Jerry invited me to a party in the canyon last night. I managed to borrow my mom’s car and made my way to a house I’d never been to before.

I was surprised to see some of the CTR contingency had been invited. Having seen their boyfriends off on their missions, they were evidently killing time with the party set.

“New York? Wow, I could never live in a city like that. Is it scary?”
There it was, that trademark squeaky clean intonation that made me squirm.

“Who invited them?” I whispered to Jerry.
“Soph, don’t be such a snob, they’re cool.”
I grumbled quietly, then excused myself outside when someone mentioned a smoke.

I shimmied through the narrow opening left in the sliding glass door, onto the deck where the crowd had gathered.  I leaned on the railing and winced as the dry wood whimpered under the weight.  Relishing a private moment, I took long and contemplative drags while I surveyed the faces and compared them to faces in my new city — less nose, more ink, otherwise the same.

“Aaron, you’re back! Buddy, what’s up?”

Shaded by the crowd and distance, I narrowed my attention to verify this Aaron was the one I knew.  It was.

It had been nearly four years since I’d seen him.

It was our final spring break as kids, and we’d set our sites on a piece of Mojave. The unspoken agreement that we all shared, the expectation for some, and the worry for others, was that instead of stopping in St. George, as planned, we’d heed a call to cross the border less than two hours south. We always did.  The whole bunch of us would pile into one cheap hotel room and christen it by lining up shots of booze — purchased from the bottom shelf — on a skateboard. We’d roll the board back and forth, focused on saving every drop. Eventually, we’d spill out into the night on foot, under the influence of the strips incendiary charms and the shots, worth every drop.

Not Aaron though, Aaron was “straight edge” — no booze, no smoke, and no meat. His high was natural, slightly enhanced by Mountain Dew.

Not that he was a bore. In some ways, his abandon bested any of us.
He would approach anyone, eat any combination of things on a dare and couldn’t wait to test out the vulnerability of nether reaching tree branches above swimming holes.

No, his particular abjurations were the product of a religious upbringing; Aaron was a good Mormon boy.  A devout Holy Spirit lover, through and through.  Well, save for the fact that, to our fortune and to his church’s probable dismay, Aaron preferred the company of Gentiles, aka non-Mormons – a confounding definition for any Jew – to his ‘Brothers & Sisters’.

That spring, we all knew a calling from up on high was en route. See, Aaron was 18 and like so many before, would soon make his way to the MTC (Missionary Training Center), where he would learn how to preach the Book of Mormon’s gospel in Spanish for his missionary work in Mexico City. These details were yet unknown, but we all intuited this a farewell journey.

The deck crowd was now gathered around Aaron, peppering him with questions. His curtly answers beckoned my scrutiny.  From my distance, I did my best to scan his face for its characteristic mischief.  To my chagrin, all I found laid across his brow was flat obedience.

I can’t say I was surprised.  But, I quickly knew I couldn’t muster the courage to face him, after all this time, and I slipped out before he could see me.

On the drive home, I began to place memories in order. Me, Jerry, Nate and Aaron in Jerry’s Acura headed down I-15. Nate, a bawdy, caustic type fella, insisting all the while that we go to this strip club he likes.

“His selling points?”
“The decor is pretty classy.”
“The clientele is respectable.”
“The dancers are hot females who are in charge.”
“The music doesn’t suck.”

Having long ago declared myself a feminist,  I felt obligated to remind everyone that this outing was “absolutely, not for me.” But, Nate can be convincing and so can the incantations of Sin City.  So, sometime before midnight I was canned and showing my ID to a bouncer at Deja Vu.

Soon, I was audience to a woman, no older than me, undulating to Nine Inch Nails. Right about then, I realized Aaron had joined us. He was looking on expressionless, while Trent Reznor cued our girl to gesticulate like an animal.
“Are you ok?” I asked.
He just nodded, not making eye contact.
A few moments later he slipped outside and concerned, I followed.

When I found him under a buzzing spotlight in the parking lot, between two cars doubled over and sobbing, I rushed to his side.
“It’s ok, nobody needs to know you were here. You haven’t done anything.”
“I’m not like those men in there.”
I can see he is red in the face, omitting an emotion that I can’t quite place.
“I mean, I know, but also some of those men are just, boys,” I stammer.
“If it makes you feel better, I feel like I’m also betraying myself in there.”
“I will never be like those men.”
The truth in his words pierced the quiet of that parking lot.

The rest of the night deteriorated like they tend to in Las Vegas: blackjack tables, sweet sticky cocktails, a fever dream of lights and gaudy carpet, cigarettes, late, greasy food.

The next day brought down the wrath, and we peeled out of Nevada like salvation lay at the border. In silence, we drove northward. I spent the first hour, or two focused on locating my equilibrium and reckoning with the excise imposed on my soul in the backseat. Jerry and Nate took turns driving. Aaron sat beside me, eyes fixed out the passenger window. When we stopped at a Denny’s in Cedar City, Aaron was the one to break the silence, turning to me in the back seat he whispered,

“We all know that God allows evil to exist in the world.”

“Huh?”

“I feel better now.”

“I’m glad for you, but I still feel like roadkill,” I groaned.

“Sophi?”

“Yes, Aaron?”

“I love you, and so does Jesus.”

He left for Mexico City a year behind schedule and in between slipped deeper in love.