Spirit Pouch (5 page)

“Impressive,” I say sarcastically.  I think,
A bar-bell through his tongue just about completes his image.  That is if you want the image of a not-so-smart, gang member, drug user type.

“Do you think so?”

I choose not to answer his question.  Instead I reply, “So this tongue ornament is the urgent thing that you had to do last night?”

“Yeah,” he says with a grin.  “Do you think Sarah will notice?”

“Yeah.  She will notice,” I say wrinkling my nose.  “But she is not going to be impressed.”

“Ha!” he laughs.  “You’re jealous.  I beth your mommy won’t leth you pierce your tongue and you are jealous.”

“Ty, if you want to pierce your tongue or your ears its okay with me.  I just choose not to because President Hinckley said that guys shouldn’t pierce their ears or their tongue, that’s all.”
[7]

“Well, you watch.  Sarah will be impressed.  Tongue piercing is the latest thing.”

“Ty, what I wanted to ask is …”  The starting bell interrupts me, and I can see that there is no time for a philosophical discussion about spirit pouches.  I frown and turn back around in my chair.

After English Literature, Ty shoots out of class like an arrow.  I know he is eager to get to seminary early so he can flash around his bar-bell.

“There goes the dumb-bell with the bar-bell,” Jeff mutters as I gather up my books.  “Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” I say as I head for the door.  “He’s going to need some help when he finds out that tongue piercing is not as cool as it seems.”

“Uh-huh.  Dental help when he bites that thing, not to mention psychological help.”

I leave English Literature at a run.  It isn’t easy to run with books, but my cross country training comes in useful.  I catch up with Ty half way to seminary.

“Ty,” I say, panting a little.

He turns to look.

“I need to ask you about baptism,” I say.

“Sorry, man,” he replies, staring toward the seminary building that is now in sight.  “I don’t want to get baptized in the Mormon church or any other church.”

“That’s not what I mean.  I’m talking about the spirit pouch.  I need help figuring it out.”

I actually get Ty’s attention for all of ten seconds, but then Sarah Hansen comes into view as she enters the seminary building with two other young women.

“Are you coming over tonight?” Ty asks.

“Yes.”

“Let’s talk tonight, then.”

* * *

In seminary Ty catches Sarah’s eye one time and quickly protrudes his tongue to flash his silver bar-bell.

Sarah frowns and turns back around in her seat for the rest of the period.  After class Sarah slips quickly out the side door while Becky walks over to Ty.

“I saw that thing in your mouth,” she says.

“You like it?” Ty asks, sticking it out and wiggling his tongue for effect.

“No,” she answers.  “It’s gross.  Take that thing out.  It’s not very becoming, and you’re a lot more attractive without it.”

“That’s not what Sarah thinks,” Ty says a little hurt.

“Trust me,” Becky smiles.  “That
is
what Sarah thinks.”  She turns and walks away.  I have heard enough, and by the look on Ty’s face, so has he.

* * *

I park my bicycle on Ty’s front porch and remove my helmet.  I hang it on the handlebars and set my flashlight inside.  I know that we will be studying late and Mom said to be home by ten.  I ring the doorbell and wait.

“Hi, Jet,” Ty says as he opens the front door.

“Hi,” I say, following Ty’s gaze back to my bike.  “It’s kind of old but it gets me around when I can’t get my mom to take me,” I apologize.  Most boys have mountain bikes these days, but I feel lucky to have an old ten-speed.  The seat is ripped where the sun has deteriorated the Naugahyde, and the tape on the handlebars is ragged in places, but I keep the chain and pedals oiled and all the gears work.  It only takes three minutes to pedal the one mile to Ty’s house.

“You better bring it inside,” he says.  “Some kid will walk off with it.”

I wheel my ten-speed inside and park it in the entrance way.  Ty’s house does not look particularly big, but plenty adequate for two people.  At first glance the front room seems well furnished and the carpet even looks new, but there is a general clutter around the room.  Not toys, or clothes, but papers and what looks like technical reference books sit open on the couch.

“Did your dad think it was okay for me to come over tonight?” I ask.

“Yeah.  We just have to be quiet.  He’s working on a project and wants to concentrate.”  Ty motions with his hand, “Come on back to my room.”

I follow Ty down the hall and turn left into his room.  Dropping my book bag onto the floor, I look around.  Above the partially made bed hangs an eight by ten picture of Sarah Hansen.

“Wow!  Sarah gave you her picture?” I say in amazement.  “And an eight by ten no less!”

