{"id":36660,"date":"2018-05-06T20:33:01","date_gmt":"2018-05-07T02:33:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/?p=36660"},"modified":"2018-09-10T08:35:44","modified_gmt":"2018-09-10T14:35:44","slug":"reiser-perkins-west-temple","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/reiser-perkins-west-temple\/","title":{"rendered":"Reiser Perkins’ West Temple"},"content":{"rendered":"
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READ LOCAL First<\/strong>\u00a0represents Utah\u2019s\u00a0most comprehensive collection of\u00a0celebrated and promising writers of fiction, poetry, literary non-fiction, and memoir. This week we bring you Reiser Perkins, a Utah native who currently lives in Hawaii.\u00a0She joins a distinguished group of writers,\u00a0including Utah Poet Laureate Paisley Rekdal, former Utah Poet Laureate Katherine Coles, fiction writers\u00a0Lynn Kilpatrick and Larry Menlove and many others. <\/p>\n

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West Temple<\/h4>\n

1. What We Did During The Summer of 1989<\/strong><\/h4>\n

We started working for Clarky when we were fourteen years old. According to his business card, Clarky was a \u201cfreelance archeologist.\u201d We\u2019d soon realize this was a fancy way of saying \u201ccollector,\u201d itself an alternative to \u201choarder.\u201d<\/h4>\n

Clarky accumulated everything from ancient manuscripts to California impressionist paintings. He\u2019d find a forgotten masterpiece at some garage sale and task us with researching the artist, whose signature was usually illegible. We\u2019d do our best, combing microfiche for pertinent obituaries. When we weren\u2019t doing that, we\u2019d be \u201cout in the field,\u201d scouring the terrain with customized metal detectors Clarky himself had modified. It didn\u2019t bother him that we hardly ever found anything. These things take time, he\u2019d say. He had a weird kind of faith in us.<\/h4>\n

Nobody in the world knew we were working for Clarky. It wasn\u2019t that he\u2019d sworn us to secrecy (though he had) as much as it was simply that nobody in the world cared what we did or didn\u2019t do. I lived with my grandparents, who loved me but were old. All I had to do was tell them I was pulling extra hours babysitting. Pat Helen didn\u2019t even have to lie. Her single mom worked two and a half jobs.<\/h4>\n

Clarky paid us ten dollars an hour, each, a real fortune in cash money. We made three dollars an hour babysitting. As an added bonus, he was always taking us out for ice cream and letting us drive his burnt orange Oldsmobile Cutlas Ciera.<\/h4>\n

\u201cAlways keep five car lengths between you and\u00a0everything<\/i>,\u201d he\u2019d say as we drove in circles around an empty parking lot.<\/h4>\n

Clarky liked to give us advice. He also had all kinds of information on topics we didn\u2019t know anything about, like the complex network of tunnels under the city. Mostly, though, Clarky liked to speak on the importance of \u201chealthful eating,\u201d as he termed it. He was a big believer that seven was the optimal number of sleep hours required by a human. He said it was best to break it up into two chunks of three-and-a-half-hours each and to space them exactly twelve hours apart. He\u2019d been doing this for years, he said. It was the secret to his success and stamina.<\/h4>\n

We spent most of that summer working a sector Clarky referred to as Beirut. He was always talking in code, writing things down on clipboards, reciting coordinates into a staticky walkie-talkie he kept clipped to his belt. At noon he\u2019d break for a three-and-a-half hour nap, either in the backseat of the Cutlas or in a lawn chair under a tree. If there wasn\u2019t a tree, he\u2019d pry open an umbrella he\u2019d brought for that purpose and nap under that, snoring softly. He always woke up in a better mood.<\/h4>\n

Beirut was in the suburbs behind some nondescript ranch houses at the edge of a subdivision. Here, asphalt turned to gravel, then dirt, then two deep ruts bordered by long yellow grasses. Other than the occasional boy on a dirt bike or teenagers in dusty Jeeps, nobody went there.<\/h4>\n

