Burn, baby, burn!

For this account, I turn to my journal entry for 17 September 2007:

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Go ahead and have a seat; this is gonna take a while.

I don’t even know where to begin.

If I were Joseph Smith, I would receive “the plates, the Urim and Thimmim, and the breastplate” this coming Saturday (JS-H 1:59). Being born 180 years (to the day) after Joseph Smith was born, it isn’t too much of a strain to compare my life to his. I find that I’m never doing things as important or spectacular as the things he did at my age, and generally that just fills me with admiration for the man, but a couple weeks ago I decided that, since I’m most assuredly not hoping to uncover and lost ancient scripture before Saturday, I should do something else that, though certainly not as noteworthy, would also attract a good amount of attention.

I don’t know whether I recorded it in my journal, but shortly before I came home from my mission, while my district was out to lunch together, Elder Harpole asked me whether I was planning on burning a suit in keeping with the quazi-pagan, semi-apostate, forbidden and nearly nonexistent missionary “tradition” of burning a tie at 6 months, a shirt at 12, pants at 18, and a whole suit at 24 (many Elders burn ties, and some go beyond that, but I’ve never known anyone to actually burn a suit). I told him no, that I didn’t believe in such things, that I never even burned a tie, and that I thought it was a waste of a suit.

About then, Elder Rino piped up and said something like, "Okay, Elder Jepson. Here’s what you do: cover your body in Vaseline--your whole body, okay? Then take the suit and soak it in something flammable like alcohol, lighter fluid, gasoline--just whatever you have lying around the house--you with me? Then put on the suit and, while you’re wearing it, light it on fire."

The suggestion was an instant hit. It didn’t take us long to draw the obvious connection between this idea and President Ririe’s constant admonition to be enthusiastic—"Light yourselves on fire and invite others to come and watch you burn." Soon the idea was to do it on a P-day, film it, have a member burn it to DVD, label it "Light yourself on fire and invite others to come and watch you burn," and then give it to President Ririe (or, for caution’s sake, I could give it to him as a parting gift after my exit interview).

Whatever reaction Elder Rino had been going for, he certainly didn’t expect us to take his idea so seriously. To most, it was just a joke, but Elder Harpole became consumed by the idea, and I, though not quite as obsessed, was willing to go along with it. Elder Rino told us not to, and ultimately we, too, decided that it probably wasn’t the best idea—whatever it did exemplify, it certainly couldn’t be termed “quiet dignity”—and the idea smoldered and was left to die, unfulfilled.

But it never really died. Though I never really believed I’d set myself on fire, the idea was always there, hot coals in a far corner of my subconscious mind.

One day, after I’d been home for a while, I was talking with Ben on the phone and ended up telling him about it. He, like Elder Harpole, could not let it go, felt a burning need to see it done, even to do it himself. As we talked about it, I worked my Google magic and learned that wool is naturally flame retardant. Ben and I agreed that, once I’d moved up there, we’d both get wool suits from DI and set ourselves on fire.

At that point, I had pretty well decided that I’d never move to Provo, that there was just too much going for me in California, so I wasn’t terribly worried about it. Meanwhile, Ben shared our scheme with just about everyone he knew, the majority of whom were adamantly opposed to the idea, begged and pleaded with him not to go through with it. He would call to tell me this from time to time, mourning the death of the flame of human insanity, and I’d say, "Well, whatever you do, don’t do it without me; it’s my idea!" And I’d say it thinking, "And I’m never going to move up there, so neither of us need to worry about it too much anyway."

Well, the Lord had different plans for me, and I ended up here in Provo.

For a while, it was just idle chatter on my part, but that changed somewhere along the line—fairly recently. Even last Fast Sunday, when I jokingly suggested to Ben that I ought to light myself on fire on the day that I would (were I Joseph Smith) discover the plates, I wasn’t really serious. Ben was, and the date became set, but I would think in my head, "I’m way too mild-mannered a man to do anything crazy like that! I don’t even really like roller coasters since I’ve returned from a mission; cheap thrills just aren’t my thing; I prefer things with actual meaning."

But there’s something binding about attaching a date to a goal; we often saw as missionaries that if we could just get an investigator to set a date—set a date to get baptized or stop smoking or whatever—just setting a date often was all it took to—well—to light a fire under cold feet.

I saw it, too, after I decided to move here. Bishop Hoggan told me I should consider it, and I eventually decided that it was what the Lord wanted for me, but it wasn’t until I set a date and decided that the Fourth of July would be my Independence Day that things were really set into motion.

I suppose, then, the day I suggested to Ben that September 22nd was to be The Day--I suppose that was the real turning point in the "Let’s set Kyle on fire!" campaign.

Then on 12 September 07, as Ben and I were playing in the pool with a 20# weight, there was another turning point. As we played, this girl Sarah, whom Ben knows from marching band and I know just from seeing her around, walked by. We invited her to join us and then somehow ended up telling her about our plans. Far from calling us crazy, she was actually supportive, even enthusiastic, and told us that the idea was awesome.