“Actually, no,” Ty admits.  “I scanned her picture from last year’s yearbook, and then enlarged it.”

“And is this your computer?” I ask.  I am sure that the envy I feel is also portrayed in my voice.  I have always wanted Mom to buy a computer, but she can not see much use for one.

“It is sort of mine,” Ty explains.  “My dad lets me use it because I help him design electronic circuits.”

“So your dad doesn’t push drugs, like Franky says,” I smile.

“No, he designs high tech electronic equipment for the government.  He works right here at home.”  Ty smiles, “But that’s not why you rode all the way over here, right?”

“Right,” I say.  I am sure that what ever Ty’s dad does for a living is going to be more entertaining than geometry, but I remember the exam coming up on Friday.  Only three more days!

“So, what
is
the key, or the formula to get Sarah to like me?” Ty asks, as he scoots a chair over for me to sit in.

“There isn’t any formula,” I say hesitantly.

“But you said …”

“I agreed to help you,” I interrupt quickly.  “But I didn’t say there was a magic formula.”  I look at Ty and I can tell he is greatly disappointed.  He actually looks sad and perhaps even defeated.  “Look, I know there’s no magic formula to learn geometry, either.  But I know stuff about girls that can help you and you know stuff about geometry that can help me.”

Ty sits on the bed, and I know he is weighing the benefits.

I sit down in the chair, and lean forward.  “Why do you like Sarah Hansen, anyway?” I ask.

Ty looks at me like I am some kind of alien, and for a moment I think his language has been confounded.  His mouth drops open and just hangs there while his head shakes minutely left and right.  All he says is, “Ah … a … be … um.”

I can tell that, at least with Ty, love is not one of the things he analyzes too closely.  He knows he likes her, but he obviously does not know why, at least not enough to put it into words.

“Is it because she is pretty?” I ask finally.  This is kind of trite, but I think it will get him started talking.

“Of course,” he says with annoyance.  “Isn’t that obvious?”

“Yes,” I agree.  “She is very pretty.”

Ty relaxes a little, and I can tell he is visualizing Sarah and remembering how beautiful she really is.

“So don’t you think that a pretty young woman would want to hang out with a handsome young man?”

“Of course,” Ty answers quickly.  “So what does that …?”

“So,” I interrupt, “she is not looking for
pretty
.  She is looking for
handsome
.  You know, the masculine type of handsome.  I’ll bet that you will impress her more if you ditch the red hair and lose those feminine earrings.”

“Forget it!” Ty wrinkles up his face as he speaks.  “Chicks like that stuff.”

“Maybe ‘chicks’ that Franky Barrata hangs out with,” I argue.  “But I can guarantee that a young woman of Sarah’s caliber is going for masculine, and earrings are not masculine.

Ty frowns, sitting stone still on his bed.  His face betrays his thoughts.  He is weighing the validity of my claim and he is not accepting it as fact.  Ty will have to test and analyze the theory before adopting it, I can tell.

“Okay, what else?” Ty finally asks, swallowing a little pride.

“Have you noticed how Sarah acts in seminary?” I ask.  “I mean, like class is important to her … like understanding gospel principles is a high priority?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, spiritual things need to be important to you, too,” I say.  The words came easily, and I felt like the Bishop in a youth interview.  Actually I
am
the teachers quorum president and do have stewardship over Ty.  I pray in my heart that he might listen to my words, not so much that Sarah will like him, but I know that he will come closer to Christ and the gospel if he does. 
Maybe he will even get baptized!

“How do I make spiritual things important to me?” Ty asks, twisting up his face in a puzzled expression.  “And don’t tell me I have to get baptized, cuz I’m not joining your church.”

I ignore his comment, although I have no idea what it will take to soften his heart and open his eyes aside from a full blown miracle.

“You participate in class,” I answer without showing my disappointment.  “Don’t sit on the back row.  Sit up front like you want to learn, and where Sarah can see how interested you really are.  Read the scriptures and do your seminary assignments.  And pray,” I add.  I am sure that will help.

“Pray?” He almost yells.  “I can’t do that!”

“Sure you can.  Practice at home a little.  You want Sarah to like you?  Ask God to help you become a person she will like.  Then be willing to make the changes God would have you make.”

“Well, thanks for the formula, Jet.  It sounds like Sarah will be a tough one to impress.”

“Hey, that’s not all!” I say quickly.  “Mom says you have to treat a girl like a queen and you’ve got to compliment her on things.  Her hair.  Her dress.  Stuff like that."

Ty snorts a half laugh.

