Miss Misery (30 page)

“What'd we get? A convertible?”

Ashleigh seemed determined to milk every possible drop of fun out of this strange little adventure before she made it back home. She skipped at my heels like a wound-up puppy. “No, we didn't get a convertible. I think I've spent enough money today.”

“Is it an SUV?”

“No, it's not an SUV.” I shook my head and tried to navigate a clear path to space K-26.

“My parents drive an SUV. It's an Escalade. I told them it was bad for the earth but they told me that Utah highways are bad for their peace of mind.”

“Uh-huh.” I stopped short as someone who clearly had shelled out extra for a red Mustang convertible gunned his way past us toward the exit.

“I know I'm not supposed to like it, but it's pretty cool to sit that high up all the time.”

“Here we go.” Parked glumly in space K-26 was a beige hump of an automobile so devoid of personality it was hard to tell where it ended and the asphalt began. The inside fixtures were oversize and over-rounded black plastic, and there was a prim little American-flag decal affixed to the rear window. The Ford Tempo, pride of the Dollar fleet. “C'mon,” I said. “Hop in.”

Ashleigh face fell. “Ew.”

“Ashleigh, it's not very punk-rock to care about cars.”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “I'm not punk rock. I'm emo. And this car
breaks my fragile heart.
” But she pulled open the door and hopped in anyway, which relieved me to no end.

 

It takes about fifteen seconds after exiting the rental-car parking garage at the Salt Lake City airport to realize—officially and definitively—that you are in the American West. Nowhere else is that flat, first of all. The single snaking roadway in front of us felt like a random squiggly line drawn on an otherwise blank canvas. All around us was dark nothingness with a sprinkling of hard bright lights in the distance. The other dead giveaway was the sign that said
DOWNTOWN
,
TAKE EXIT
1
A
. Only out here, in the land of boxy city maps and endless space, could a functioning international airport be located so close to the heart of downtown. I squinted in the nearly gone light and shifted lanes. As I did so, I caught the faintest glimpse of the ridiculous mountain ranges that hemmed in the horizon on all sides. They were craggy and snow-capped even now, and I felt their presence all around me even when the sun dipped farther and I could no longer make them out. They lurked and loomed, like uncapped teeth poised for a vicious, one-sided bite. I could see what Ashleigh meant about having them around all the time. They gave me the creeps.

Ashleigh was fiddling with the radio. “Hey,” I said. “So where do you live, anyway? And please tell me it's close.”

She looked up. “It's not that far, don't worry. It's like, a suburb?”

“OK,” I said. “A suburb. Where do I go?”

“Get off here and head into town,” she said. “My parents are going to be out until like ten or eleven tonight. They have meetings at the church. We could drive past Temple Square and, like, get something to eat.”

I steered the car toward the exit ramp, the red glow of brake lights shining in my retinas. “Are you sure? I'd kind of feel better if I just dropped you safely at home. I don't want to push it.”

“Come on! You're on vacation. Let's just go for a quick tour around. It'll be fun, I promise. I don't want you to get caught either.”

I sighed. Some vacation. But what the hell—Rulon had gotten me all in a tizzy about Salt Lake, so I figured I might as well see what all his fuss was about. “OK,” I said. “But quickly.”

Ashleigh clapped her hands and slid a CD from her bag into the car stereo. Jagged, jangly orchestral rock poured out of the speakers.

“What's this?” I asked.

“It's the Used,” she said, twisting the air conditioner up higher and rolling her seat back. “They're from here, so I figured they'd make good backing music.”

The song that spilled out into the space between us was pompous and catchy, and it seemed somehow fitting. The perfectly skewed accompaniment to a truly bizarre evening. The highway ended abruptly, and soon we were on a four-lane strip that could have been the road to Anytown, Anywhere. Roast-beef take-out joints, cheap motels, and expensive gas stations lined my vision. Billboards advertised smooth country radio stations and more divorce attorneys than I figured there could possibly be divorces in such a God-fearing state. As we waited for a light, Ashleigh squealed. “Oooooh, gosh, there's my dad.”

My heart did a cliff dive. “What? Where?”

Ashleigh didn't seem too phased. “Up there.” She leaned forward and pointed straight up. I followed her gaze to a billboard perched over the traffic light, which read
TIRED
?
OVERWEIGHT
?
UNDERAPPRECIATED
?
GET BORTCHED
! There was a phone number, a list of addresses, and an elephantine, airbrushed image of a slick, smiling blond guy like the ones we had seen at the airport, the gleam of his white teeth matching the polish on his cheeks and the dead-eyed enthusiasm of his gaze. Underneath the ghoulish head were the words
ROGER BORTCH
,
FOUNDER AND CEO
,
BORTCH PHYSICAL WELLNESS CENTERS
.

An angry honk from a truck behind me snapped me out of my reverie and through the green light. Ashleigh turned up the volume on the stereo, and I leaned forward and wheeled it back down again. “Holy shit,” I said.

“Hey, I was listening to that!” Ashleigh leaned forward to turn the volume back up, but I beat her to it and snapped the entire thing off. “Hey!”

“‘Get Bortched'?” I glanced over at Ashleigh, who had her arms crossed in front of her chest. “‘Get Bortched'?”

“He's really proud of that. He thinks it's what made him so successful.” She turned her head toward the window. “I think it sounds gross. So does Mom. But he won't listen.”

“Ashleigh, if that man finds out that I have his precious daughter, he's going to Bortch me until I can't walk anymore.”

“He's not gonna find out.”

I clenched and unclenched my fingers on the wheel. “Jesus, let's hope not.” We drove in silence for a while, following the signs for Temple Square. “You never told me he was such a big deal.”

