Just Sit Right Back and Youll Hear a Tale

During the course of my indoctrination into the Mormon way, it's more than once occurred to me that, perhaps, my infatuation with Jack (my Mormon tourguide), has cast a rosy hue on what I would've otherwise been inclined to dismiss as a crock of pretty wacky business. Still and all, I've managed to keep the cynical little man that lives in my head under control and by remaining open-minded, I've experienced some mind-opening things.

My willingness to forego the temporal pleasures this world so willingly offers, for a life of relative piety, reached an all-time high the other night when a prayer offered in stranded desperation was answered rather promptly, in the form of fire. Unfortunately my newfound belief in anything beyond Janeane Garofalo and Rock n Roll, was challenged the next morning when I awoke alone, thirsty and starving on sand that was rapidly being warmed by the power and glory of the desert sun. As I rubbed my eyes and tried to make sense of the events that had led up to these hellish circumstances, my faith was all but gone. I was losing my religion faster than R.E.M. It all reminded me of the Talking Heads song that starts off "And you may find yourself . . " and ends,"and you may ask yourself--well, how did I get here?"

How did I get here? It was all like some kind of nightmarish Gameshow, where if you happen to choose the wrong religion, you drop through a trap door and land right in the middle of hell. "No phone, no lights, no motor car" and no company to help me enjoy the misery. Where the hell is that silly religious bastard? "Jack." I croaked pitifully, and then again louder. Maybe there was never any such person as "Jack," and I'd simply been the patsy of some sort of cosmic practical joke. These are the kind of wild delusions a would-be Mormon, marooned on Devil's Beach will entertain.

A quick survey of my surroundings, however, served to dispel my paranoia--right away I spotted Jack's shirt only a few yards away. "Thank God." I walked over to inspect the shirt for signs of reality and when I picked it up, "hello," there was a fat rattlesnake coiled beneath it. "Piss on a Parade," I sprang backward and crabbed away until my palms were bristling with cactus. By the time I got to my feet I was hysterical, "I'm in hell, I'm in hell," I screamed, "some one help me, I'm in hell."

It was about this time I heard Jack's voice, and saw him running up the beach toward me. "Oh my God, Jack, help Jack, snake big, Jack," I was tingly and faint and just as my knees buckled, I felt his broad arms catch me before I could go down. "Take it easy, Maddy come on, it's breakfast," I thought I heard him say, as the fragments of sanity slowly settled back into place. "It's dead, it's dead--it's breakfast." He gave me a shake, It's dead, it's breakfast." But before I could get my wits together I screamed "What!!!?"

They say rattlesnake tastes alot like chicken. "They," are a bunch of damn liars--it tastes like snake. It's slimy and repulsive and I gobbled it down like some kind of savage freak. "How did I get here?" After breakfast, I excused myself to find a place to go to the bathroom and as I voided my bladder I kept a keen eye out for any of my breakfast's buddies who might be bent on revenge. As I made my way back I heard Jack cry out and then "Halleluia," I heard the sound of boat motors. By the time I'd made it back, there were two boatloads of salvation speeding up to the beach. My first impulse was to hide the evidence of our breakfast. (I wasn't sure whether I should be proud or embarrassed by the fact that I'd eaten a snake). As it turned out everybody thought it was pretty cool.

After our rescue was generously offered and accepted, in the form of Tropicana orange juice, and Rice Krispy treats, our harrowing story of survival in the wilderness was soon laughed away. I even got a little chuckle when I told them that we were just trying out a new diet-- "Slimefast," just a snake for breakfast, a snake for lunch, and a sensible dinner. I scored a few points with that crack and the whole thing was quickly forgotten amid the sounds of boats and wave-runners.

Unfortunately as the day began to play out, I soon became aware that "hell" was still in session. The most striking member of the rescue party was a tall, tanned, and gorgeous girl that looked like a really young, healthy Sheryl Crow. She was flouncing around in a flimsy bikini top, full of mischief and sporting a half pint of Jack Daniels in the back pocket of her cutoffs--pretty much the self-proclaimed Warrior Princess of the party. This wouldn't have been any skin off my charred buttocks, if it weren't for the fact that she turned out to be Jack's old girlfriend. Well, isn't that something, "Jack and Diane?" I guess that's it then--I'm in hell.

