Otis
Posted: August 23rd, 2005, 7:07 pm
St. George, Utah had a crisp order to it, like all Mormon towns. There was an elementary school every five blocks, with the same kid in a tiny blue helmet wobbling on the same bike. Each measured angle, corner, and well-tended lawn glistened, and parallel rows of white steeples were noted at every third stop sign.
When I locked into the order, I was fine, but if my gaze strayed to the psychedelic red cliffs beyond, I risked heresy. Even so, I had no particular objection until I learned that the place had only one tavern. How could I trust a town with only one tavern?
I sat in a church parking lot, sipping forbidden caffeine, across from the Mormon superstore where I bought it, next to Zion's Bank. "Zion" is a popular Utah obsession. Not only "Zion", as in the promised land, but a "Zion" empire built to take over the now; a profitable Zion, to get a jump on all that projected heavenly glory.
But where is Zion? It had to be somewhere near. It was advertised everywhere. Reggae blasted from my truck; a defiant, bass-driven Rasta track, bound to shock anyone within earshot, except that it too obsessed over "Zion", the place where all trouble evaporates. I thought about rolling south to search for Zion, but I was pretty sure that I would miss the exit.
I took it as a sign, in a land notorious for them. Mormon history is riddled with unexplained revelation, populated by self-proclaimed prophets. In those days after Sept. 11, 2001, here is what I can tell you for sure: I threw a broken heart upon the mercy of the faithful, and they ripped it wide open. I won't make that mistake again.
I remembered the Good Book numerology. I once learned these things in church. I learned that forty-two is a bad number. But add two and you are back in business. The faithful are partial to forty-four, as I recall. And while the number seven has its moments, twelve is a Biblical superstar-- the apostolic number, which figures into Joseph Smith's one true church. But three is the biggest of them all. God's number. The Trinity. There is no known way to top the number three.
I ran up against a trinity of my own in St. George. In the first week, I met a man who declared all Protestant faith to be lost. In the second week, I met a man who declared all Mormon faith to be lost. In the third week, I met a man who declared the first two men to be lost. This man's name was Otis. He was a desert prophet, mainly because I needed him to be one. He certainly foretold how God would appear thereafter from from my driver's seat.
Otis advertised a room rental. His mother took the calls since Otis didn't have a phone. Strange. But maybe Otis was setting up the place. I followed his instructions into the industrial part of town, ending up next to a boat repair shop, in front of an old tin trailer with a crude box addition jutting out from side. A skittery chocolate chihuahua named 'Sweetheart' chirped out a code red frenzy in the driveway.
By and by, Otis emerged from his trailer, in a ripped tee-shirt and jeans, permeated with grease. He was around sixty, with a stubble-stained face and an odd, combative squint; something no desert prophet should be without. He shook my hand and promptly crawled under his truck; an awful jalopy, stitched together from an abused '65 Ford cab and a rusted '77 Dodge bed. He was replacing the transfer case and he asked me to fetch some tools.
"This thing will go anywhere", he repeated, as I pondered the odds of all that spent metal escaping meltdown for so long. Otis was a junk man. His yard was jammed with boxes , transmissions, window frames, and tarps--- something like half a hardware store of perfectly useful stuff. Upside-down carpet was laid out everywhere, "to keep down the weeds".
The inside of his place was vintage trailer; snap-on beige and a hint of mildew. Everything was comfortably worn, faded, and stained, and there were heaps of boxes, books, and fishing gear, plus unidentifiable gadgets piled everywhere. Paintings of Indian sun symbols lay spread out on the living room floor.
"Does anyone else live here?", I asked. "No. Just me and Sweetheart. And I'm not allowed to have alcohol in the trailer, due to the probation". I told him I would think it over.
When I locked into the order, I was fine, but if my gaze strayed to the psychedelic red cliffs beyond, I risked heresy. Even so, I had no particular objection until I learned that the place had only one tavern. How could I trust a town with only one tavern?
I sat in a church parking lot, sipping forbidden caffeine, across from the Mormon superstore where I bought it, next to Zion's Bank. "Zion" is a popular Utah obsession. Not only "Zion", as in the promised land, but a "Zion" empire built to take over the now; a profitable Zion, to get a jump on all that projected heavenly glory.
But where is Zion? It had to be somewhere near. It was advertised everywhere. Reggae blasted from my truck; a defiant, bass-driven Rasta track, bound to shock anyone within earshot, except that it too obsessed over "Zion", the place where all trouble evaporates. I thought about rolling south to search for Zion, but I was pretty sure that I would miss the exit.
I took it as a sign, in a land notorious for them. Mormon history is riddled with unexplained revelation, populated by self-proclaimed prophets. In those days after Sept. 11, 2001, here is what I can tell you for sure: I threw a broken heart upon the mercy of the faithful, and they ripped it wide open. I won't make that mistake again.
I remembered the Good Book numerology. I once learned these things in church. I learned that forty-two is a bad number. But add two and you are back in business. The faithful are partial to forty-four, as I recall. And while the number seven has its moments, twelve is a Biblical superstar-- the apostolic number, which figures into Joseph Smith's one true church. But three is the biggest of them all. God's number. The Trinity. There is no known way to top the number three.
I ran up against a trinity of my own in St. George. In the first week, I met a man who declared all Protestant faith to be lost. In the second week, I met a man who declared all Mormon faith to be lost. In the third week, I met a man who declared the first two men to be lost. This man's name was Otis. He was a desert prophet, mainly because I needed him to be one. He certainly foretold how God would appear thereafter from from my driver's seat.
Otis advertised a room rental. His mother took the calls since Otis didn't have a phone. Strange. But maybe Otis was setting up the place. I followed his instructions into the industrial part of town, ending up next to a boat repair shop, in front of an old tin trailer with a crude box addition jutting out from side. A skittery chocolate chihuahua named 'Sweetheart' chirped out a code red frenzy in the driveway.
By and by, Otis emerged from his trailer, in a ripped tee-shirt and jeans, permeated with grease. He was around sixty, with a stubble-stained face and an odd, combative squint; something no desert prophet should be without. He shook my hand and promptly crawled under his truck; an awful jalopy, stitched together from an abused '65 Ford cab and a rusted '77 Dodge bed. He was replacing the transfer case and he asked me to fetch some tools.
"This thing will go anywhere", he repeated, as I pondered the odds of all that spent metal escaping meltdown for so long. Otis was a junk man. His yard was jammed with boxes , transmissions, window frames, and tarps--- something like half a hardware store of perfectly useful stuff. Upside-down carpet was laid out everywhere, "to keep down the weeds".
The inside of his place was vintage trailer; snap-on beige and a hint of mildew. Everything was comfortably worn, faded, and stained, and there were heaps of boxes, books, and fishing gear, plus unidentifiable gadgets piled everywhere. Paintings of Indian sun symbols lay spread out on the living room floor.
"Does anyone else live here?", I asked. "No. Just me and Sweetheart. And I'm not allowed to have alcohol in the trailer, due to the probation". I told him I would think it over.
