2. Brigham
two
“Brigham, read DC 89 verses 5-7 and 18-21. Then tell the class what the Lord means by strong drink and what blessings we’ll receive if we abstain.” Brother Hansen, my Sunday school teacher, peered at me over the top of his glasses while I quietly read the scripture verses.
I cleared my throat and met his quizzical gaze, shifting in the uncomfortable metal folding chair. “Um, strong drink is alcohol, and if we never drink it, we’ll be strong, and the destroying angel will pass over us.” I wanted to ask if Heavenly Father would really send a destroying angel for His beloved children, but I kept quiet. I knew better than to ask questions at church.
Brother Hansen smiled. “Excellent, Brigham. Young men and women, it is imperative to your salvation that you never touch a single drop of alcohol.”
I gazed up at the “house of sin” before me and audibly gulped, trying to shake away the memory from my youth Sunday school days. The bar was called The Station, and it showed up first in my internet search when I decided it was time to taste Satan’s juice.
The Station appeared unimpressive from the outside—a two-story brick building with a very average-looking, black front door. It had a peaked roof and a normal number of windows. Even the signage looked simple, in a standard black font, all caps. There were no neon lights or leering strangers. No one fornicated in the alley or threw punches in the parking lot.
It didn’t look like the story of sin and misery that I’d been sold as a child.
At thirty-three years old, I learned that not much of the real world resembled what I’d been taught. Growing up in a strict Mormon family was a trip like no other, but I traveled a new path now, one separate from the church and all of its toxicity.
It would be much easier to leave the church behind if I could get it out of my head.
I snapped my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose, willing the memory invading my mind to disappear. The flashbacks were intense tonight, and I couldn’t stop them.
My oldest sister, Emma, sobbed on our front porch in the dead of winter. Her rapid breaths came out in little white puffs. “Daddy! It’s not mine! It’s Cici’s!”
“I will not let you defile our home with this pure evil!” Our father clenched his jaw and fists, and the rage rolled off him in tangible waves. He gripped Emma’s long blonde ponytail and yanked her head back with his teeth bared. I wondered for a moment if he would rip her throat out like a rabid dog, but instead, he growled, “Go inside, Emma Hale Thompson. You better be on your knees all night praying for forgiveness.”
As Emma shoved past me and our four other siblings standing in the doorway, our father yelled after her, “Bishop Graves will be hearing about this!” He then slammed the door in the faces of his children.
My two older brothers wandered away from the train wreck, having already lost interest in their wayward sister’s plight, but my two younger sisters and I watched from the living room window as our father picked up the six-pack of beers. He carefully pulled a beer from the cardboard, letting the amber bottle rest in his palm. Then, without warning, he hurled it against the closed garage door. Shards of glass flew through the air, glittering like Christmas under the glow of the porch lights.
After all six bottles were shattered, their contents already beginning to freeze in the frigid air, he sank to his knees to pray.
“You comin’ in, darlin’?” An older woman with bleached blonde hair and leopard skin leggings gave me a toothy smile and held the door of The Station open for me.
“Oh. Um, yeah. Yes, I am.” I nodded, resolved to go to hell, and followed her through the open door. She gestured for me to go ahead of her and gave my butt a blatant appreciative stare. I guessed she was close to my mother’s age and fought not to shudder visibly. I had recently joined the single crowd, but that didn’t mean I wanted to visit Cougar Town any time soon.
The bouncer looked bored as he held out his hand for my ID. I didn’t know bars checked your ID before you even went in. I fumbled with my wallet and handed the guy my driver’s license with slightly trembling hands. He scanned it while I waited for lightning to strike the bar.
I was an idiot. I knew full well that Mormon God didn’t watch me with a fist full of wrath. Lately, however, I lacked the energy required to undo a lifetime of conditioning and fear.
I made my way to the crowded bar, my heart pounding in my throat. I’d spent considerable time researching how to order a drink at a bar without looking like an amateur. A thirty-three-year-old guy should know how to order a drink, damn it.
The bartender, a beautiful young woman with bright red hair, gave me a tired smile. “What can I get for ya?”
I blinked. She waited.
I cleared my throat. She raised a single eyebrow.
Finally, I blurted out, “Whiskey.” I didn’t mean to order that, but every drink name I’d researched momentarily slipped my mind.
“House okay?”
What did that mean? “Yep.”
The bartender nodded and poured me a glass of beautiful golden liquid, sliding it across the bar to me. “You opening a tab?” She leaned her elbows on the bar and looked at me expectantly.
I blinked again. “Uh, yep.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Mkay, I’ll need your credit card to get that started…”
“Right!” Wow, I felt stupid. I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and fumbled until I located my credit card. Ugh. I’d leave a good tip for being an idiot and taking up so much of her time.
The bartender quickly abandoned me, and I settled onto an empty stool. I stared at my glass of whiskey like it might sprout teeth and possibly murder me. I learned as a kid that this stuff would send me careening down a path of misery and sin. One sip, and I’d get drunk. Two sips, and I’d become an alcoholic. Three sips, and my life would be destroyed.
No. The life-destruction thing had happened all on its own without alcohol’s help. Three years ago, I made the unforgivable mistake of doubting my religious beliefs. That doesn’t fly with devout Mormons born and raised in Cedar City, Utah.
I gripped my glass of whiskey, determined to throw the whole thing back, refusing to think about all the people I’d be disappointing. But then Gina’s sobbing form invaded my head.
My ex-wife. I sighed and released the glass. Gina didn’t deserve what I threw at her one Sunday after church. She’d married the clean-cut, returned missionary who could marry her in the temple and create a picture-perfect eternal family. She never signed up for my crisis of faith. She didn’t sign up to be the single woman sitting in church while her apostate husband did God knows what.
Gina tried to be understanding of my disbelief and disgust with the LDS church at first, but in the end, she couldn’t wrap herself around it. How could someone have the fullness of the gospel and not want it? No matter how I tried to explain it, she’d refused to see the church through my lens as the abusive cult it was.
It was almost a relief when she finally threw out the D word. We finalized our divorce six weeks ago, and it took me that long to book a trip to Durango, CO. I’d never wanted to visit. I picked a random city on the map, knowing I needed to get the hell out of Utah for a while.
I first thought of Las Vegas. I was born and raised two hours from the city but had never visited. I almost reserved a hotel room at The Aria but changed my mind. All I could think about were the times my parents would sing hymns at the top of their lungs when we drove past Vegas on the freeway. “Look down, boys! Don’t look at the city! Remember Lot’s wife turning into a pillar of salt!”
They didn’t want me or my brothers to accidentally see some boobs and turn into salt. It was normal, loving parent stuff. Understandable.
I rolled my eyes and picked up my glass of whiskey. I’d never actually seen a good pair of breasts. Gina was as flat-chested as me and usually kept her bra on during our awkward, stilted sexual encounters anyway.
I mentally raised my glass to all the boobs I’d never seen and took my first sip of alcohol.