck bowed slightly, something came over him. It was something that he would never be able to explain—not in his entire life—and he would never forget it. Without warning, a tidal wave of sensation came crashing over him, and he began to cry. Not to sob, or to wail in grief or pain, but to weep: the tears poured from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He felt as if he was being torn apart by emotion—by joy and by a tremendous sense of wonder. What’s wrong with you? he asked, and he laughed at himself, at what he imagined he looked like: a big, hulking, tattooed man kneeling on the shaggy brown carpet of his living room, crying for no apparent reason. He unlaced his hands and held them up and looked at them, and they were shaking. He let them fall back to the floor and he realized that the missionaries had been right. They had told him the truth. He’d done as they asked, and his prayers had been answered.

He used the sleeve of his t-shirt to dry the tears on his face, and he climbed to his feet to go get a Kleenex so he could blow his nose. He felt both drained and elated. He went into the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror. His eyes were reddened from crying and his cheeks were flushed. Under any other circumstance, he would have said that he looked pathetic. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, and yet he didn’t quite feel ashamed about this. He felt instead as if a light had entered his body, and more than anything he wanted to protect the sense of completeness it gave him. Standing there staring into the mirror, his eyes were drawn to the edge of the tattoo that showed beneath the edge of his shirtsleeve, and he began to edge his way back to the world. It wouldn’t be much longer before he would have to get ready for work, and he didn’t want to go. It would be yet another night of drunks, strippers’ melodrama, cigarette stink, and the general desperation of people who had given up on life.

“What should I do?” he asked. He half expected the small voice to return and tell him, but it didn’t, and it didn’t need to. He knew with a special, sacred clarity that he no longer wanted the life that he’d been living: he was through with his job at the strip club, he was through with cigarettes, with alcohol and drugs, with tattoos, and with Misty. All of it would have to go. During his time in prison, the counselors had often spoke of turning over a new leaf, of setting different kinds of goals, and of creating new opportunities, and Sam had always dismissed this advice. Now things were different, though. He now saw that there could be change, provided that a person simply had faith. He made up his mind that, the next time he saw them, he would tell the missionaries that he wanted to be baptized.

In spite of all his excitement, though, there was a small part of his mind that urged him to be more cautious, but he filed this away for some other time. What if they refused to allow a person like him into the Church? But now wasn’t the time to think about such things. Now was the time to start over, and to make a real and legitimate change, once and for all.


Next: a difficult confrontation....

[Guest]

- FOUR -

That night, Misty did not show up for her shift at The Ember. When Sid came around to ask about her, Sam shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know where she is,” he said. “I haven’t seen or heard from her in a couple of days.”

“You two have a fight or something?” asked Sid, coughing into his red silk handkerchief.

Sam again shrugged his shoulders, and went back to tending the bar. It was a slow night. He had managed to hitch a ride into work with Delilah P., who also lived in Lahontan, over in the tree streets subdivision near the elementary school. On the ride out, she explained every last character detail and plot twist in some soap opera that she watched compulsively. The only thing that was striking about her account was the apparent level of earnestness she had invested in the show. It was as if she didn’t understand that the people were fictional characters; she seemed to think that their lives and dramas were worthy of legitimate sympathy and respect. Then again, Sam knew (he had slept with her a couple of times a while back) that she had a deep, almost alarming sensitive streak, so it really wasn’t that much of a surprise.

At the club, he kept pouring fingers of Black Velvet for a low-grade alcoholic regular who worked as a slot machine repairman at John Ascuaga’s Nugget. Later, Sam got to take a break from serving beer and straight-up hard stuff when he shook martinis for a hippie-looking couple who said they were from Oregon. The night took on a woozy, fogged-over quality, and Sam felt agitated by his nicotine cravings, but he put his head down and did his best to ignore the gnawing. He kept drinking cranberry juice, since he’d heard that it helped to flush out the system.

At around midnight, Trina R. came teetering over on her heels with a dour look on her almost clownishly made-up face. Sam had never understood why she caked it on so heavily. She was a little worn and weathered underneath all of it, but at base, without the façade, she looked like the sturdy country girl she once had been. She sat down on a bar stool and waited for Sam to come over.

“Misty needs you to get in touch with her,” she said, leaning in.

“Why? What’s up?”

“I don’t want to say too much here, you know? Like, it’s just not the right place to be talking about this kind of thing? But I talked to Sid, and so he knows why she’s out. You just need to go and talk to her.”

“Okay, I will. Did she say for me to stop by her place tonight?”

“No, she needs to rest up tonight. Just call her tomorrow and talk to her. Okay?”

“Well, Jesus, is she okay? Is something wrong with her?”

Trina R.’s eyes shot back and forth and she nodded her head in the direction of a couple of patrons: Not here.

“All right,” he said. “I can get a ride over there tonight if I have to.”

“It’ll be okay if you just get in touch with her tomorrow.”

Trina smiled at him and patted him on the hand, and then she asked him for a lime and soda water, and he moved away to make it, wondering what on earth was going on. Misty had once admitted that she had attempted suicide when she was younger, and Sam hoped that this wasn’t a redux of that. And it had to be something along those lines, otherwise Trina would have simply told him what was up.

The next day when he got up at around 1:00, Sam called Misty, but she didn’t answer. He went about his routine, showering and having breakfast, and he cheated and smoked a cigarette. Then he tried calling her again, and she answered. Her voice was hoarse and she sounded drunk or drugged, which was more or less what Sam had been expecting.

“Hey, you,” she said.

“Hi.” He listened for a moment, wondering what to say. “Missed you at work last night.”

“Yeah, I know. I had a long day and was feeling kind of sick. I feel better today, though. Hungry. Can you come and get me and take me to breakfast?”

“Yeah, I can do that. I’ll have to go get my car out of the shop, though. Can’t you maybe drive out here? We could go to McGregor's.”

“I don’t really feel like driving,” she said. It sounded like she might start crying.

“Well, all right. I can call around and see if someone can drive me over to the shop. Otherwise I guess I could just walk.”

“Would you? I just really—” her voice cracked. “I just really need to see you.”

“Do you not want to tell me what’s up? Trina said you needed to talk to me.”

“Not over the phone,” she said.

“All right. I guess I’ll be over there ASAP. Give me an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

They hung up and Sam stood there wondering what new drama Misty was about to unveil, though by now he had a guess, and it wasn’t pretty. He called over to the shop, to check on his truck, and the mechanic told him that it was ready to go. They’d replaced the alternator and he could pick it up any time before 5:00. He picked up the phone again and dialed the number of Kevin, a guy he’d met by way of Mike. He wanted to know if Kevin, who owed him a favor after he’d helped him move into an apartment near the new golf course, could give him a lift. Nobody answered, though, so Sam pulled on his coat, got his wallet and keys, and headed out the door.

Outside, it was cold and dry, and the sky was a light shade of bluish grey. Sam walked down the quiet street in his neighborhood, past the little houses with their dead lawns and spidery, leafless trees. At the edge of the subdivision was an empty irrigation ditch. Sam slipped a little on the muddy slope as he crossed. There was a gusty, intermittent wind that was blowing down out of the mountains, and it numbed his nose and cheeks. Sam stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, and he went through an empty, sagebrush-strewn field, and he stepped through the railroad tracks that ran parallel to Main Street, and then he walked the rest of the way along the road, down to the repair shop. His truck was sitting parked right alongside the main garage. He went into the office and paid with a check. The guy behind the counter was young—maybe 19 or 20. He was wearing a chewed-up ballcap with some kind of rodeo logo on it, and he had on a big, silver belt buckle. Sam thanked him when he handed over the keys.