“He has four rehab clinics and an ad on local morning TV. That's not that big a deal.”

“Still,” I said. “That's a pretty big billboard. His head is ginormous.”

“It is in real life, too.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

“Yeah, it's great.” Ashleigh put her feet up on the dash. “He cares so much about his precious little ‘centers.' They're like his real kids.”

I was still preoccupied with visions of what being Bortched by Roger would entail. One should never mess with the progeny of physical-fitness freaks. “So is he really buff or something?”

Ashleigh pushed air through her teeth, making a dismissive, whistling sound. “Oh, he benches like three-fifty, but he's never even gotten in a fight.”

I quivered a little in my seat. “That's comforting,” I said. “That's very, very comforting.” Ashleigh snapped the stereo back on and I didn't stop her. The Used bellowed something about cutting so deep that it didn't even bleed. I tried to tune out the music in my head and remember that I was just a visitor here. But it proved an awfully difficult thing to do. Mostly, I hoped I would make it back to Brooklyn without being Bortched. Ashleigh sang along to the song on the stereo unselfconsciously, drumming her palms on the dashboard as downtown Salt Lake City ambled into view. Who was I kidding? I'd already been Bortched. There was no turning back now.

 

Downtown Salt Lake seemed plausible enough at first glance. There was a refreshing age to most things, a pleasant lived-in look to many of the storefronts. As Rulon had promised, there was indeed an efficient little train zipping along South Temple Street, making left turns difficult, but local life easier, no doubt. The road into town led us past the Delta Center, where the Utah Jazz play and where the Neville Brothers seemed to be performing that very night, and in the rearview mirror I caught sight of what looked to be an old train station.

“Is that an old train station?” I asked Ashleigh, visions of faded gold-rush glamour filling my head. “I love train stations.”

“It used to be,” she answered without looking back. “Now it's a mall. They built it for the Olympics.”

I wanted to ask: Why would the Olympics need a mall? But some questions are better left unanswered.

“Temple Square is just up on the left,” Ashleigh said. “If you want to see it, let's park here.”

I steered the rental into an empty space on the south side of the street. Across the street, past the light-rail stop, a plain-Jane Best Western stuck its blunted snout into the purplish sky. The car made a hospital-like dinging noise to remind me I'd left the lights on. As soon as the AC went off, the famous dry heat penetrated my bones. There were shockingly few people on the street.

“Where is everyone?” I said.

“Home, probably.” Ashleigh undid her seat belt and opened the door. “Where do you want them to be?”

Where, indeed. I locked up the car and followed Ashleigh across the street to the walled-in square. The air was hot but still—almost enjoyable. As soon as we set foot on the curb, two mousy-looking young women with name tags and ankle-length black skirts approached us, smiling as if they were auditioning for an orthodontist's catalog. Squinting in the glare of their megawatt teeth, I'd never felt more New York—or more Jewish—in my life.

“They're missionaries,” Ashleigh hissed. “Total wack jobs.”

The two swooped down on us like God-fearing vultures. They even walked in sync, their legs pistoning over the stone ground in easy steps. There was no similarity between them in looks—one was tall and blond; the other was stumpy and Asian—but their plasticine expressions united them in creepy Stepford sisterhood. I wanted to turn around and run, but they were already upon us.

“Good evening!” said Stepford sister number one. “Welcome to Temple Square! May we be of assistance?”

“Um,” I said, feeling somehow guilty even though I hadn't done anything. “No, thanks. We're all right.”

“There's a screening of a film beginning in ten minutes,” said Stepford number two, smoothing out the pleats in her skirt. “It explains the glorious history of Brigham Young and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Her eyes brimmed with God-loving tears. “Would you like us to show you where the screening is?”

“Ah,” I said. “No, no. We're just, um, browsing.” The two smiled serenely. I started to blurt out another ridiculous pleasantry when Ashleigh grabbed my arm and steered me away from them and toward the giant, glowing temple.

“For a writer, you sure can be sucky with words.”

“Writers don't have to speak out loud, Ashleigh. They are allowed to be mute.”

“Whatever.”

A gentle breeze pushed through the square, moving the hot air around and making me feel the thousands of miles between me and my humid home. Small groups of stern, anachronistic bald men in suits strolled by in every direction, muttering church business into one another's ears. There didn't seem to be many tourists. Ashleigh pointed out the giant round tabernacle building to the left and then steered us toward the burbling fountain at the foot of the imposing, bone-white temple. The turrets were lit from below by muted, glowing spotlights, and they pointed toward the star-filled sky with a stern austerity of purpose.

I gazed upward and thought: a story. A story traveled here and built this. No matter what my personal beliefs were, in that moment I was duly humbled and impressed. All of this for a story. Now that's dedication. Or good storytelling. I turned to Ashleigh, who seemed bored. “Can we go in?”

Ashleigh shook her head. “Only members of the church can go in. And even then, not always.”

I felt the eyes of the missionaries with the lacquered smiles on us so I steered Ashleigh around the square to another corner of the temple. “Have you ever been in there?”

She sighed. “Once. When I was like seven. The whole family got sealed in there.”

I frowned. “You were sealed in there? Did you have to, like, fight your way out? Indiana Jones–style?” I pictured Ashleigh, mud-streaked and panting, dodging rolling boulders and blowgun darts with trusty Short Round at her side.

Ashleigh sighed again, with infinite patience. “No, dummy. It's what the LDS Church does. It's a ceremony for the totally true believers. If you get your family sealed together, then you'll always be together, even after death.”

“So if something were to happen to you and your parents, you'd be reunited with them in heaven or whatever?”

“Yep.”

“You're stuck with your family for all eternity?” I shuddered.