Jack had neglected to mention anything about "Diane," and as I soon learned, the two of them were quite a famous pair back in their high school days. They were voted "couple most likely to breed," someone was nice enough to inform me. "Isn't that just swell . . . do they have a love-child?" Diane didn't seem at all concerned with her eternal progression and seemed to relish the fact that, by comparison, Jack's new girlfriend was a dumpy little mutt. Under ordinary circumstances I would have buried the giant jezebel in the sand with a few choice words; but she made me so self-conscious that I didn't even put on my swimsuit. This was actually a blessing, really--in preparation for the trip, I'd spent a little too much time in the tanning bed and burned my lily white cheeks so badly it looked like I taken down my pants and hopped up on the grill.

Everyone was more than happy to regale me with story after story about good ole Jack and Diane. It seems they'd planned to marry; but while Jack was off on his mission, Diane had gone off to college and discovered the many extracurricular activities that make college so popular. "It broke his heart--we didn't think he'd ever get over it." Great, that's just bloody frigg'n great.

For Jack's part, he was doing a heroic job of playing the whole thing down--at least for my benefit. But more than once I caught him stealing glances at the stunning Amazon that so graphically represented everything he'd given up for his faith. And for my part, I pretended that I wasn't in the least bit threatened--which was about as convincing as the fake sunburn on my ass. There was just no ignoring this bronzed Pocohontas, she looked like an Indian boy's wet dream.

So anyway, I wasn't particularly happy about any sonofabitch'n thing, especially this much-ballyhooed reunion. Here I was behaving like the model "Molly Mormon," a helpless bystander as Jack's old girlfriend was brazenly gadding about like the life of the party. "Life of the Party" used to be my job--but I wasn't up to it. It was hot, I had a snake in me somewhere, I was just too shell-shocked to compete. The only thing I had going for me was my slightly superior moral fiber, so I just kept my mouth shut and tried to look religious. In a cool way.

To her credit, Diane really didn't do anything I saw to provoke Jack, and as the day wore on my anxiety began to fade a bit. I even tried my hand at waterskiing. Not my thing. I managed to make it up on one ski, but I was just hanging on like Barney Fife. "This isn't making me look any cooler--being drug around like this. Screw it, I'm letting go." Watersports aren't for me--but at least having a half-way decent time. In fact, I didn't even mind when, toward sundown, Diane hopped on the back of Jack's waverunner and they headed out for the last ride of the day. Not only did I not mind, I didn't even know.

What a good sport I am--I'm totally cool with this. In fact, I would've handled it just fine . . . if only they had come back. An hour passed and as darkness began to creep into camp, Jack and Diane were still missing. This, of course, gave rise to a good bit of drunken conjecture among his old friends. "Looks like Jack and Diane are up to their old tricks . . . blabbity bla bla." They even made up their own little ditties about Jack and Diane. I was totally floored, after all his Latter-Day-lobbying, Jack was going to make me the laughing stock of the party? My heart broke with such a crack that you could hear it echo through the canyons. "How did I get here?"

Another hour went by before anybody even became concerned, but since they couldn't be sure of their theory, they soon mounted another rescue effort. Even after hours of searching the cold black water, with flashlights and horn blasts--everyone still believed that the missing kids had probably found a private beach and were making up for lost time. To me this scenario was absolutely unthinkable-- "I'll kill that no-good Indian-giving bastard." A sampling of the unholy thoughts that were caroming wildly inside by poor brokenhearted brain, would've shamed the devil himself. Up until this point, my jealousy was kind of vague and focused upon his relationship with his religion, and I'll admit, it felt good to be able to direct it toward a tangible mortal being. That's if she is a mortal being. For all I knew Diane could've simply been another part of the whole "hell experience," and I'd soon be bound and tossed overboard while the whole nasty lot of them howled like jackals.

It's times like these when even a wayward soul such as myself can be moved to prayer. And to my absolute astonishment the moment I uttered my silent "amen," someone cried out and soon the boat erupted in cheers. (To be continued).

Im just kidding, as it turned out, just as Jack had turned the wave-runner back toward shore, they'd run out of gas. As the boats circled around, the flashlights showed the two of them clinging to the disabled craft like survivors of the Titanic. Diane's lips were blue and her jaw was quaking so violently she was unable to speak. And there was Jack--good-ole frigg'n Jack, grinning up at me like he'd heard every word of my prayer. "How did I get here?"