He turned on the radio as he drove to Reno, watching the light play off the red and purple walls of the canyon beside the road. He really wanted to smoke a cigarette, but he fought off the urge. When he came around the bend into Sparks, the sun was shining down in distinct columns of light that broke through the thin clouds. Sam could actually see the beams of light as they shone down on the city.

When he arrived at Misty’s apartment, he knocked on the door and waited. He wondered if she was taking a nap, and then she opened the door. She had obviously just gotten out of the shower and was struggling to pull herself together. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair, tied back in a bulky pony tail, was still wet. She was wearing jeans and a Wolf Pack sweatshirt. She had on no makeup. She seemed to sag as she stood there in front of him, and he shut the door and held out his arms and she fell into them.

“Oh, I missed you,” she said.

“Hey, there,” he said, cupping the back of her damp head as she snuggled her face into his chest. “Jesus,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just glad to see you. And I’m freaking starving. Can we go to Denny’s?”

“Yeah, sure. No problem,” he said. He waited for her to lock the door of her apartment and then they went down to the truck. As they drove, she asked a series of rapid-fire questions: about work last night, about his truck, about the latest news, about the weather. It was as if she was trying to keep her mind occupied, or else she wanted to prevent him from asking any questions, and so he didn’t. Instead he went ahead and told her that he’d met with the missionaries again, and that he’d agreed to attend church with them this Sunday. When he said this, Misty went silent and stared out the passenger-side window.

“Is there something wrong with that?” he asked. “I was halfway thinking that maybe you might like to go, too.”

“No,” she said after a while. “You go on ahead. If you want to become a Mormon, if that’s what’s going to make you happy, you go right ahead and do it. I won’t stop you.”

They pulled into the Denny’s parking lot and Sam noticed Misty wince slightly as she hopped out of the truck. He went around to help her and to make sure she didn’t slip on any ice.

Inside, the waitress tried to sit them at a central table, but Misty insisted that they be given a booth near the back corner. Sam took off his coat and tossed it on the seat and watched Misty ease herself gingerly into the booth, and then he sat and looked at the menu.

“Do you think I should get breakfast, or a burger?” Misty said.

“I think you should get whatever is going to make you feel better.”

“Anything will make me feel better,” she muttered. “God, I’m starving.”

The waitress came back and they put in their orders and when Sam looked across the table at Misty, he thought she looked pale and ghost-like.

“So, what is it that appeals to you about the Mormon Church?” she said.

He wondered if he should tell her about what had happened to him yesterday after the missionaries had left, but he knew she wouldn’t understand. In fact, the likelihood was that she would laugh at him and think that he was stupid and weak for breaking down like that.

“Well, I don’t know,” he began. “The missionaries, for one thing. I kind of wish I’d done something like that when I was that age—something with direction, you know?”

“What, robbing people and sleeping around isn’t a real direction?” she was grinning behind her straw.

“Ha ha. Very funny,” he said. “But seriously, I just think it would give me some more direction in my life. And there’s something else, too.”

“What? That God came and talked to you?”

Just then, the waitress came with their plates of food, and they both immediately dug in. Misty cut up her pancake with her fork and sluiced it with butter and syrup.

“Mmmm. So good,” she said.

After a couple of minutes, Sam tried to pick the conversation back up: “Do you really want to know?”

“Do I really want to know what? Whether God came and talked to you?” She laughed, and there was something nervous and shaky about her mannerisms.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” he said. “But, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to go to church this Sunday, and keep looking into it. If I decide it’s not for me, then so be it. But I’m keeping an open mind about it and that’s that.” He dipped a fry into ketchup and ate it. “So, now it’s your turn,” he said.

She wiped her mouth with her napkin, and with an air that seemed almost defiant, she glanced up towards the pebbly, grease-and-smoke-stained ceiling and said, “I had an abortion.” Her eyes settled on him and watched for his reaction.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” said Misty, a half smile on her face.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said.

“Tsshhh. Well, that’s pretty damned fitting, isn’t it?” She lowered her voice, as if she were trying to do an impression of a dumb jock: “I doh know whut to say. Really? Seriously, Sam? Is that all you’ve got for me here?”

“Well, what the hell do you want me to say? You just drop a damned bomb on me like that. I mean, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“What do you mean, “Tell you what?” Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant? Furthermore, how did you even get pregnant in the first place? I mean, what the “F”, are you not getting your shots anymore? What the hell?”

“Oh, yeah, sure: just try and lay all the blame on me. It’s not like you had any control over your dick or anything, is it?”

“Jesus Christ, Misty! The least you could’ve done was damned told me!”

“You would have just tried to talk me out of it.”

“Yeah, no crap I would’ve tried to talk you out of it, what do you expect? My God, Misty, what kind of a….”

“What kind of a what? Go ahead, Sam, Mr. Big Man. Go ahead and say it. Go ahead and say exactly what you think I am, Mr. Big Old Meathead tough guy. Grow a pair of balls and say it.”

“I never should have drove out here. Hell, I never should've—”

“Oh, that’s right. Now look at you, you little chicken.” She was still half smiling, sitting comfortably self-possessed now across the table, coiled up like a cobra.

“That’s e-nough,” said Sam. He was practically growling, and in a brief moment of clarity, he realized that they’d raised their voices by one too many decibels. Out of the corner, a guy with a fat gut, a yellow collared shirt, a loosened tie, a grey mustache and a grey comb-over was striding over. He tugged on the legs of his slacks so that he could squat down beside the table.

“Look, folks, this is a family establishment,” he said,” and so I’m either gonna have to ask you to keep it down and keep it PG, or else I’m going to have to throw you two outta here.”

Sam shot back: “Piss off, would you?”

The manager, whose brown nametag said, “Rick,” laid his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and that was the end of it. He grabbed Rick by the wrist and twisted his arm around. Then he laid his hand upside Rick’s face and shoved the man backwards into a nearby table, knocking over a glass of ice water. There were gasps from other diners, and the silverware and syrup holders on the table rattled.

From back near the counter, someone was saying, “Call the cops. Just go call the cops.” Off in a separate corner, a child was crying. Sam stood over Rick, who was holding his arm up to shield face. The guy’s shirt was soaked through from the ice water and his pink flesh showed through the wet fabric. Sam again felt a hand on his shoulder and he spun around to face Misty.

“You stay away from me. I don’t want anything to do with you. You hear me? Nothing. Don’t call me, don’t talk to me, don’t look at me. You leave me the hell alone.” She recoiled from him, shrinking away, and he felt bad as he watched her sinking backwards. He grabbed his coat off the booth seat, and hustled for the door. Near the cash register, a couple of the cooks, still wearing their aprons, had come out to see what was going on, but they backed away as soon as they saw him. Even in his anger, there was a part of him that felt badly about leaving Misty to find her own way home, but he’d had more than enough of her games and manipulation. He turned the key in the ignition and drove off.

When he arrived home, some forty-five minutes later, he was still angry. Ever since he had been a teenager, he’d had a penchant for getting entangled with messed-up women, and a part of him still wondered whether or not Misty had been telling the whole truth. Only Misty knew for sure what was going on, and she would never cough up a real answer—that was the point. With her, as with so many of the women in Sam’s life over the years, the point was simply to set up one escapade after the next. Sometimes the outbursts were silly, sometimes they were intensely worrisome. Sam felt rung out and exhausted, and he had the evil sensation of actually feeling that, if Misty had been telling the truth, he was glad, since it meant that he didn’t have to deal with her anymore. Except at work. There would be no way to avoid her at the club. Maybe he could talk Sid into firing her.

