Trouble Along The Mormon Trail

What's a gal to do? I'm barely seventeen years old and in case you're dying to know--yes, technically, I'm still a virgin. I'd always envisioned my early adulthood as a devil-may-care affair, reveling in my youth, tasting the fruits of the world, and now I've gone and fallen in love with a damn Mormon. A Returned Missionary to frigg'n boot. This is Maddy again, in case you were confused, and if you've followed this strange saga you'll remember the object of my obsession--Jack. If you don't know Jack, he's a Piute Indian from Pahrump, Nevada, whose charm and beauty have all but ruined my life. I'd hoped that, with time, his missionary zeal would subside and he'd go back to more traditional Indian beliefs--the god of fire, the god of animals, or whatever--fuggetaboutit. He's hell-bent on turning me into a Mormon and the whole crazy thing has turned my simple little life into a moral dilemma of Dr. Laura proportions.

Believe me, I'm not even close to being ready to be a little "goody two shoes." I'm a rebel, a bad seed. I don't want to be a damn Mormon--I want to be bad. I wanna swear and chew tobacco. Play strip poker with the Pioneerzz pitching staff, maybe develop a gambling problem. Why should I be cheated out of the typical stupid adolescent experiences? I guess what I'm saying is that I want to have my Jack and eat it too.

It doesn't seem like too much to ask. But believe me--it's not working out like that. Jack wants to convert me as soon as possible--in fact, he's starting to talk about giving me the "discussions." I just wanna give him a hickey, for God's sake. I'm not sure what "discussions are, but I'm pretty sure he's going to be doing all the discussing. I'm getting the impression that I'm going to be expected to repent and forsake my Godless ways--but I'm tell'n ya, I've got nothing to repent about. I curse a little bit and I've been drunk twice--it's not like I'm tortured by remorse. I think that before someone repents they should have the opportunity to sin first. I want to sin, it looks like fun. I've always figured that the best idea would be to have myself a good time "live it up" and then when the moon turns to blood and it starts raining fire, I'll say I'm sorry and hope for the best. That was my plan of salvation. But no matter how desperately I try to convince him that I'm not a bad person, it looks like the road to Jack goes through that pretty white building in the middle of town.

Anyway, I had planned to spend the Easter weekend with Jack, but when he started talking about watching "Conference," I decided to make up an excuse and stick around for the Spring Break action. I've got plenty of wild oats to sew and I figured, with any luck, maybe I could chalk up a few black-marks in heaven. As you know, it turned out to be too cold to hang out on the boulevard and after several fruitless passes up and down the street, my friend and I gratefully accepted an invitation to party with some kids in a motel room.

The room was crowded with girls in their spaghetti straps and striped bell-bottom jogging pants, and guys who'd dyed their hair to the same color as a golden retriever. Sit . . . good boy. I sat in at a round of "quarters" long enough to get me a little buzz going, (y'see? I'm no good), but it started to make me nauseous. It wasn't the beer so much as it was having to listen to these kids talk like they were black rappers. Yo, whassup? Where'z all yo' juice--yo? If they weren't getting jiggy in their dope rides, they were kickn' it in the crib--keeping it on the DL." For some reason I'm just not down with all that, it bugs me--maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm WHITE!!! Believe me, I'm not front'n. I'm not diss'n black people, I think my attraction to Jack is ample evidence that I bear no racial prejudice. In fact I've coined a term for Caucasians who insist on talking like blacks, I call them "Homeyopaths." "Yo, Snow White, do me a favor, don't go there."

Since I was the designated driver, I bowed out of the quarters game early on and even found a pretty interesting guy to talk to. He was a scrawny little internet cadet named Brad, who wasn't much to look at (acne was playing hell with his flesh); but he had some pretty interesting theories to fill me in on. It's Brad's contention that computers are the modern day equivalent of the "forbidden fruit." "Why do you think the first computers were named Apple?" The "original sin" apple was plucked from the "tree of knowledge" and computers represent man's nasty habit of poking around where he hadn't ought to be poking around. "Look at the internet, it's littered with porn," Brad went on. He told me it was a popular rumor on the internet that the Y2K bug is going to cause the Russian's nuclear arsenal to automatically launch and there's nothing they can do to stop it. He went on to say that it's likely that we won't be able to intercept the Russian Nukes because of Y2K problems of our own. "The holy city of Las Vegas will be blown sky high, because of Nellis Air force base," Brad insisted, "and if we don't die from the blast, we'll succumb in a matter of days choking on our own fallout phlegm."

It was about at this point that one of the "fly" girls stumbled into the bathroom and puked in the tub--which might not have been such a grievous "party foul" had it not been for the fact that the tub was where everyone was keeping their ice cold beer. Oops. This brought about such a hew and cry that you'd've thought the missiles had struck early. "Damn yo, that s___t's f___ed up." The tub had to be drained, the ice melted and the beer individually washed. Probably the biggest Buzzkill possible, short of bloodshed or cops. You go girl. Let's just say Brad and I shared a good laugh. Unfortunately it was short-lived, because the poor besmirched and pathetic creature whose very vomit had nearly ruined the party, crawled right back in the shower, curled up in the fetal position and began to weep. Violent, gut-wrenching sobs, that wiped the smile right off my face. Nevertheless her pathetic wailing did nothing to soften the hearts of two bitter-beer-face wannabe brothers who thought it would be poetic justice to turn the shower on her.

From my vantage I could see the water start to steam and before Brad and I could come to her rescue, she bolted upright and brained herself on the soapdish. Brad turned off the shower and grabbed a towel to stop the bleeding and I promptly left the party and called 911 from a pay-phone. I was probably home before the ambulance arrived and since there was nothing in the paper, I assume she pulled through. I had alot on my mind that night as I tossed and turned--I don't remember ever feeling so lonely. What if Brad's right? I kept thinking. If he is, and we're all going to be blown to smithereens in six months, I want to go out in Jack's arms. Yeah . . . that's the ticket--I want my vapor to be blown into the great beyond mixed with Jacks". It was all I could do to stop myself from calling him at four in the morning.

I certainly wouldn't have imagined that anyone or anything could make a Mormon out of me--but I promised Jack that I'd keep an open mind. He gave me the first discussion, and I'll have to admit I didn't mind it too much--particularly since after he was finished we made-out. The Lord works in mysterious ways--and sometimes it's as obvious as the pimple on your nose.