Thursday, April 28, 2005

10:05 pm. The elevator lifts me to ground level. I enter an anteroom of sorts, already half-filled with antsy looking guys in work clothes and a woman of obvious authority.

10:10 pm. Everyone having arrived, she splits us into groups. Our group of fifteen or so follows the lady, through a few hallways and doorways. We step through one of many doors, but suddenly, each of us is quieted by the immensity of the space we’ve stepped into. The main auditorium of the Conference Center is breathtakingly large, even to one who has been here before.

As we spread into the entry area of the enormous chamber, all eyes move up and around, like antennae trying to feel the outer limits of the space that confines us. An angry din assaults us from the front of the auditorium, where a medieval organist pounds out some ominous dirge on the massive golden pipes on the front wall. I would describe the music the same way I would describe the present hour: Ungodly.

10:15 p.m. We are led into a maintenance room just off a hallway from the big . . . space. It’s another dramatic entrance, leaving the luminous conference room for a dark basement of drab concrete and naked pipes. On the wall facing us hang more than 20 vacuum backpacks—- vac-pacs as they’re cleverly, but obviously, called. They look like weapons waiting in the basement of some Montana militia man. The tidy ordering of the machinery-—vacuum after vacuum after vacuum hanging neatly side by side-—fills me with excitement: Never, in all of my life, have I been in a room that so perfectly evoked the spirit of the Batcave.

10:20 pm. Fully equipped with our trusty backcuums, we step purposefully back into the room, which no longer intimidates us, but teases us—our vast, incomprehensible quarry. Watching the fourteen other men stiffen under their exciting equipment, I have to laugh. We look like the henchmen of an evil overlord, splitting up to find and terminate the dashing, wily hero who has infiltrated our high-tech fortifications. I wish that each of us had been given a hazmat suit to complete the costume. The soundtrack—-provided by the Calvinist Count at the organ—-drives me on in my evil mission.

We split into sections, trailing cords of yellow in our wake. Each section of seating is claimed, then slowly conquered by a man with a vacuum cleaner on his back. The weaponry is unwieldy, to say the least. Every strip of carpet between the seats must be cleaned, and every edge of every seat presents a trap for one’s cord, vacuum hose, or clothing. One can’t move even a few feet without catching his cord on some edge, and then must retrace one’s steps to free oneself, pulling the cord over this chair and under that armrest. And though the machines are noisy, they are positively muted by the incessant belching of the organ pipes, speaking an angry gospel to the sinful ants on the floor of the towering chamber.

But I remain awed by the magnificence of this coliseum. To get a sense of the dimensions at work, imagine three football fields, laid end to end. Now imagine all the drunken fans that would be attending the games at all of these fields. If you could somehow measure the collective inebriation of these fans, and convert it into square feet, that’s how big this room is. I know—-hard to fathom.

10:40 p.m. Unable to stand the condemnation spewed at me by the Count and his collossal machine, I pull out my ipod, trying to avoid tangling its wires with the various cords and tubes and hoses that spill out from my body. The addition of more machinery strapped to my body makes me feel like Darth Vader, only half-man. Although tempted to blast a noisy rock album over the organ’s noise, I decide to fight the thunder with love, and fire up some Mo-tabs, whom I hope will have home court advantage in this place. No such luck. At full blast, with my brand new amped up earphones, Count Chocula’s blistering music still overpowers the Choir, sending waves of chocolatey dissonance through my terrified soul. I try to focus on the vacuuming.

11:20 p.m. Starting to get tired. Did that lady really say she works until 5:00 a.m.? Wow. What beings haunt this place in the middle of the night? Does she ever run into any prominent spirits? Or immortal Nephites?

11:35 p.m. I notice the circular grates in the floor, each about a foot in diameter, under every tenth seat or so. Through the grate one can see a space fifteen feet below the floor of the conference room, well-lit enough to see the concrete of its floor. Pushed on by the harsh musical ambience, my mind wanders to considering the evil purposes for which some medieval Pope could have employed the subterranean vault. In a moment of bland rationality, I realize that under our current leadership, the place is no doubt used for overflow geneological records. Or perhaps the huge collection of dinosaur bones that disappeared mysteriously from Lavell Edwards Stadium a few years ago. Or maybe that’s where they keep all those girls the Mormon missionaries have kidnapped from Portugal and brought to temple square, according to all the Jehovah’s Witnesses I met on my mission. I wish I could climb through a grate and help these captives, but I have work to do. A deep sense of foreboding sends a shudder through my body, and I take my trusty nozzle to the next row. Meanwhile the music keeps watch over me, sensing my insubordination.