He stared dumbly at the television set, and his eyes drifted down to the Book of Mormon that was on the endtable. He picked it up and thumbed through it, and considered asking God what he should do. That’s what the missionaries would have advised him to do, isn’t it? He set the book aside and knelt down on the floor and prayed, and as the words escaped his lips, he felt his anger subsiding, and before long, a sense of calmness radiated through his body. Once more, it seemed, he had been given a clear message about what to do. He felt like he had purpose and direction.

The next day, he put in his two weeks notice at the club.


....Next time: On surviving a car crash....

[_Juggler Vain]

Friendly tip: If you follow Brother Oberson on the Twitter, he gives you insights and updates on his great and dreadful work.

[_Bob Bobberson]

- FIVE -

SCENE ONE

Near midnight, along Highway 93, just north of Pioche, beside the Utah border. Very cold, with a piercing banshee of a wind blowing down out of the Schell Creek range. A green Ford pickup, its high beams glaring, weaves drunkenly across the dotted center dividing line, and then over onto the shoulder. Behind the wheel sits Frank Woodburn.

FRANK [to no one in particular]:
Blacker than a hatful of assholes out there. Wouldn’t want to be walkin out in that stuff. [He burps loudly and wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. It’s clear that he’s been drinking.]

There are tiny, icy flakes of snow that come rushing in towards the windshield. They swarm like insects in the light of the high beams, and Frank is entranced by the sight. He leans forward, squinting into the cold night. In the corner of his vision he sees a WELL-DRESSED MAN walking in the middle of the road.

FRANK [flailing at the steering wheel]: Oh my God!

There is a loud, sickening THWOMP as the Well Dressed Man’s body strikes the front of the truck and he goes flying up the hood and into the windshield, which immediately crumples into a spider-webbed mess. The truck’s tires SQUEAL as Frank slams on the brakes. When the truck comes to a stop, Frank sits there panting. Now that the windshield has been cracked, Frank’s breath is visible in the form of steamy gouts that come out of his nose and mouth.

FRANK: Jesus, what did I do? Oh, lord, oh, lord….

He takes a flashlight from the glove compartment and climbs out of the truck and goes around to get a better look at the Well-Dressed Man, who is lying askew on the pavement. Frank kneels down beside the man, who is wearing a navy blue peacoat, and beneath that, an olive-green three-piece suit.

FRANK: Hey, buddy? Can you hear me? Are you alive? Christ, what in the hell was you doing out here just walkin? At this time a night?

He pulls off his glove and feels on the man’s neck, and then he leans his head down to listen for breathing noises.

FRANK: Hey in there! Can you here me? You’re hurt, but I ain’t gonna just leave you here to freeze to death. So, I’ll get you on over to the clinic.

He gets his arms underneath the Well-Dressed Man’s body and lifts him up.

FRANK: Dang, buddy—you’re as light as a feather!

Frank manages to get the man into the bed of the pickup, and he covers him with a tarp. Then he climbs back into the truck and drives off. He fails to notice that there is no sign of blood, either on his truck or on the pavement.


SCENE TWO

Inside the 24-hour medical clinic—a glowing, fluorescently lit place, smelling of ammonia and medicine, with shiny, well-polished linoleum floors. In the office sits DR. WHITMAN who, like Frank Woodburn, is also drunk at this hour, though in his own mind, this does not prevent Dr. Whitman from being a good physician. He has the radio on, tuned to an AM talk radio station broadcasting out of Los Angeles. Tonight it is a Science Fiction radio program from the 1940s.

DR. WHITMAN [in his mind]: How often does a doctor really need a fully clear mind to deal with the one-in-a-thousand medical problems that befall the robust and healthy citizens of Pioche? Not very often, probably. It only takes so much mental clarity to operate a stethoscope and sphygmomanometer, only so much open-eyed attention to administer a B-vitamin shot. So, each day at 6:00 on the dot (only real alcoholics start drinking any earlier), the first gin and tonic. Pouring from the pebbled bottle of Seagram’s into one of the three tumblers in the bottom drawer of the desk office, put away two cocktails per hour at the most. Normally close up shop at 1 o’clock, head home to sleep it off, and re-open the office at 9 a.m. If anyone needs me in between those hours, it’s generally known that I will need to be dragged out of bed. In twenty-five years of practice here in Lincoln County, it has happened less than a dozen times. Tough cases just wind up getting re-routed to Vegas or St. George anyhow.

There is a tapping noise, and Dr. Whitman puts his tumbler down and twists the volume knob on the radio. He climbs to his feet and wanders down the main hall of the clinic and sees FRANK WOODBURN rapping at the glass. The doctor goes and unlocks the door.

DR. WHITMAN: Frank? What’s the deal? You need a bed to crash on?

FRANK: Well, I didn’t know what to do, Dr. Whitman—I just didn’t know what to do, whether to go get the Sheriff, or to come and see you. What I figured was that the best thing was to come here. Your place is closer, anyways.

Whitman looks Frank up and down: faded blue denim overalls, workboots, puffy thermal vest, orange cap. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him, so Dr. Whitman glances at the truck.

DR. WHITMAN: What did you do Frank?

FRANK: I just didn’t see ‘im until it was too late. He was walking right down the fuckin’ middle of the highway, you know? Who does that? I think maybe he’s an Indian, maybe, or a bum, maybe. I didn’t even see him until it was too late. But he ain’t dead. I checked on that before I brought him over.

DR. WHITMAN: Jesus, Frank—you moved him? You should never move an injured person. For Christ’s sakes. That’s basic first aid, my man.

Dr. Whitman gets his stethoscope out of his coat pocket and he and Frank head out into the cold. They make their way around to the back of the pickup, where the Well-Dressed Man is lying. With the tarp covering him, he looks like a dead body. Dr. Whitman hops up into the bed and begins inspecting the man.

DR. WHITMAN: Well, he’s breathing. There doesn’t seem to be any major breaks or anything, at least not as far as I can tell. How fast were you going when you hit him?

FRANK: Probably about 55. Maybe 60. I don’t know.

DR. WHITMAN: Well, that’s impossible, Frank. Just look at this guy’s clothes. They would have been all torn up if you’d hit him going that fast. For Christ’s sake, Frank, how drunk are you?

FRANK: Well, I do admit that my odometer has been screwed up as of late. But like I said, I don’t know.

DR. WHITMAN: Frank? You run on into the clinic and head just down the hall on the right, okay? There’s a gurney down there, and I want you to go get it. We need to get this guy on in and run some x-rays on him and such.

FRANK: You got it, doc.

Dr. Whitman continues to kneel beside the Well-Dressed Man, listening as best he can with his stethoscope. As he waits, a frigid wind tears down through Lake Valley, blowing the little flakes of ice into Whitman’s thinning hair.

FRANK [wheeling the gurney]: Here you go, doc.

DR. WHITMAN: Okay, come around here. You get his legs, okay? Real gentle now. One…Two…Three!

They get the man onto the gurney and wheel him into the clinic. Inside, the lights gleam off yellow linoleum floors, and the wheels squeak as they turn. Dr. Whitman rolls the man into the x-ray room and flips on the lights. Behind him, Frank hovers in the doorway.

FRANK: I ain’t seen him around here before. Like I said, I think he’s an Indian. A hitchhiker, maybe.

DR. WHITMAN: He doesn’t really look like an Indian. Or a bum. I don’t know any bums as well-dressed as this guy.

Dr. Whtiman leans in to get a closer look at the man beneath the lights. The man’s face is so lacking in markings and so unmottled that it is difficult to tell what age he is, though the doctor figures that he must be in his thirties or thereabouts. The man’s hair is long and feathery and black. Dr. Whitman uses his thumb to lift up the man’s eyelid, and with the small flashlight from his pocket, he looks into the eye. The doctor blinks and crinkles his eyes in frustration: the man’s iris is so black that Whitman can’t make out the border of the pupil.