Our first time in Beirut, we followed Clarky through sagebrush and scrub oak until we got to a ravine. We traveled up this ravine on what he referred to as an \u201carchaic footpath\u201d and were soon standing in the middle of some kind of junk yard.<\/h4>\n

\u201cFolks used to toss their unwanted stuff down here from the ridge above,\u201d he said. Rusty bed springs and disintegrating buckets were everywhere. \u201cThat\u2019s a washing machine,\u201d he said, but the corroded, cylindrical thing he pointed at didn\u2019t look anything like a washing machine to us.<\/h4>\n

Clarky showed us how to stake the perimeter, divide it into quadrants. \u201cI\u2019m going to Cheyenne for a coupla days,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019ll be on your own so it\u2019s super important that you pay attention.\u201d<\/h4>\n

He was always going to auctions in places like Vegas or Pocatello, bidding on some relic, a fur trapper\u2019s diary or a conquistador\u2019s brass stirrup. When he wasn\u2019t around, his mom did the driving. Clarky\u2019s mother had a gentle perma-grin, a white and perfectly orb-shaped old lady fro, and was always wearing a pastel track suit, usually made of velour. She couldn\u2019t hear a word we said, but was an okay driver and always gave us sack lunches with bologna sandwiches, warm cans of grape soda, and fruit roll-ups.<\/h4>\n

We liked our jobs. The warm hum from the machines lulled us, the monotony a comfort. The metal detectors were light and when they picked up a signal, they moved towards it, pulling us along. All we were supposed to do was record the code on a clipboard and stick the right color flag in the ground, or chalk an X if the surface was paved.<\/h4>\n

Most days we didn\u2019t find anything other than what Clarky called \u201csurface debris.\u201d Coins, cheap jewelry, keys, all of which we\u2019d toss into the battered, red duffle bag. Clarky wanted to see everything, even the rusty tin cans.<\/h4>\n

Before leaving Beirut proper, we always sat on a certain boulder and shared a cigarette. We took our sunsets seriously, giving them our full attention. Every sunset was a movie, the more violent the better. From our perch, we could see the lake in the distance, doubling the bloody sky. In the foreground, houses leaked blue TV light. We could hear the comforting hiss of sprinklers as they cooled and moistened the dry air, enforcing the existence, in high desert country, of manicured green infinities of lawn.<\/h4>\n

We sat there until the last light of day stretched into a thin line above the horizon, like a vein in stone. Only then did we make our way through the abandoned orchards, acres of trees planted a hundred years ago that nobody tended now. Branches sagged beneath the weight of peaches and apricots, which fell to the ground and rotted. The acrid smell made my stomach lurch, but in a good way.<\/h4>\n

At the end of the cul-de-sac, Clarky or his mom would be waiting for us, parked under a flickering streetlamp. As we moved through the new dark, dogs rustled behind chain link and we felt like that, like those dogs.<\/h4>\n

2. How We Met Clarky<\/strong><\/h4>\n

We were eating corndogs at the amusement park. Parents and kids standing in line for the Terror Ride tried not to stare as Pat Helen did vaguely obscene things to her food. A man in a droopy trench coat and ball cap passed by, carrying a metal detector. We watched with fascination as he circled a bench, a look of intense concentration on his face.<\/h4>\n

Pat Helen tossed her corndog stick in the trash, but with the attitude of someone who was littering, and strutted over to him with a gait that said\u00a0this is how you do it<\/i>. She stood a few feet away and stared right at him. When he took a step, Pat Helen took a step, keeping equidistant. When this failed to capture his attention, she started singing the theme song from\u00a0Silver Spoons<\/i>.<\/h4>\n

