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shrubs that had survived the mountainside’s suburban development. I closed my eyes and faced the sun and that was that- ping! -the sensation of warmth on my eyelids and the smell of dry cedar and fir branches in my nose. I never expected angels and trumpets, nor did any appear. The moment made me feel special, and yet, of course, nothing makes a person less special than conversion-it… universalizes you.
    But then how special can any person really be? I mean, you have a name and some ancestors. You have medical, educational and work histories, as well as immediate living family and friends. And after that there’s not much more. At least in my case. At the time of my death, my life’s résumé consisted of school, sports, a few summer jobs and my Youth Alive! involvement. My death was the only remarkable aspect of my life. I’m rummaging through my memories trying to find even a few things to distinguish me from all others. And yet…and yet I was me -nobody saw theworld as I did, nor did they feel the things I felt. I was Cheryl Anway: that has to count for something.
    And I did have questions and uneasy moments after my conversion. I wondered why it is that going to heaven is the only goal of religion, because it’s such a selfish thing. The Out to Lunch Bunch talked about going to heaven in the same breath as they discussed hair color. Leading a holy life inside a burgundy-colored VW Cabrio seems like a spiritual contradiction. Jason once joked that if you read Revelations closely, you could see where it says that Dee Carswell counting the calories in a packet of Italian dressing is a sign of imminent apocalypse. And yet we all possessed the capacity for slipping at any moment into great sin and eternal darkness. I suppose it’s what made me a bit withdrawn from the world-maybe I just didn’t trust anybody fully, knowing how close we all were to the edge. That’s not true: I trusted Jason.
    Whenever I felt doubts I overcompensated by trying to witness to whoever was nearby, usually my family. And when they even remotely sensed religion coming up, they either nodded politely or they bolted. I can’t imagine what they said about me when I wasn’t there. In any event, I think in the end it’s maybe best to keep your doubts private. Saying them aloud cheapens them-makes them a bunch of words just like everybody else’s bunch of words.
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    I don’t think I fully understood sleaze until Jason and I entered the chilled lobby of Caesars Palace on that day of burning winds and X-ray sunlight. It stank of American cigarettes, smoky blue and tarlike, and of liquor. A woman dressed up like a centurion with balloon boobs and stage makeup asked us for our drink order. She reminded me of anovelty cocktail shaker. The thing is, we said yes, and Jason ordered two gin fizzes-where did that come from? They arrived within moments and there we stood, dumb as planks, while the most desperate sort of gamblers-I mean, this was August in the middle of the desert-slunk past us, serenaded by the endless rattling and dinging of the slot machines. I don’t think I’d ever seen so many souls teetering so precariously on the brink of colossal sin. Hypocritical me. We’re all equally on the brink of all sins.
    We went up to our room: shabby and yellowing. I couldn’t figure out why such a splashy place would have such dumpy rooms, but Jason said it was to drive people down into the casinos.
    Once the door was closed, it was a bit awkward. Until then, it had all felt like a field trip. We sat on the edge of the bed and Jason asked if I still wanted to get married, and I said yes-I’d caught a sliver of his naked behind through the bathroom door’s hinge crack as he changed into his other pair of pants.
    As we sat there, we realized our clothes, even in the air-conditioned room, were far too hot for the climate. Jason shed his tie, and I replaced my