DR. WHITMAN: That’s a new one for me. Hey, Frank? Get me the pair of scissors from that drawer there, would you, please?

Frank brings over the scissors and hands them to Dr. Whitman, who pushes aside the Well-Dressed Man’s peacoat, undoes his suit vest, and uses the scissors to cut open his shirt.

DR. WHITMAN: Well, I’ll be damned. Look at that. Those look like surgical scars.

He holds the scissors in his right hand and he and Frank stare down at the man’s naked chest. Where his nipples ought to be are two marks: The one on the left shaped like a ‘V,’ and the one on the right like an ‘L.’

FRANK: Is that supposed to be his initials or something?

DR. WHITMAN: Your guess is as good as mine. And hey, look here. Did he have his belly button sewn shut? What the hell is this? You see this, Frank?

FRANK: Maybe it’s some kinda plastic surgery? I guess maybe he didn’t like the way his belly button looked.

Whitman reaches down to run his finger across the raised ridge of the man’s navel.

DR. WHITMAN: Maybe his daddy just cut the umbilical cord a little too close, or something like that.

They stand there looking at it, and then the well-dressed man’s stomach CONTRACTS sharply. The stranger’s eyes snap open, and he sits up, looking frantically around the room. Dr. Whitman jumps backwards and Frank lumbers sideways to the doorway

DR. WHITMAN [holding up his hand]: Take it easy! You’re all right. In fact, you should probably lie back down—

The man blinks, staring at Frank and Dr. Whitman with his unnaturally black, doll-like eyes. He pulls together the cut edges of his shirt and he buttons up his vest and suit jacket.

THE WELL-DRESSED MAN: What have you done to my shirt? Was that really necessary?

DR. WHITMAN: Well, I was only trying to do the examination. And I think that you probably ought to lie down. Let me take a couple of x-rays to make sure nothing’s broken.

THE WELL-DRESSED MAN: I don’t think that will be necessary. [He reaches into his inner jacket pocket and produces a long, pouch-like wallet.] Do I owe you anything? Either of you?

FRANK: Hell no, you don’t owe me crap.

DR. WHITMAN: Really, I’m speechless. I’m amazed that you can move like that.

FRANK: Yeah, you oughtta get a look at my truck.

THE WELL-DRESSED MAN [pointing his finger at Frank]: You ought to drive more carefully. Or, better yet, you need to not drive drunk. You’re liable to kill somebody.

DR. WHITMAN: Do you have a name?

THE WELL-DRESSED MAN [looking up at the ceiling for a moment]: Bob Smith. Pleased to meet you.

They shake hands.

BOB SMITH [smiling, and gesturing for Frank to step aside]: Now, would you mind getting out of my way? I’ve got an appointment in Salt Lake City and I have to be moving along.

DR. WHITMAN: Really, I think you need to stay here.

BOB SMITH: You’ve done more than enough already, doctor. And if I were you, I wouldn’t try to stop me. Good evening now, gentlemen.

He ties the belt of his peacoat shut as Frank steps out of his way. They hear Bob Smith’s shoes squeaking on the linoleum as he leaves. Frank and Dr. Whitman stand there for some time, unsure of what to do.

FRANK: Do you think I should've offered him a ride?

DR. WHITMAN [scratching his head]: Did we just see a ghost?

The sound of the CLOCK on the wall ticks in the silence.

FRANK: I don’t believe in such things as ghosts, Dr. Whitman.

DR. WHITMAN: Do you believe in medical treatment? Because I could use a dose of some medicine right now. In medical terminology it’s known as Ginicus Et Tonicus.

He straightens up his white lab coat and leaves the examination room, with Frank following. Just before the door closes, Frank’s hand slips back into the room and extinguishes the light.

Next: Sam goes to Sacrament Meeting...

[_Gadianton]

nice. getting good.

[_MsJack]

Friendly tip: If you follow Brother Oberson on the Twitter, he gives you insights and updates on his great and dreadful work.

Done.

[_Bob Bobberson]

- SIX -

Sunday. Samuel Younger sat in his living room, wearing a grey collared shirt and a pair of dark, army green, multi-pocketed, rather baggy pants. This was an outfit he’d debated over for some time that morning, as he had virtually no idea what people wore to church on Sundays. Or, rather, he had some vague, Leave it to Beaver-esque notion of how people dressed, but the image was so far removed from the reality of his life that he was unwilling even to attempt it. Plus, his wardrobe was pretty limited. Just as he finished up adjusting his tie, a knock sounded at the door. He went and opened it up to find the missionaries—Elders Cummings and Miller—all bundled up against the cold, waiting for him. Elder Miller was wearing a pair of brown earmuffs, which made his head look even more narrow.

“Hi, guys,” said Sam. “You ready to go?”

“We sure are,” said Elder Miller.

Looking past them, Sam noticed that they’d brought a car. Then, looking closer, he saw that a man was sitting in the front seat. He shut the door behind him, and, exhaling gouts of white breath into the brittle air, he followed the two missionaries over to the hulking blue Buick Le Sabre. As they neared, the man, who had a silver crew cut and horn-rimmed glassed, climbed out of the car. He tugged his hand out of a black leather glove and extended it to Sam.

“Hi, there, Brother Younger. I’m Chuck Gladden, the Bishop of the ward here in town. It’s so wonderful to meet you. These two elders have had such great things to say about you.”

“It’s good to meet you, too,” said Sam.

“Well, we should get going. Wouldn’t be right for the Bishop to be late for sacrament meeting!”

Elder Miller went around to the passenger’s side and held down the seat so that he and Elder Cummings could climb into the back. The car was warm and cozy inside; Bishop Gladden had been running the heater on full-blast.

“Well, we’re just thrilled to have you attend church with us,” he said.

“Boy, we sure are,” chimed Elder Miller.

“Will this be your first time at a sacrament meeting?”

“Yeah, it is,” said Sam. He glanced briefly over at the Bishop’s smooth, closely shaven cheek, and then he turned back to the road. “Hey, thanks for driving clear out here to pick me up,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that. I could have driven myself.”

“Oh, it’s no problem at all. Fellowship is a part of what the Church is all about.”

They drove on, past on the bleak and blasted sage desert until they came into the main part of town. Sam had only been dimly aware that there was an LDS Church meetinghouse in town at all; he’d half wondered if they would be heading to Reno. Bishop Gladden turned off of Main Street, past an insurance office and the little area that housed Howard’s Diner, and towards the park, and then into the parking lot of the church.

The building itself was made of craggy, cream-colored bricks. There was a tall, spike-like steeple on the roof, though there was no cross that Sam could see. And yet, Mormons were Christians, right? Yes; obviously they were. In the Book of Mormon, Sam has learned, Christ appeared to the native peoples of America.

There were only a few cars here and there, and so Bishop Gladden took a spot very near the main, glassed double doors. He shut off the car and everyone climbed climb out. The chill air felt crystalline and glassy, and the morning sunshine had a clear brightness to it. Everything felt cleaner somehow. Sam followed Bishop Gladden into the building as Elder Cummings held the door for him.

Inside, there was an antiseptic aroma to the foyer, but what Sam noticed above all was the music—organ music—which came drifting around the corner. Underfoot, the orange and brown carpet was hard; in one corner was a plain, dark-brown upholstered chair. A man in a navy blue suit was sitting in it, using a phone which hung on the wall nearby. On the pebbly white walls hung pictures of Jesus and, Sam recognized, Joseph Smith. In another corner was a large, potted fern. A few people were milling about, chatting and gradually inching their way towards the other end of the room.

“This way,” said Bishop Gladden. “Let’s head on into the chapel. Sacrament meeting is about to start.”