The metal detector emitted a loud croak. It did this once and then, after a small pause, it did it again. Clarky took off his cap, wiped his forehead with it, put it back on. He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and drew an X on the asphalt. That\u2019s when he noticed Pat Helen\u2019s foot, clad in a sparkly lavender jelly shoe. His gaze traveled up the length of her\u2014knobby, scab-covered knees, white shorts, paint-splotch covered tee. Her skinny, defiant arms were crossed. Her small, wedge-shaped face, from which mousey wisps of hair were held back with plastic barrettes, squinted down at him.<\/h4>\n

\u201cDid you find something?\u201d she asked.<\/h4>\n

Clarky stood to his full height, which took an awkward moment. You could tell he\u2019d probably never talked to a fourteen year old girl before.<\/h4>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019d you find?\u201d she tried again, shifting her weight.<\/h4>\n

\u201cOh!\u201d he said, in a tone of forced cheer. \u201cJust the usual.\u201d<\/h4>\n

Pat Helen held out her hand. Clarky looked at it like he had no idea what it was. \u201cThe name\u2019s Pat Helen. What\u2019s yours?\u201d<\/h4>\n

Clarky chewed his mustache. It was a big fluffy one that made me think of walruses.<\/h4>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a double name,\u201d she explained. \u201cDon\u2019t ever call me Pat and don\u2019t ever call me Helen. I\u2019ll see red and won\u2019t be responsible for my actions. That girl over there?\u201d She pointed at me. I waved limply. \u201cThat\u2019s Loraine.\u201d Clarky lifted his hand about halfway, then sort of let it drift there.<\/h4>\n

\u201cOkay!\u201d he said before turning his attention back to the metal detector. Then, without so much as another look at either of us, he walked away. In another age, Pat Helen would\u2019ve been the ultimate street urchin. Now she pursued Clarky and I followed. She even went so far as to tug on his trench coat and call him mister.<\/h4>\n

\u201cCan I try the metal detector, pretty please?\u201d she begged. \u201cI\u2019ve always wanted to, pa-lease?\u201d Her desperate and beseeching eyes held no quarter for one unaccustomed to dealing with difficult children. He looked around for someone, anyone, who could help him. There was nobody. We were old enough to be unsupervised but young enough to get away with murder.<\/h4>\n

You could tell that Clarky was considering his options. They weren\u2019t many. Even so, it took him a long time to think through all of them. Finally, he decided his best course of action was to act like nobody existed, including himself. He simply turned and walked away again. This time he held his arm up like a plank and let it fall, as if chopping the head off of something. But what Clarky didn\u2019t understand was that once Pat Helen was determined to make somebody do something, she did not stop until the person had done that thing.<\/h4>\n

The plan was to let him think we\u2019d given up and gone away, but really we were watching him the whole time. We watched as he snuck through a hole in the fence around the Colossus. We figured he was looking for jewelry and coins that had fallen from people as they went upside down.<\/h4>\n

Eventually, he sat down at a picnic table next to a duck pond on the outskirts of Pioneer Village. We sat down at the next table. He took a brown paper sack from his duffle bag, removed from it a squashed sandwich on white crustless bread, and a can of grape soda. He bit into the sandwich, chewing slowly, doing a decent job of only occasionally glancing over at Pat Helen as she sang \u201cNights In White Satin\u201d in an operatic style.<\/h4>\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d she nudged me. I stood, ready. This was all part of the plan. Like\u00a0Children of the Corn<\/i>, we approached Clarky side by side, slowly, vacantly. \u201cIs metal detecting, like, your hobby?\u201d Pat Helen asked in a soft, creepy voice. Clarky\u2019s eyes widened. He tossed the last chunk of his sandwich to the ducks and we watched as they fought over it. Pat Helen picked up the metal detector.<\/h4>\n

\u201cBe careful. That\u2019s a highly sensitive instrument,\u201d he said.<\/h4>\n

She found the button on the handle and turned it on. The thing thrummed to life. \u201cCan I take it over by that tree?\u201d she asked.<\/h4>\n

\u201cGo ahead,\u201d he said. \u201cJust make sure you hold onto it with both hands.\u201d<\/h4>\n