I remember now how it came up: Ben and I had been discussing how problematic to our cause it was that most DI suits don’t have labels that say what they’re made of. Sarah walked by, and Ben asked her if she by chance had superior powers of discernment when it came to fabrics and whether she could divine the difference between pure wool and blended wool; she assured us that she has no such capability, that her mom doesn’t even know how to sew, and asked why we were looking for someone with such a refined touch, so Ben gave her a brief overview and then had me fill in the details, which I did with what Sarah identified as a crazed look on my face.

The enthusiastic support of an outside person--especially a girl, now that I think about it--was all I needed to make the maniacal fantasy a reality. That very day, I went to DI and found for the first time ever clearly marked, wool suits, and I quickly selected a white-with-black-cross-stripes one that fit me well—well enough to be burned, anyway.

Jacket and Pants: $18.

As we talked to Sarah at the pool, she mentioned one Christian Farmer, who set himself on fire here at Cinnamon Tree, like, a year ago. Christian moved out at the end of summer, but I knew who he was, could identify him by sight. It just so happened that, later that evening, I happened to see Christian and told him that I had heard a rumor that he set himself on fire; he confirmed the rumor. I asked him how he protected his face; he told me and then directed me to his website, whereon he had posted pictures and videos and details. I thanked him and went directly to my computer; I found his website, looked it over, showed it to Ben, bookmarked it.

Everything seemed to be falling perfectly into place, and then, this Saturday, I found 91% ethyl alcohol on sale, so it and Vaseline fit nicely into my budget. (By the way, I wasn’t taking the Vaseline thing on Elder Rino’s word alone; one of the times Mom and Dad left me home alone for a few days, I, out of boredom, covered a hand in Vaseline and an alcohol-drenched sock, lit it on fire, and was amazed to see a flame yet feel no heat. Also, a week or so ago, I downloaded a PDF published by some fire safety committee that compared the safeness of various household materials around fire. I want you to know I have researched this thoroughly, and I’m pretty confident that I could pull this off.)

Another happy coincidence that furthered this plot occurred as I left Institute on Thursday and headed to the volleyball/basketball court (this was 13 Sept 07, the day after talking to Sarah and Christian and acquiring a suit). Sarah was on a balcony and called down to me, asking me whether I’d found a suit. I told her I had, that it was perfect because it was pure wool "and it just screams, 'Burn me! Burn me!'" I then, of course, had to explain to the couple guys that were with her what my plan was, and one of them was so kind as to inform me that somewhere in Provo Canyon is a rope swing into the river. I filed that exciting bit of news away for future reference.

On Friday (14 Sept 07, day after learning of rope swing), I informed apartmentmates Brett and Jason and their friend Danny (who hangs out over here a lot but actually lives somewhere up stairs) of my plan to set myself on fire; they thought I was crazy, but were, at the same time, very encouraging of the idea. When I told them about the rope swing, Jason said he knew where it was and could take me there.

See how nicely this is working out‽ Who can deny that naught but fate could make it so easy‽

And thus support began to grow, but a dichotomy was also formed, for, while Brett and Jason and Danny were all for it despite the fact that they thought I was crazy and Sarah was a veritable groupie of the idea and Ben wanted to do it with me (though he has yet to find a suit), April (Ben’s fiancée) has been steadfastly opposed to the idea from the start, and Christian Farmer himself, when he heard about my means of lighting myself on fire—a markedly different means than his method of wearing a million layers of clothing and having wet towels wrapped around the head—Christian Farmer said, "Don’t do it."

But I’m committed; I mustn’t let the stalwart members of the "Let’s set Kyle on fire!" cult down!

Well, this morning, I got up and found on the ground next to the couch a pile of "love notes" (on Sundays at ward prayer, we can all write nice notes to each other and they get delivered to our apartments). Jason told me last night while we were home teaching that a love not had come for me, but I promptly forgot all about it. So I pilfered the pile and found this:

Kyle,
Don’t do it!
The Lord loves you!
Your life is worth living!
Bishop Kirby

Whether Bishop Kirby thinks I’m suicidal or simply recognizes this whole stupid idea as pure madness doesn’t really matter; "Don’t do it!"” is clear enough for me. Listening to my Bishop is what got me here to Provo; I’m not going to change my policy now.

I went to my room and deleted the PDF and the bookmark on my computer, put away the carefully selected clothing I had hanging with my suit, waiting to be used on Saturday night. Duct taped to my suit, I had two little pieces of paper: one with my carefully considered protocol written out on it, one with a couple of safety-related items I still needed to buy. I was going to include them here, but I just now threw them away—why preserve such dangerous temptations for future use? Then I threw away the suit coat (I had cut out its polyester lining, so it wasn’t much good any more), donated the suit pants to DI, and hit my alcohol and Vaseline, stashing it until I know how best to dispose of it.

I was feeling pretty good about myself after that, yes sir I most assuredly was.

I went to FHE tonight and, as I was returning to my apartment, I spied Sarah sitting at a picnic bench alone, doing homework, so I went over and told her what had happened and what is now no longer going to happen.

She was sad; I kinda was, too. I mostly felt relieved and happified once I got rid of the suit, but slowly the weight of disappointment settled on me.

After talking to Sarah, I went into my apartment and told my congregated mates that the gig was off; they asked why, so I told them the whole thing.

And then it happened: Jason admitted that he wrote the note.