Sam followed him through the foyer, feeling the gaze of the other church attendees as he walked. Some of them were clearly glancing at his clothes. One woman, a middle-aged lady with curly gray hair, gave him a smile mixed with skeptical curiosity. “Welcome. We’re glad you could join us,” she said.

“Thank you.”

They rounded the corner and passed through a set of opened, heavy wooden doors, and into the chapel. The main room, echoing with effervescent organ music, had a very high, vaulted ceiling. There were three rows of wooden, cushioned pews which ran down the center and along either side of the chapel. About half of the seating had been filled with men, women and children, all of whom were dressed nicely, with the women in dresses and the men in slacks, white shirts, ties, and suit jackets. All of them were more conservatively dressed than Sam, and he felt slightly dirty or out of place. As he sat there, he kept wanting to cover the tattoos on his knuckles with his hand, and to pull the somewhat longish hair away from his neck.

“Well,” said Bishop Gladden, “It’s showtime for me.” He smiled, revealing a slightly yellow set of squarish teeth. “These two elders will keep you company,” he said, and then he turned and walked up the aisle to the front of the room. Sam took a seat near the back, next to Elders Cummings and Miller.

At the front of the chapel was a raised area, anchored by a central podium with a microphone. There were five rows of very comfortable-looking, padded folding seats which resembled box seats at a baseball stadium. There were a few people sitting up there, including a pair of middle-aged, slightly overweight men in nice-looking suits. To the left of the raised area was the organ, and to the right was a piano. Sam watched the organist, a very thin, pale, blond haired man with thick glasses. Playing the organ was clearly a whole-body affair: the man operated the keys with his hands and at the same time he used his feet to manipulate pedals somewhere down below. The song wound to a close, and then Bishop Gladden, who had stopped briefly to say a few words to the two men in suits, turned and took his position behind the podium.

“Good morning, my dear brothers and sisters,” he began. “We’ll begin with a hymn, ‘We Thank Thee O God For a Prophet,’ which is hymn number 19, and after that, Sister Connie Jergens will offer us an opening prayer.” He gave a wan smile and returned to his seat. Off to the side, a heavyset woman with very long, and somewhat unkempt-looking grayish blond hair stood up in front of a music stand. The organist played a few bars to get the tempo down, and then the chorister raised her baton, and the congregation leapt to life in song. All manner of people were singing in unison, old and young, man and woman, and the sound of their collective voices made up a rich chorus.

Sam noticed the two Elders beside him take a thick, dark green, hardbound book from a slot in the back of the pew in front of them, and flip over to the hymn in question. There was an extra copy of the hymnal and Elder Miller urged Sam to follow along. The hymn in question, “We Thank Thee O God For a Prophet,” was rejoiceful, a celebration of the light and guidance brought forth by the prophet. Sam assumed that it was referring to Joseph Smith, though there was a line that mentioned “these latter days,” which made him think twice. When the hymn was over, he leaned over and asked Elder Miller about it.

“Was that about Joseph Smith?”

“Hold on a sec,” said Elder Miller.

A grave hush had come over the congregation, and Sam recognized it as the stillness that always seemed to precede a moment of prayer. A round, somewhat stout woman with white, spiky hair, had moved to the podium. She crossed her arms over her big chest, lowered her head, and began to pray into the microphone. Sam crossed his arms and bowed his head as well, and he focused his feelings inwardly as he listened to her speak. This woman—Sister Jergens—asked that the Lord bless everyone with an open heart, and a spirit of forgiveness, and she requested that all in the congregation be uplifted by the day’s worship. She concluded the prayer, as was always the case, by saying, “In the name of thy son, Jesus Christ, Amen!” The congregation replied in unison: “Amen!”

“In answer to your question,” Elder Miller whispered. “It could be about Joseph Smith, but I think most people would think that it’s referring to President Baylor.”

Sam frowned. “Who’s President Baylor?”

“He’s the president and prophet of the Church. The Church always has a prophet, because we believe in continuing revelation.”

Sam nodded, though he was a bit confused. Of course, it made sense that someone would be running the Church. This President Baylor was probably similar to the Pope. It had just never occurred to Sam that this man would be considered a prophet. This, he decided, was just one more sign that he still had more to learn.

Up front, a nervous, carbuncular teen-aged boy had begun to speak. He was telling about the importance of staying true to the Word of Wisdom. Alcohol and tobacco were bad for you, he said, and so is caffeine. He noted that he felt better about himself—proud even—that he’d never had a sip of caffeinated cola in his life. Then, he told a story involving the Prophet Joseph Smith, or rather, he read aloud the story.

In it, Joseph was suffering from some very painful malady in his leg. There was something very wrong, it turned out, with his shin bone. He was just a young boy at the time, and his illness greatly worried his family. A doctor was summoned, and it was determined that a piece of bone would have to be cut out. This would have been horrible and painful in any era, but to make matters worse, Joseph was living in a time before anesthesia. The only thing he could have done to dull the pain was drink alcohol. So, Joseph was offered a sip of brandy in order to help him endure the operation. But Joseph, being filled with faith in the Lord, refused to do this. He didn’t want the liquor to touch his lips.

This story, the teenaged speaker went on, showed how courageous the Prophet was. “Probably none of us will ever have to make that kind of a choice,” he said, “but knowing how brave Joseph was sure does make it easier for me to keep the Word of Wisdom.” He concluded his talk by saying, “I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen!” The congregation answered him in unison.

During the talk, Sam gazed about the chapel. It was all quite plain. There weren’t any decorations or adornments of any kind: no stained glass, no crosses, no candelabras or anything ostentatious. It was simple and functional. The people all seemed happy. A couple of times, mothers with babies stood up and left the chapel, presumably to nurse or change their infants. Sam could smell a toasty, cereal-based food of some kind, and he noticed that some of the younger kids were eating Cheerios out of plastic baggies. Across the aisle, one older man had dozed off, and his head had flopped lazily to the side. His wife, sitting beside him, paid him no mind.

Up front, Bishop Gladden was dictating the course of the service once again. There would be another hymn, followed by the passing of the sacrament, he said, then another talk, a closing hymn, and a closing prayer. It all seemed rather long and drawn out, but then again, Sam realized that he felt very calm, and very much at peace. He felt a soothing kind of drowsiness, in fact.

As the congregation soared with song once again, Sam followed along in the hymnal. This time, the song, hymn number 193, was called “I Stand All Amazed.” It was about the sacrifice made by Christ on the cross. One line read, “I tremble to know that for me he was crucified,” and reading this while hearing the music gave Sam a small frisson of recognition and sadness. It was, he thought, the one of the most beautiful pieces of music he had ever heard, and the sensations he’d felt the other day began to rush back at him. The chorister signaled for the singing of the second verse, and as she did so, Sam realized that the center of attention in the chapel had shifted over to a small, alter-like area just below the organ. Earlier, he’d noticed this alter as it was draped in pure white cloth. Now, a pair of teenage boys in white shirts and skinny black ties were tearing up pieces of what looked like plain white Wonderbread and placing it into silver, handled trays. On the pew nearest to them sat a row of similarly dressed teen age boys.

“What are they doing?” he asked Elder Miller, once the singing had stopped.

“That’s the sacrament,” said Elder Miller. “The young guys in the priesthood prepare and pass it each Sunday. Those guys sitting on the bench are the deacons. You get ordained a deacon when you turn twelve. When you turn fourteen, you get ordained a teacher, and at sixteen, a priest. As a priest, you’re allowed to bless the sacrament, and so that’s what those two guys are doing. They’re going to say the blessing in just a second here.”