“I’m serious,” I say shaking my head.  “Besides, I’ve done that, and girls like it.”

“What else does your mom say?”

“Well, you need to find out what she likes and what her interests are.  Then find ways to talk about them.  Oh, and you’re supposed to treat all her friends really nice, too, because it makes her jealous if the other young women start liking you.”

This girl stuff is pretty complicated,” Ty says as if I have just dumped a whole semester of homework assignments on his lap and told him that they are due next week.  “The Sioux Indians had it easy!”

“Indians?”

“Yeah.  I read some stuff on the Sioux after you showed me that spirit pouch.  If they wanted a wife, they just kidnapped a White Woman and rode off with her.  Or if you were a really brave warrior, the chief would give you his daughter!”

“Well, that’s not going to happen in neither my lifetime nor yours.  I think your chances are better if you practice up on your social skills.”

We study geometry and talk about spirit pouches until nine forty five.  I ride my bicycle home slowly, rolling over thoughts of Sioux Indians and spirit pouches in my mind.  This evening has been good.  I learned a little geometry, and Ty learned some social skills.  Tomorrow, even Cyrano de Bergerac will be proud of Ty’s metamorphosis. 
Tomorrow will be a good day.

Chapter Four

I Hate To Do Dishes

Wednesday

I
am totally disgusted as I leave the seminary building Wednesday morning.  Had Ty Smith even heard a single thing that we talked about last night?  He still wears those sissy blue earrings and worse than that, he flashes silver when he talks, from the bar-bell that pierces his tongue.

Today Ty sits up front and does what he does best.  He acts smart.  I think Brother Franklin’s jaw is going to hit the floor the first time Ty raises his hand to answer a question.  My own mouth falls open in amazement, too.  Ty is actually participating, and quite impressively.

It is truly an immense change for Ty Smith, and a fabulous start, so why do I feel so let down and disgusted?  Can it be the chain dangling from his pocket that hypocritically clanks on the desk every time he raises his hand to answer a question?  Or the blue earrings that stare back like unblinking unbelieving eyes, symbolically proclaiming his refusal to yield his will to what his heart knows to be true?  It is a farce, meant only to impress Sarah Hansen.

Maybe I am being too critical,
I tell myself as I walk to my next class. 
After all, a seed takes time to sprout.  Not everyone is converted instantaneously.

I remember the miraculous conversion of Alma, where an angel came and chastised him for persecuting the Church of God.  Alma and the sons of Mosiah fell to the ground, and Alma lay as if he were dead for two days and two nights.
[8]

I decide that maybe Ty is a tough, rebellious spirit, and that it might take more than two days and two nights.  And maybe the Lord expects
me
to do more.  After all, Alma’s father and many others fasted and prayed for Alma.  I decide to do the same for Ty.

I think school will never get over.  For a while during third period I am thoroughly convinced that we have somehow slipped into Kolob time.
[9]
  Today truly feels like it has dragged on for at least a thousand years.  Finally the after-school bus stops at the corner and I step off.  My mind is already far from school and my eyes focus on the ground as I trudge the two blocks toward home.

“Ah!,”  I kneel down and pick up a small white stone.  According to Ty, a white stone symbolizes purity, or repentance in this case.  Repentance is a necessary requirement for baptism.
[10]
  The stone has to be pure white for the spirit pouch.

Ty laughed at me when I suggested that it might represent bread.  He said bread is not even white unless the flour is washed and bleached.

I brush the dirt off of the stone and flip it over.  A streak of black zigzags across the back side and penetrates the surface.

“Rats!” I say throwing the defective stone down the alley.  “I guess a pure white stone is not as easy to find as I thought!” Twenty six stones later I find the perfect one … white on both sides and as far as I can tell, white all the way through.  I tuck it securely into my pocket.

Now all I need is a feather.  I told Ty that I would never find an Eagle’s feather and he got another good chuckle.  He said the feather represents the Holy Ghost.  He reminded me that when Jesus Christ was baptized, the Holy Ghost descended upon Him in the form of a Dove,
[11]
not an Eagle.

I set my eyes looking for a Dove’s feather.  After a minute or so I find one … small, slender and gray, lying in a slight depression at the base of a tree.  I can not help thinking how appropriate it is that I find it in quiet, lowly and humble surroundings.  I hold it gently as I walk home.

In my room I open the leather pouch and pour the contents onto the bed.  I pick up the plastic feather and drop it over the waste basket.  I watch it flutter downward.  It lands on the rim of the basket, then tips inward and slips to the bottom.  I replace the fake, plastic feather with the slender, gray Dove feather.