We watched as she circled the tree once, twice. On the third round, the metal detector started beeping. It was a different sort of noise than the one from earlier. This was quicker, louder, more insistent. Clarky went over and grabbed the machine, squinting at the code on the digital read-out. Shakily, he removed a red plastic flag from his pocket and stuck it in the ground.<\/h4>\n

That\u2019s when he offered us the job. The next day, we met him in a vacant lot downtown. He\u2019d brought a second metal detector. After a short orientation on how to properly \u201cwield the instrument,\u201d he unfolded a tiny tripod chair that had been in the duffle bag, placed it on the ground, and sat.<\/h4>\n

\u201cI only have the two detectors up and running right now,\u201d he said. \u201cSo I\u2019ll be focusing on what\u2019s under the terrain. If I point my right finger, go right. If I point my left finger, go left.\u201d<\/h4>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d we said.<\/h4>\n

Clarky made us sign a non-disclosure agreement. We didn\u2019t understand most of what it was saying, but Clarky explained that all it meant was whatever we saw while working for him could never be spoken of, not even between ourselves. There weren\u2019t many rules in our little lives, and whatever ones existed were easily manipulated. Until we met Clarky, there was never the sense that somebody was really keeping an eye on things.<\/h4>\n

3. What Clarky Wasn\u2019t Telling Us<\/strong><\/h4>\n

Most of what we did that summer was boring, like scouting new locations. Clarky trusted these weird, old maps more than he did modern, more accurate ones. He\u2019d hold some hand-drawn thing up in front of him, as if trying to superimpose it onto the landscape. One day we might be in an alley downtown, the next somewhere in the west desert where no human had ever gone before, at least not on purpose. The whole time he\u2019d be telling us stories about the tunnels or how, back in the day, anyone who tried to leave the territory was hunted down by a secret army, their blood spilled in ritual atonement.<\/h4>\n

\u201cWhoa,\u201d we\u2019d say.<\/h4>\n

\u201cYou got that right,\u201d he\u2019d say. \u201cThis place is riddled with specimens.\u201d But when we pressed him, asked exactly\u00a0what kind\u00a0<\/i>of specimens, he\u2019d clam up, look out at the horizon. \u201cThis used to all be underwater,\u201d he\u2019d say, moving his arm around in a vague, circular motion.<\/h4>\n

At night, when Pat Helen and I were home in our separate houses watching TV and talking to each other on the phone, the diggers would go in and uncover the items we\u2019d flagged during the day. Whatever they dug up was covered in blankets and stored in the unfinished part of the half-finished basement where Clarky lived and worked. If we asked him about it, he\u2019d remind us of the NDAs.<\/h4>\n

We spent a few hours a week in the basement, doing light administrative work. This mostly consisted of documenting Clarky\u2019s various collections. He didn\u2019t believe in filing cabinets. He stored and organized everything in huge, three ring binders.<\/h4>\n

\u201cWhat I actually am is a philosopher,\u201d Clarky liked to say. We\u2019d be punching holes in laminated photocopied pictures of his collection of pre-Columbian artifacts. \u201cWhat people really should be thinking about is how the earth\u2019s magnetic field is going to shift within our lifetime and when that happens? It\u2019s back to square one.\u201d<\/h4>\n

\u201cAre we talking cave man?\u201d Pat Helen asked.<\/h4>\n

We were.<\/h4>\n

The phone rang. Clarky answered it. \u201cYellow?\u201d Pause. \u201cWell, sure. Anyone can say whatever they want.\u201d Pause. \u201cOh yeah? Well, they must be looking for some of Jamil\u2019s guys.\u201d Pause. \u201cWas it a black LeBaron?\u201d He looked up us. \u201cGotta go,\u201d he said and hung up.<\/h4>\n

He filled his cheeks up with air and let it out very slowly. \u201cI\u2019ve got good news and bad news,\u201d he said. \u201cThe bad news is that MacIntire\u2019s back. The good news is I\u2019ve got a lead on something he wants, and if we can find it before he does\u2026\u201d<\/h4>\n