“Oh, I see.” More riddles and nuances. It was striking to Sam that these boys—and they were really just children—could be endowed with the power of the holy priesthood, which as he understood it, was God’s divine power on Earth. Did they have extra powers of perception? Were they more spiritually in-tune; more sensitive?

The hymn wound to a close, and once again, a low stillness came over the chapel. Somewhere up near the altar, a microphone cackled to life, and one of the young men began reciting a prayer into it:

O God, the Eternal Father, we ask thee in the name of thy Son, Jesus Christ, to bless and sanctify this bread to the souls of all those who partake of it; that they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son, and witness unto thee, O God, the Eternal Father, that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him, and keep his commandments which he has given them, that they may always have his Spirit to be with them. Amen.

The congregation replied, “Amen,” and the boys in white shirts spread out to pass the silver trays of bread amongst the people. One of them went quickly up the steps in order to deliver a bit of bread to Bishop Gladden, and to the few other people seated up behind the pulpit. Down amongst the congregation, the sacrament passers operated in pairs, with one teenager sending the tray down the pew, and another waiting to collect it at the end.

“So,” whispered Sam to Elder Miller, “am I supposed to take this?”

“No, no. You’re really supposed to only take it after you’ve been baptized, since it’s a means of renewing your covenants.”

“Oh, okay,” he said. He had seen some of the young children partaking of the bread, and yet, as he recalled, children weren’t baptized until the age of eight. Perhaps they let the rules slide in the case of kids? In any case, it didn’t matter. Sam had felt slightly nervous about the prospect of eating the bread. It seemed rather like he would be making some kind of commitment that he didn’t fully understand.

The two boys came to his aisle, and the shining silver tray made its way down the pew. Sam could smell the torn pieces of bread. He took the tray by the handle, and found that it was remarkably light in his hand. His mouth watered a bit as he handed it to the two missionaries, each of whom popped a fluffy bit of the sacramental bread into their mouths. All of the young men—the deacons—collected the trays and formed a line, and they returned to the alter near the front of the chapel. They stood there with hands behind their backs as the two priests moved the white cloth to reveal and new set of silver trays, and then they bowed their heads, and once again the quietude of prayer filled the room.

O God, the Eternal Father, we ask thee, in the name of thy Son, Jesus Christ, to bless and sanctify this water to the souls of all those who drink of it, that they may do it in remembrance of the blood of thy Son, which was shed for them; that they may witness unto thee, O God, the Eternal Father, that they do always remember him, that they may have his Spirit to be with them. Amen.

The deacons spread out across the chapel in order to distribute the sacramental water to the congregation. The trays for the water were more elaborate, Sam noticed, with compartments that held the tiny plastic cups of water, and tubes to dispose of the empty cups as well.

When the passing of the sacrament was finished, with the trays returned to the altar and re-blanketed with the clean white cloth, the boys fanned out to sit with their families, and Bishop Gladden commandeered the podium once again. He announced another speaker, gave the name of the closing hymn, and stated the name of the person who would give the final prayer.

The speaker, a man in his late thirties with a very stiff, slicked-over hairstyle, was named Brother Wells. His talk dealt with tithing. It was interesting, Sam thought, that no collection plate had been passed around. He learned in the talk that tithing was essential, and that contributions to the LDS Church were considered one of the cornerstones of good membership. The speaker, Brother Wells, told about the widow’s mite—the sacrifice made by the poorest of the poor, and he noted that, no matter what, one should always pay tithing first. The Lord would always bless those who did. No one would ever be forced to endure something that he or she couldn’t handle, especially if tithing had been paid first. “This money really isn’t ours,” Brother Wells observed. “It’s the Savior that blesses us with this money to begin with, and so we should have no problem returning to Him that which is rightfully His.”

He wrapped up his talk with a story about a family living in late 19th century Utah during a time of famine. It was in the dead of winter, the harvest had been very meager, and this family feared that they might starve if they didn’t spend their meager savings on wheat and other necessities. The mother of the family wept at the thought of her young children going hungry, and yet when she prayed, Heavenly Father, through the power of the Holy Ghost, helped her to remember the importance of tithing. So, with what little money they had, they made sure to pay, and they carried on as best they could. Not more than a few days after they gave the payment to the Bishop, a large crate arrived on their doorstep. Inside this crate were flour, molasses, bacon, and all kinds of supplies and foodstuffs. It was more than enough to get them through the winter. There was no note, nor any identifying marker of any kind on the crate, and the family never learned who placed it on their doorstep. In the end, they were left to conclude that it had been a miracle.

Brother Wells concluded with the standard, “I say these things to you in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen!”

Sam glanced down at his watch and saw that an hour had gone by. It had been nice, he thought. There was a genuine feeling of peace and spirituality, and both of the little presentations had been pleasant and uplifting—stories about endurance and courage, and general reminders that, even when life is difficult, there remains a brightness at the end of the tunnel. Additionally, there was a part of Sam that wished that he’d been able to experience the sacrament. He wondered if ingesting the bread and water would have made him feel any differently.

Once more, the chorister, plump and flush in the face, swaying slightly in her purple, floral-print dress, had taken her spot behind the music stand. She led the congregation in a rousing singing of “Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel.” For the second verse, beginning to feel a bit overcome with the spirit, Sam decided to sing along. Seeing him do this, both the two missionaries and the other people in the aisle beamed happily. Their smiles bolstered him, and for the first time in a very long while, Sam felt as if he was a part of something. Aside from the two Elders, and to a certain extent Bishop Gladden, he didn’t know any of these people. And yet, as he sang, he felt at one with them. It was right, it was completely fitting, that these folks called each other “Brother” and “Sister,” for that was precisely how, in that moment, he felt about all of them.


...Next time: A transformation....

[_Bob Bobberson]

- SEVEN -

After sacrament meeting, Bishop Gladden came down from the dais and met up with a slightly severe-looking woman who turned out to be his wife. He spoke with her for a moment, pointed in Sam’s direction, and then ushered her over.

“Sam, I’d like you to meet Barbara, my wife.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Oh, it’s so wonderful. We’re so glad you could come and enjoy sacrament meeting with us.”

“And there’s something else,” said Bishop Gladden. “We were wondering if you and the missionaries would like to join us for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Sure, that sounds great,” he said. The missionaries seemed pleased by this, too, and Elder Cummings gently clapped Sam on the back.

The rest of the morning consisted of more meetings and lessons. Following sacrament meeting, he had accompanied the two elders to a class on gospel doctrine. Although much of the material was over his head, he did gather that the lesson was principally about stressing the importance of the Book of Mormon. The instructor—a bald man with a goatee and wire-frame glasses—had drawn a circle on the board, and had explained the Book of Mormon represented a kind of enclosure and roundabout in life.

“Although it is a very, very old book,” he said, “it is still applicable to our lives today. The meaning in this, and the lessons about life—these are universal truths.” As he said this he held the book up, brandishing it like a hammer.

After gospel doctrine class, the men and women separated. The women, he was told, were going to attend something called Relief Society, whereas the men went to the priesthood session. In essence, it was another Sunday school lesson. This time around, the teacher emphasized the importance of looking after one’s physical health. This was another facet of Mormonism which Sam found intriguing: the emphasis on the body. There was plenty of spirituality, a concern over one’s soul, and one’s connection with the next life, but Mormons believed very strongly in physicality as well, which he appreciated. In fact, he was feeling very positive about everything he was encountering. It was as if he was beginning to better understand the reasons why he’d been so overcome after praying the other day. It was like a veil had been parted, and he was now peering into some seldom-seen valley.


