“I’ve got some fire.”

Both of us had quit smoking years before but somehow we had set upon a ritual of pretending to have a smoke during our roadside meetings. John pulled imaginary papers and pouch from the lapel of his denim work shirt and went about rolling a cigarette, never taking a shortcut, every motion and detail exact.

John put the cigarette between his lips and leaned forward. I struck a Diamond match against my beard, which was as nonexistent as the match itself. Part of God’s plan was for me to not have much of a beard, owing maybe to my mixed heritage. The match head popped to life and we could smell the acrid sulfur in the air between us. John inhaled and let the smoke ease out into the desert breeze.

John handed me the cigarette. “I know it’s a sin, but I do enjoy a good smoke. The Lord has forgiven me so much.” He winked at me. “I like to think he’ll forgive me for allowing this poison into his temple.”

John had his back to approaching traffic and didn’t see the Utah Highway Patrol cruiser crest the hill behind him. “We’ve got company.”

8

John turned and we both watched as the vehicle slowed and pulled over behind my truck. We both knew the trooper, Andy Smith, who seemed to be the only real law that ever made it down Highway 117, and only rarely at that. He’d been on the Utah Highway Patrol for about ten years, all of it out in the southeastern desert region. Most of his time was spent on US 191 between Price and Green River. Andy wasn’t exactly a friend, but he was more than an acquaintance. I liked him and our meetings; most of them had not been official.

I waited to see if Andy would put on his hat. If it was official, troopers always put on their hats. No hat this time. He waved as he walked toward us. The wind caught some strands of his fine blond hair and stood them at attention like a Mormon Mohawk. “Morning, gentlemen.”

John and I both said our good mornings. John was acquainted with Andy, though never officially, as far as I knew. I knew for a fact Andy from time to time would cruise a part of 117 just to check on John. There was no question that John was a bona fide crazy, but the general consensus was that he was our crazy and as such some of us allowed for a certain acceptance and communal guardianship. Also, out in the desert, John had some serious competition in the crazy sweepstakes that sometimes almost made him and his cross seem pleasantly ordinary.

Andy’s stop might have been just courtesy and yet he seemed to have something on his mind. I passed the cigarette back to John and Andy, knowing of this ritual, watched the cigarette go from John’s hand to his lips.

“Can I get a hit of that?”

“Can you get a ‘hit’?”

Even John seemed startled and more than a little amused. He started to hand over our imaginary cigarette. “Hold up there a second,” I said. “I don’t think John and I want to be involved in contributing to the delinquency of a Mormon.”

Andy opened a good-natured smile. “I’m confident we’ll all be forgiven. After all,” he added, “it’s not real.”

“Well,” I said, warming to the moment, “I’m no Christian, Andy—and maybe John will help me out with this—but doesn’t the thought count? A sin in the mind is still a sin.”

Andy took the cigarette and began a long, slow draw.