BIG SOUTHERN CHAPTER 77

LATE JUNE 2012

DAVID

I need to procure a van for the upcoming tour.

I make a list of sights to see. Positions, more than sights, because nothing really remains of the area's history. Even across the river, at the original Fort Hall, only a marker stands to signify its location, not a shred of adobe or wood left to identify it. Short as the history here is, early building materials combined with harsh weather conditions makes for a shorter one. But it'll be alright, because the oldest, most interesting history is always that which is almost gone or gone—what we really love about history is its elusiveness, the way that, in the process of dissolving facts, it opens up our imagination's borders.

While I create an itinerary I make another list, a short one comprised more of doodles than solid ideas, tinkering with the hints given by Henry's map: what it means, what I might do. Both lists start out with good intentions, then quickly dissipate into sour, uninspired thoughts, half-hearted in spirit. The rush of excitement is crushed by details, as if in a vise. So I take a deep breath and make another run at it, this time think of the tasks more as a marathon than a sprint.

The doorbell interrupts my second attempt. I peek through the curtain's edge. Isn't that the way it goes—Mormon missionaries, instantly recognizable by their suits, blue Book of Mormons in their hands, and just-washed, angelic miens. Lots of teeth. It's been a while. Outside their reach for a couple decades, I'd forgotten about their persistent omnipresence. I remember the drill and answer the door.

"I'm not really interested," I say, my best and shortest polite refusal uttered before they can ply their wares. "But thanks for stopping and good luck." I start shutting the door, having only partially opened it.

Pickings are few here, I imagine, the pool of potential converts small in an area nine-tenths Mormon. I don't know what Church authorities have in mind, assigning young men to a place where LDS chapels already outnumber convenience stores. Maybe they send the inept to where they can't do damage. Maybe they send their best proselytizers to work at the last strongholds of Gentiledom.

One of the young men just can't let well enough alone. Already holding the screen open, he reaches to stop the closing door. "Don't you believe in God?" he righteously inquires, planting his toe just inside the threshold.

His companion, sensing a transgression, tries to intervene. "Do you have anything here we can help you with?" he implores. "Yard work?" He has taken the notion of service as his lead responsibility, a tack I have no qualms with though I politely refuse. "I appreciate it," I tell him, a fake smile on my face, "But I'm good here."

I turn to the other missionary. "Do you understand what 'no' means?" My stare just fuels his widening smile.

"There are those," he begins with gravity, as if performing onstage—his fingers are in his Book of Mormon, maybe on a specific page that he's channeling—"Hungry but prideful, who will refuse to eat though offered sustenance."

I have never been interested in a war of aphorisms, don't know whether he is quoting Joseph Smith, Jesus Christ or his missionary training. Maybe he has concocted this particular line by himself. Ernie Johannson would have jumped at this opportunity to match biblical wits, his Presbyterian Bible School years preparing him for religious argumentation. He would invite missionaries, Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormons alike, into his home as a kind of sport, his scriptural knowledge then exposing the contradictions of their faiths. Once he had toyed with them and tired of the sport, he released them to stumble back into the wild.

I get no such pleasure. "Not hungry," I clarify. "Maybe prideful. Have a nice day." I kick his foot out, pull the screen door shut and almost smash his fingers. But he opens the door again.

Before he can say anything I step outside, grab him by the throat and lift. My thumbs dig in under his jawline. "What the fuck about 'no' don't you understand?" I ask, his face reddening and his features contorting. I release him almost immediately, shocked by my uncharacteristic action—I don't recall ever doing anything akin to this.

The second proselytizer flashes an apologetic look bordering on embarrassment. I nod to acknowledge his attempt at politeness, but close the door—without slamming it, though that would match the message I wish to send.

Through the front window I watch them go to their ride, the senior of them striding in a way I recognize as filled with righteousness, his joust with Mammon inflating a believer's sense of self, while the junior missionary walks with his shoulders slumped.

Not until the car leaves my sight does my mind return to a semblance of calm, as I replay the scene over and over trying to deprive it of life.

I return to the desk, to the lists, consider adding a site to the tour, the place of what I consider to be the last big skirmish between Mormons and Gentiles. The First Terminus. For a moment that thought excites me but another internal voice stops the idea almost immediately. Given the tour's two hour parameters, it would mean dropping the reservoir end of the excursion since it is off in a different direction.

Plus, I don't know how much of the Mormon-Gentile conflict I wish to infuse, can't discern where my own prejudices interfere with the truth. Particularly given the so recent encounter.

But another day, maybe.

© 2025 Ralph Thurston