Once everything was over, Sam took a moment to collect his bearings, and it occurred to him that, all in all, the sacrament meeting, coupled with the gospel doctrine class and the priesthood session, Sam had been in church for three hours. It was a long time to be in church, and yet the time had gone by quickly. Everything seemed to click. He felt intrinsically that he belonged in this place. Although there was still so much more to learn, he was looking forward to doing it. Plus, as he would realize later, the experience of sitting in church had helped to purge away the memories and bad vibes that had been left over from his fight with Misty.

After the service, he hung around with the Elders Miller and Cummings as they waited for Bishop Gladden to wrap up a few matters of business. The three of them stood in the foyer as people trickled out of the church. Several people came up and introduced themselves to him, including a bespectacled, very blue-eyed, rather chubby blond man named Raymond, who looked at him quizzically, perhaps with a bit of bafflement. He was also introduced to Ariel Jergens—the spiky-haired woman who had given the opening prayer in sacrament meeting. Those were the only two people he remembered by name, but he must have been introduced to at least two dozen different members. All of them had in common a genuine kindness and forthrightness. Most of them had a pleasant sense of humor, and seemed pleased at his interest in the LDS Church.

Once Bishop Gladden had concluded his duties, they all headed out to the Le Sabre, and drove eastwards, through town and out into the desert outskirts, back to Sam’s house. During the drive, the Bishop asked Sam if he’d given much thought to baptism.

“A little,” said Sam.

“Well,” the Bishop continued, “you just keep on thinking it over. The missionaries still need to give you a couple more of the lessons, but at some point, we’re going to want you to seriously consider getting baptized.”

“Okay.”

“Have you been reading the Book of Mormon?”

“I’m about a third of the way through it.”

“And?”

Sam gazed out the window, off towards the grey horizon in the east. “I don’t know,” he said. “I get a strange feeling when I’m reading it. I wonder if I’m understanding it correctly.”

“That’s the Spirit that you’re feeling.” The Bishop smiled broadly and nodded his head. “Yeah, it is a pretty special book. We owe Joseph Smith a lot of credit for restoring it to us.”

Everyone was quiet during the remainder of the drive home. When they arrived at Sam’s house, everyone shook hands, and the missionaries agreed to return on Tuesday in order to teach the third lesson. As he watched Bishop Gladden’s car stir up a cape of dust, Sam felt restless, and felt a ping of loneliness once again. And for whatever reason, his mind flickered back to the first meeting he’d had with the missionaries, and he thought about his dead mother. They had said that if he was righteous, and if he followed the teachings of the Church, he could be reunited with her. He stood there in the crisp winter air, thinking for a moment longer, and then he went back inside, and stirred about in the house, watching TV, fixing himself something to eat, and then reading the Book of Mormon clear until nightfall. Then he took a break and resumed his voracious reading one more time before praying and falling asleep.

When he woke up the next morning, he was lying on his back, with his arms spread out on either side of him, as if he was trying to make a snow angel in the sheets. He didn’t recall any dreams; he merely knew that he felt cleaner somehow. He got up, made himself breakfast, and set about getting his day in order. He took a shower and shaved and got dressed and he looked in the phone book for the number of a doctor who might be able to help remove his tattoos. A couple of the ones on his arm (the four signs of the compass and a hammer and sickle) had been done in prison by a mohawked guy named Pigeon, and Sam also had (ironically) a cross on his left breast, along with the letters P Y D Y across his left knuckles. When he found the number of a doctor that seemed promising, he called, but the answering machine picked up. The office wasn’t open on Mondays.

With nothing more to do till work time, Sam pulled on his coat and grabbed his keys and drove into Reno. He found a Supercuts in a strip mall off Pyramid. Inside, an apple-shaped woman with towering, dirty-blonde bangs draped a clean towel around his neck and led him off to the sinks. He lay back, looking up at the fluorescent lights as she ran warm water over his head and through his hair. He closed his eyes while she used the shampoo and massaged her fingertips into his scalp. When she was done, she led him over to the chair and draped a flimsy cape-like cloth across his chest and shoulders.

“So, cupcake, how do you want it?”

“Short,” he said.

“You want me to take all this off?” she said. She was holding a substantial chuck of hair near his neck.

“All of it,” he said. “Nice and clean.”

“You goin into the service or something?”

“No. I’m just tired of looking shabby.”

“Okay, big guy. You got it.” And she set to work, pinching lengths of his hair between her fingers and scissoring big chunks of it away. Before long, Sam’s stomach and lap were covered in a blanket of shorn hair. When she was done with the scissors, the woman used a pair of electric clippers to trim his sideburns, and the back of his neck. “You wanted it blocked off back here, right?”

“Yeah, sure, I guess so.”

She used a blowdryer to clean off the stray bits of hair and she got some mousse from a bottle and ran it through his newly cut hair. “How do you usually do it?”

“Could you put a part in it right here, and comb it sort of off to the side?”

“Sure.” She used her fingers and then she spritzed the entire thing with Aqua Net. “You sure do clean up nice,” she said, and she rotated the chair so that Sam could see his reflection.

His image jolted him a bit, but not in a bad way. He thought that he looked a lot younger; the last time he’d worn his hair this way he’d been a teenager.

“Is it okay?” asked the woman, whose name was Jessica.

“Yeah,” he said. “It looks great. Just what I was hoping for. Thank you.”

“I’m so glad,” she said.

He paid her and gave her a generous tip, and then he went back out into the cold and drove to Meadowood Mall. He went into JC Penny’s and made his way over to the men’s section and he began to look at suit jackets. He lifted up the sleeve of a navy blue blazer and felt the fabric. Then a man in a rumpled white collared shirt and loosened yellow-and-red tie came over to help him. “We’re having a buy two get one free special,” he said. “Is there anything in particular you were looking for?”

“No, not really,” said Sam. “Just a basic suit. You know—every man needs at least one nice suit, right?”

The man said that he agreed, and he suggested that Sam might be interested in a charcoal, navy blue, and perhaps a gray or a brown suit.

“A guy like you would be able to pull off a brown suit,” he said. They took the suits off the racks and carried them back to the dressing room for Sam to try on. He closed the slatted door and took off his pants and shirt and stood there looking at himself in the mirror. In the past few months, he’d let himself go somewhat. He looked pale and lumpy and his body looked a little older than it actually was, though his face, with the new haircut, still looked youthful and full of vigor. But the tattoos, the tattoos… They would have to go.


He tried on the suits one by one, stepping out each time to look in the large, tripartite mirror at the end of the dressing room hall. The sales clerk had brought him a white collared shirt, a belt, and a couple of ties to look at alongside the suits. Each time he emerged from the dressing room, the clerk commented on how sharp and dapper the suits made him look. “You just need a tiny bit of tailoring on the hem and here on the jacket,” he said. In the end, Sam decided to take all four of them—including both the grey and the brown suits, the belt, and the three ties. Because of this, the clerk gave him a 50% discount on the fourth suit. As he was ringing up the purchase, the clerk asked him if he had appropriate shoes, and Sam shook his head.

“Well, then, just head right over there and ask for Roger. He’ll get you everything you need.” He smiled enthusiastically and shook Sam’s hand.

After Sam had bought two pairs of dress shoes (one black and one brown), along with four pairs of dress socks, he went to a phone booth and tried calling a different tattoo-removal doctor. This time, the call went through, and Sam made an appointment to see Dr. Zamora later in the week. He carried his purchases back to the car and drove home.

The rest of the afternoon Sam spent reading the Book of Mormon. By this time he’d read about halfway through the text, and he was deeply immersed in the story of the warring Lamanites and Nephites. It was strange: Nephi, the protagonist in the beginning of the book had started one of the races, and Nephi’s brother Laman was the progenitor of the second race (the Lamanites), who had been given a darker skin color by God. As Sam understood it, the events recorded in the Book of Mormon were actual events that had happened long ago in America’s history. Though he was confused on that point; was this ‘America,’ as in the United States? Or ‘America’ as in Latin America? He wondered if the account in the Book of Mormon actually had more to do with the Aztecs and the Mayans.