Digging the new pure-white rock out of my pocket I compare it to the one on my bed.

“Ah, yes,” I say.  “Much better.”  I back up a few steps, jump into the air and sink the brown-streaked stone into the waste basket producing a loud hollow rattle as it spins to a lifeless stop next to the feather at the bottom.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and survey the new collection of spirit pouch contents.  Ty said the medicine man would have added one personal item.  My eyes rest upon the old beaded necklace.  It looks a little small for a necklace, and the beads are dull and cracked from age.  It had probably been worn by the tribal medicine man.  Immediately images of headdresses made from Eagle feathers, and dark painted faces, and jiggling, bouncing, colored beads worn by chanting men comes to life and dance around a roaring bon-fire in my mind.  The necklace appears authentic enough, but I lift it off the sheet and set it gently onto my dresser.

I open my top drawer, and with my finger I push aside an old ring I had found in Salt Lake City, a wallet sized picture of Chris from seventh grade, and a twenty two caliber bullet left over from our February teacher’s quorum activity.

An old silver quarter and a wooden neckerchief slide partially hide last year’s Luke-Greenway cross country medal.  I raise it from the nest of treasures and read the inscription engraved into the copper.  It says, “Second Place.”  I can still remember the race, the pain, the struggle to move leaden legs and desperate need to fill my lungs with oxygen.  I remember the finish line in the distance and that my will to win had to be greater than my desire for oxygen and rest.  It almost was.  I took second place, only by two steps behind first place. 
This year will be different,
I think as I drop the copper cross country medal into the spirit pouch.  One by one I place each item back into the leather pouch until I hold the empty vial with the cork still in place.

The tiny glass vial must hold water.  Even
I
can see that water represents baptism by immersion.  I take the small vial into the bathroom and fill it with water, then twist the tiny cork stopper back into place.  I dry it off and hold it upside down to test for leaks.
That should hold for another hundred years,
I think.

“Jared,” Mom calls from the kitchen.  “Dinner’s ready.”

“I slip the glass vial into my pocket and walk to the kitchen.

* * *

Elder Teel comes to Mutual and speaks to us about his mission to North Dakota.  He tells stories to us about the members of the church that live there.  Many have Indian ancestors or are pure Indian.  They accept the Book of Mormon easily, but struggle to obey the commandments.  We then make an Indian food, called pemmican,
[12]
by pounding together meat, fat, and berries.  It tastes strange, but is pretty good.

I walk home in the dark, contemplating my own future mission.  Would my mission be to teach a strange people like the Indians of North Dakota, or to teach the gospel somewhere less threatening like Denver Colorado?  I do not know if it is proper to wish for one certain place, so I try not to.  I am certain the Lord knows where it will be best for me to serve.

Through the kitchen window I can see Mom putting some dishes into the cupboard.  I push the door open.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi.  How was Mutual?”

“Good, I guess.  Elder Teel talked to us about his mission to North Dakota.”

“That must have been interesting.”

“Yeah, but I think I like Bolivia better.”

“Oh?”

“At least I like the quínoa soup that Brother Matthews brought to Mutual last month better than the pemmican from North Dakota.”  I walk down the hall to my room, kicking my shoes off as I push the door open.

“Jared, don’t forget to do these dishes.  It’s your turn, you know.  And clean up your room a bit.  It was supposed to be done yesterday.”

I roll onto my bed, vaguely aware of the lumpy leather pouch competing for the same spot as my left hip. 
Dishes,
I think. 
I hate dishes, especially this late at night.  If I’m going to stay up I at least ought to study geometry.  But dishes
 
… I wish I could go somewhere where I didn’t have a room to clean or dishes to do!

I pull the spirit pouch out from under me and produce the vial of water from my pocket.  I drop it into the leather bag with the other items and pull the drawstrings tight.

I’m not sure why I do not set the spirit pouch onto the dresser and go do the dishes.  I would never purposely disobey my mother.  She works hard to take care of our small family and expects my help.  So I know that I will get up and go do the dishes and straighten my room a little.  Mom knows it, too, because I hear her bedroom door close.  That is when, in my own small way I quietly rebel.  Maybe I just need a little humor, something small to laugh about as I scrub the tiny pile of dishes.  I drop my head back onto my pillow, close my eyes and, gripping the spirit pouch, I quietly whisper, “I wish I could go somewhere where I didn’t have a room to clean or dishes to do.  I wish …”  A cool breeze blows across my face and arms.  Much too cold for August in Tucson, even for nine o’clock at night.