11:50 p.m. Man, if I ran into one of those haunting spirits around here, I’d skip the whole ‘handshake’ routine, and go straight to the “Are you material enough to heft a vacuum?” bit.

12:15 a.m. Fatigue setting in. And deafness. Lots of deafness. Who is this organist guy anyway? Doesn’t his local church have an organ? If I had the keys to the Delta Center, would I have to practice foul shots there, even if my wardhouse has a perfectly fine hoop? And why does he have to play SO LOUD!?!? In the two hours I’ve been here, he hasn’t stopped, and he hasn’t played a happy song. I live in purgatory, given the threatening chance to see what will happen if I continue in my sinful ways. What I wouldn’t give for a song about Sunbeams or Popcorn. I can’t take much more. I search for the safety release mechanism on my weapon. Oh yes, it’s just a vacuum. Curses.

12:30 a.m. Mind shutting down. Randomness overtakes my thoughts–

I realize that it would take just one bolt of fusion-induced electricity to short out the inhibitor chip of my back-vac, allowing it to fuse instantly to my skeletal and neurological systems, overpowering me with its evil, sucking will.

Back-vac. Imagine the marketing meeting where some guy thought that was a great name. It’s a Sniglet, the one you’d vote for as having been created by the game creators—far too simple to have been submitted by one of the players.

The lady said that on nights when they have enough people, you work in pairs. Wow, how would it be to have my own cord-bearer. Cool. But I’d probably have to watch my back the whole time, the tricksy schemer, trying to usurp the vacpackuumback for himself. No, best to wander the lonely expanse of the eternal floor alone.

Mind. Shutting. Dowww . . .

12:50 a.m. Suddenly, the world changes. The music has stopped—it’s STOPPED! I look up to see my persecutor receding into the darkness until a door across the chasm opens and swallows him whole. Unnerved by the silence, I grapple with the feeling of returning sanity, yes, even redemption.

1:00 a.m. I’m alive. Somehow, I’ve survived. The lady has returned. I remove my burden, hanging it neatly on its bat-hook. She leads us down a hall, through a passageway, into a catacomb, past a nave, into a salon and around a concourse. We are now directly behind the organ pipes. A bank of no less than eight drinking fountains hangs on the wall, waiting to water thirsty choir members after a performance. We do not feel worthy to stop at this oasis, but move on. We feel we are being led to the exit, hoping to find peace in the silent drive down yawning city streets to our beds.

But first—there is another room, this one homey and welcoming, in a break-room kind of way. My heart is beginning to beat normally again, and the choir in my ears competes with no one for my attention. We sit on plastic chairs, waiting, for something. Suddenly, Our Lady of the Interminable Night produces a tray—it’s a plate of cookies! and two jugs-—of red punch! That punch is meaningful. I realize that I’ve never bought red punch. I like it just fine, but I’d never seek it out to drink on purpose. No one ever says that they need a glass of good red punch.

But it symbolizes something—ritual, comfort, our inexplicable, ideosynchratic way of doing things. And here we are, in the bowels of a terrifying, enormous building, in the wee small exhausting hours of the morning, yawning under the weight of fatigue and fugue alike, and I find peace in the familiar God of Mormonism—the one who sends cookies and red punch to tired and lonely workers.

Each jug is labeled, as is the plastic wrap around the cookies: “Thursday Evening Volunteers.” A memo posted on the bulletin board transmits President Hinckley’s thanks to the cleaning staff, for a well-cleaned building during General Conference. The dry order of the place is calming, like hearing the droning voice of the First Counsellor read the announcements from the pulpit. After we’ve had time for a few cups and a macaroon, our tour guide, this lady who seems to think she owns the building, the prophet, and the church itself, smiles and thanks us.

1:15 a.m. This is the church I love. This is why we volunteer, I guess: to find the light that can’t help but emanate from people and places that have been touched by the ordering power of Jesus’ gospel. Sated on punch and cookies, and relaxed by Mormon volunteerism and pats on the back, we file out into the night, leaving our burdens hanging on hooks, buried somewhere deep in the ground behind us.