When night rolled around, Sam prepared for work and drove out to the Ember. Immediately, the girls began giving him grief about his new haircut. “Well, look at the little boy,” said Trina R. “You look like a little kid,” said Francesca. It wasn’t entirely clear whether they liked it or not. Sid, at least, tried to be kind: he spread his arms wide and then clapped his hands together in front of his face. “Sam, why you cut the hair? You look like a goddam Wall Street investor or something. Es good, though. Good for your new changes and what have you. We gonna miss you when you’re gone.” He had Sam make him his de rigueur Chambord and 7-Up and then he left to go pat all the girls on their rears.

It was inevitable that Misty would turn up, of course, though she arrived some two hours after she was scheduled to be on stage. When she looked at Sam, her eyes flickering wetly in the dim light, her mouth was a hard, angry red slash across her face. She scuttled off to find Sid, and then she came to sit at the bar.

“What’s with the haircut?” she asked.

He didn’t say anything.

“Oh, what,” she said, “you giving me the silent treatment?”

He shrugged.

“I ought to kick your ass right here on the spot, Sam, for what you did to me the other day.” She waited a beat. “You don’t just up and leave someone like that, Sam.”

Finally, he turned to face her. He set his hands on the bar and leaned in: “What do you want, Misty?”

She just stared back at him, her eyes darting back and forth. She had been in her usual mocking mood a second ago, but it all signs of it were gone. “Just give me a ginger ale,” she said, and he moved away to make it. When he set the glass down in front of her, she stirred at the ice with the tiny black straw, and she picked out the lime wedge and sucked on it. “For what it’s worth, I forgive you, you big asshole. I know I shouldn’t. I know how bad you are for me, but I forgive you.”

“That’s great, Misty.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass with me. Don’t pull that crap. I’m trying to talk to you.”

“I don’t really care. And I need to get back to work. Why don’t you finish your drink and go see if that guy over there wants a lap dance?”

“Really?” she said. “I mean, look at me here. I’m trying, Sam. I’m doing my best not to be a bitch, and look—I’m sorry for dropping that bomb on you the other day, but what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “If you’d been straight-up with me to begin with, I could have helped you. But now everything’s over and done with and as far as I’m concerned, it no longer has anything to do with me. Sue me if you want or whatever, but I’d prefer if you just left me the hell alone.”

“Would you please just give me a second chance?”

“Second chance at what? It’s not like we ever had anything real going on. I already put my two weeks in, and after that, I’m done with this whole scene. No more drinking, no more tattoos, no more damned around.” He noticed that she’d taken out a pack of cigarettes: “No more smoking, either.”

She lit up, and Sam could see that her mood had undergone yet another shift. Now she looked amused and haughty, and she was blowing out gouts of smoke in little gusts—gusts of snide laughter. “You really are trying to turn into a Mormon, aren’t you?”

“So what if I am?”

“That’s why you got that haircut, isn’t it?”

“I just wanted a change. That’s all.”

“Oh, Sam.” She laughed, and though he knew that it shouldn’t bother him, it did. “It’s a cult, you know. You’re going to wind up brainwashed, married to some dumpy, ugly, fat Mormon girl who won’t suck your cock. Is that really what you want?”

“It’s not a cult,” he said. “And what I really want is for you to leave me alone.”

The amusement drained from her face and she snorted through her nose. “Fine then, Sam. That’s just damned fine. And Screw you,” she hissed, and she turned and left.

Misty did her remaining three sets that night, but she didn’t show up the next night nor the night after that. Sam overheard Delilah P. saying something about her being sick, but Sam didn’t inquire into it any further. His remaining stint at the Ember was uneventful. The girls all kissed him on the cheek on his last night, and Sid winked as he slipped him a slightly damp envelope filled with five one-hundred dollar bills: “From me and the girls.” On the back, in pencil, he’d written, “Good luck to you my friend.” Sam shook Sid’s hand, and went out the door, and that was that. He never returned to the Ember. Some years later, he heard that the building had been destroyed in a fire, and that the police suspected that some kind of insurance fraud was the motive, but apart from that, the Ember and everyone who had been a part of it became a distant memory.


...Next time: Mormon folklore...

[_Bob Bobberson]

- EIGHT -

It was the darndest thing. It just goes to show you that you can’t ever judge a person. What happened was that we were comin out of Ely. Yeah—just a couple of miles out, and yep, you’re right, we had been over to see the Lehman Caves. What? Oh, yes, it was amazing! All those rock formations and everything, all in different shapes. It kinda looks the way that wax from a melted candle looks once it dries. You know how that looks, right? And then in the caves, the ranger turns off the light at one point, and it is pitch black. It’s so dark! And it’s scary, because you just don’t ever come across dark like that. Even if you’re away from development and things at night, like if you’re camping, or if you’re out in the wilderness, you still have light from the stars or the moon. But this was even darker than that. It’s like being in a tomb.

Anyways. So, it was me and Linda and she had Whitney and Carmen with her, and we’re about half an hour out of Ely, and the right front tire blows. Yes: you could actually hear it go out. And yes, it really scared me! It sounds a little like a gunshot, actually. I’m lucky that I didn’t crash! So I get the car over on to the shoulder and at this point I’m wondering what we should do. I’ve never changed a tire in my life, and even if I knew how to do it, I don’t know that I could. What? Yes, he showed me how one time but I forgot. Anyways. There we are, me and Linda and those two little kids. There is no traffic on the road, and there’s no phone booth except clear back in Ely. We don’t know what to do, and I am starting to panic a little bit. What’ll we do if it gets dark? Because it gets really cold at night out there during that time of year. We could just wait and hope that someone comes along to help, or we could've started to walk, I guess, but like I said, Linda had those two little kids, and they wouldn’t have been able to walk clear back to Ely.

So Linda says, “Why don’t we say a prayer?” We all folded our arms and bowed our heads and asked Heavenly Father to help us. To watch out for us and protect us. Just as we said, “Amen,” I heard this rapping on the window, and I about lost it. It scared me half to death, but I look up and here is this man, motioning for me to roll down the window. Me and Linda look at each other and we don’t know what to do. I mean, what if this guy has a gun or something? So I roll down the window just a crack and say, “What do you want?”

And it was weird. He must of been a mute or something because he just pointed. He was pointing and nodding in the direction of the flat tire, and little Carmen says, “I think he wants to help us!” So, we sit tight in the car with all the doors locked, and I popped the trunk and that man went back there and got the jack and started changing the tire. Can you believe that? He never said a word. We just sat there in the car, watching him. He put on the spare, and put the old, flat tire into the trunk. Then he knocked on the window and waved to us, and I drove off.

No, no, I didn’t offer him a ride.

Come to think of it, you’re right. I never thanked him, either. Well, if I ever see him again. What’s that? Oh, he was kind of an Indian-looking man. Maybe a Mexican, I don’t know. He had long hair and tan skin. I guess I was so scared that I didn’t get that good of a look.

But there’s a lesson in all of it. It just goes to show that you can never tell about people. And it’s like me and Linda told to Whitney and Carmen afterwards: Heavenly Father really does answer your prayers. We said that prayer, and then that man showed up, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was kind of a small little miracle that it happened. We could have been stranded out there if it hadn’t been for that man! That’s why you always have to follow the teachings of the Church. It just goes to show you that our Father in Heaven really does answers prayers. It goes to show you that the Church really is true.




...Next time: Jello salad....