Today, I opened a 2-liter Cream Soda which had evidently undergone much more than I expected. As I untwisted the cap, my kitchen was enveloped in an explosion of fizzy goodness.
Missionaries are a lot like that soda, except they usually contain less caffeine. Bottled up and filled with energy that simply can't be dispelled in an hour of PE time, missionaries become open to increasingly simplistic ways to release their troublemaking urges.
I'm sure the half dozen retired policemen who patrol the MTC had seen enough shenanigans to the point where they'd stop caring. That's why I was surprised one P-day when we arrived on our floor just in time to see the campus officer entering our room. I knew what had drawn him there. Two nights ago, we had combined two sets of bunk beds into a single, triple bunk, and then proceeded to show it off to the entire floor. Some misguided 2-day-old Elder had spilled the beans, and now we faced the very real possibility of finding out how it felt to be drawn and quartered.
I didn't care much for my companion, but this fear was enough to unite us, and we immediately ducked into the ajacent bedroom, cowering behind a set of bewildered Elders and yelling "cover us!" as we assumed fetal positions.
A few seconds passed, and then we heard the heavy footsteps and a door swinging closed. One of our allies stepped into the hall as the officer was leaving.
Do you know the Elders who live here?
Yessir.
Do you know where they are?
Probably doing their laundry. It's P-day.
When you find them, tell them that they need to come to the front desk. Do you understand?
Yes I will send them.
The Elder waited a few seconds, then came into the room and immediately procceeded to tell us how dead we were. With a feeling of dread, we ran through the campus in search of our roommates. In minutes, the bunk was dissembled, our trash thrown out, and our room unrecognizably innocent. The officer's proof was gone. The five of us sat there, basking in the feeling of mutual relief.
Then the speaker system blared "WILL ELDER TYLER BALDWIN PLEASE PICK UP THE HALL PHONE?"
My companion had been chosen,purely by alphabetical order, as our sacrificial lamb. He held the phone for a second, and then told us that we had to get our pants on ASAP. We were being summoned to the great front desk.
Although the lobby couches were comfortable, each of us were squirming uncomfortably. After a few seconds that stretched like an eternity before us, a lage man with a strong Australian accent filled the couch opposite us.
"Alright, Elders. Why are you in this training center?"
He spoke quietly, but far from lowering our fears, his voice increased them. He sounded as if he were ready to explode any second. Elder Nelson, a tall, skinny Elder who was very hard to scare, was the first to answer. We were all hoping that our stories would align.
"We're here to be missionaries, Sir,"
"Alright, Elder. And as representatives of the Lord, you are held to the highest of standards, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
This was it. The asccusation was coming. As I glanced down the row of faces, I could see signs of concern in each. We were each contemplating whether our missions were worth terminating because of one night of foolishness.
"Are you all living according to the standards and rules of the MTC"
"Yes, sir" Elder Nelson again.
"Then why the hell--" The profanity stung after not hearing any for two months. His voicce was rising now, "--is there--" this was it. He had definitely seen triple bunk. "--A MINI FRIDGE IN YOUR ROOM?"
It took a second for our brains to catch up with our ears. I stole a glance at the other Elders again, and I could see that each of them was mentally jamming out to Queen's "We Are the Champions". Trying our hardest to maintain our straight faces, I was the one who answered next.
"I'm sorry, officer. It was in the room when we arrived here. The other Elders said that the older group left it."
It was a half-truth. We had obtained the fridge our third week, from an elder who had needed it to refridgerate medicine. We used it mostly to hold the great volumes of soda that Elder Bressler's mom sent to us. We knew that our excuses wouldn't hold much water, so we agreed to leave the fridge outside for pick-up and pretended to be sad. We prepared to go, but as we were gathering up our bags, the officer managed to stare down all five of us at once.
"Not so fast," he said, "I have one other question for you.
The lumpy feeling returned as quickly as it had dissentegrated. He had saved his trump card for last.
"We sent an officer up to your room today, gentlemen," he said, reaching for a piece of paper as he spoke, "and he brought us this picture. I would like you Elders to explain this."
This was it. Undeniable evidence, printed and on record. We were so close to making it out of the MTC, so close to making it out of this uncomfortable interview. Fear clasped upon our hearts with its cold grip.
The officer turned over the photo so only he could see it. His eyes scanned the evidence, and he frowned slightly, then turned it to face us. We couldn't believe our eyes. It was a frontal view of our room, with the triple bunk center frame. However, the photographer we had seen earlier that day had done a terrible job. The top of the photo cut in such a way that the bed looked like a typical bunk bed, its third floor completely out of the frame.
The officer frowned again, turning the photo toward himself. "I'm honestly not sure why they took this photo, but your room is a mess. Make sure to clean this up."
Fighting back a smile, Elder Nelson answered as somberly as he could. "We already have, sir. It won't happen again."
"Good, you're dismissed. Now, enjoy your p-day, and I hope you have an excellent time up at the temple."
As we stepped outside, the air felt particularly fresh, and we skipped all the way up to the temple. Although we weren't filled with Cream Soda, we felt just as bubbly.
hahahahaha
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