We waited for him to finish but he didn\u2019t. MacIntire was Clarky\u2019s nemesis. We knew all about the many auctions they\u2019d swiped out from under each other, had heard all about MacIntire\u2019s mysterious, seemingly unlimited funds and the way his smile didn\u2019t make it into his eyes. \u201cA forgery of a smile,\u201d Clarky called it.<\/h4>\n

Clarky went into a closet and came back out carrying a metal detector we\u2019d never seen before. It looked brand new.<\/h4>\n

\u201cThis is the Tesoro Diablo 7510,\u201d he said. \u201cCame out last year. I replaced the sensor with one of my own made of iridium. Grab your canteens and let\u2019s get in the car.\u201d<\/h4>\n

We ended up out at Antelope Island. Clarky didn\u2019t always tell us what we were looking for, but sometimes he did. That day he told us we were looking for the remains of a man named Jean Baptiste. He\u2019d been an undertaker at the turn of the century until it was discovered he\u2019d been stealing dead people\u2019s clothes and jewelry before burying them.<\/h4>\n

\u201cOver three hundred bodies,\u201d said Clarky. \u201cHow they found out about it was there was a big rain storm, see? The cemetery flooded and all these naked corpses came floating down the street.\u201d They cut Jean Baptiste\u2019s ears off in a public ceremony and branded the word\u00a0graverobber\u00a0<\/i>onto his forehead. It seemed like a long word to brand onto a forehead, we pointed out.<\/h4>\n

Since to spill his blood would have been to save him, Jean Baptiste was banished to Antelope Island. Apparently, MacIntire had been looking for Jean Baptiste\u2019s skeleton for years. The new lead came from one of Clarky\u2019s associates. He\u2019d found a bloody handprint on a rock above a small crevasse. Clarky had the coordinates of the handprint, a hand-drawn map, and a heart full of hope.<\/h4>\n

We\u2019d never seen him this giddy before. We asked him if he\u2019d forgotten to take his medication and he said no, he\u2019d not taken it on purpose. \u201cIt fogs the mind and I need to be crystal clear,\u201d he explained.<\/h4>\n

It was the dead center of summer. There weren\u2019t many trees on the island and our ball caps and bandanas provided flimsy protection. It was easy to see how seagulls could get hypnotized by the glare. Clarky told us they flew backwards sometimes.<\/h4>\n

We worked for hours without a hit. All I could think about was eating an entire popsicle while standing in front of the swamp cooler with wet hair when I got home. The heat was getting to all of us. Clarky took a much longer nap than usual, and when he woke up it was like he didn\u2019t know who any of us were anymore.<\/h4>\n

Pat Helen launched into one of her go-to characters, a jaded Vietnam vet having a flashback. She bit the pin out of an imaginary grenade and crouched, running low, carrying her metal detector as though it were a machine gun. There was no place to take cover and the enemy was vast, attacking from all directions. We watched as she went down, convulsing as each bullet hit.<\/h4>\n

\u201cTime to call it a day,\u201d Clarky said.<\/h4>\n

It was quiet in the car on the way back to the city.<\/h4>\n

Reiser Perkins is a Utah native who currently resides in Hawaii. She works for the Merwin Conservancy. A former art critic for\u00a0Egypt Today<\/em>\u00a0magazine in Cairo and reporter for\u00a0Metro Santa Cruz<\/em>\u00a0newspaper, her more recent work has appeared in\u00a0Tin House<\/em>,\u00a0Hobart<\/em>,\u00a0Sugar House Review<\/em>, and elsewhere. Her musical compositions have been produced by Poetry Scores, an international arts collective based in St. Louis that translates poetry into other mediums. She is also the managing editor of\u00a0Otis Nebula<\/em>\u00a0and author of the chapbook,\u00a0How to Dance While Dying<\/em>\u00a0(Dancing Girl Press, 2016). More information at\u00a0www.reiserperkins.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n

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