The SoCal Years 13: A Utah Thanksgiving
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The Riveting Adventures of A Filipina-American Actor-Girl in the Southern California Jungle
The SoCal Years hubs comprise a series of narrative essays from the late 1990s, pre-9/11, immediately after grad school when, knowing she would run screaming back to the East Coast in the end, a young-ish Pinay New Yorker, armed with her new Drama MFA, decided nonetheless to dip her toes into the Hollywood swamp.
snow canyon, utah
___________________
Done. Wrapped. Over. Fini. The book is complete, and better than I feared. I am FREE.
(Now what?)
I suppose for starters I could do last year's taxes./>
Turkey Day in Utah, with the family of my friend Jennifer. It was an impromptu trip that I, in my holiday depression, was glad to be invited on. Six hours through the desert, me and Jen.
Thanksgiving Eve at rush hour on the 91, with Mercury all retrograde no less, was a nightmare. 30 miles in three hours. Jen's car overheated three times. We entertained ourselves by speaking to each other in really bad Southern accents, and telling stories of our respective J's (they share a name—what is that about?).
Drove down the Vegas strip—my first time. A giant arcade for grown-ups. The Southwest's loot-choked, glitter-filthy playground.
I'm coming back for the roller coaster on top of the giant needle tower. And to see Mystère, of course. Maybe blow a couple of bucks at the blackjack tables. Flirt with the cute dealer-boys.
• • • • • • • • • • • •
Jen is a fellow Drama alum—a woman so beautiful, she's almost a freak of nature. A delicately-featured Libra, echoing Christy Turlington, with the cheekbones of a '40's movie star. And, to boot, she's a doll.
What's bizarre is that no one in her nuclear family looks like anyone else. Not that they're not all good-looking. Former-cop Dad a fit 50-something, all blue-eyed and charming; Mom half Pacific-Islander, dusky-colored, sultry-lidded (the Guamanian heritage doesn't show up a whit on either daughter); baby-sister Charity, a bubbly fellow-Leo, looks like a Dallas Cowgirl. A bit more voluptuous perhaps.
The 'rents are divorced, mom remarried, Dad shacking up with a new girlfriend of 4 months—Sandy, who the sisters like. He met her country-line-dancing.
Wednesday night, Jen and I slept in the bunk beds in the camper in front of the house. Turkey Night, Jen was cold and moved indoors. I personally love sleeping in cold, so tucked myself into a sleeping bag nested inside another, and the dry desert wind howled outside.
In spite of her elegant first impression, Jen has a wacky side—got it from her ex-cop Dad, I warrant—helps that her Leo sister is nuts too. At Dad's, Jen was made to demonstrate her repertoire of barnyard animal noises (cat, dog, horse). Dad showed us the stupid pet tricks his adorable 12-year-old pup, Red, knows. Red can moo like a cow when Dad presses his upper body a certain way.
I'm partial to nutty families. No one, for instance, can make me laugh like my own. Generally no one outside the nucleus gets the joke—except the occasional empathetic spouse. We're really not that funny, but we can split each other's sides with our treasure trove of cheesy in-jokes.
My dad's the best. He'll start chuckling right before his punch line and by the time he gets to it, his guffaws completely obliterate the words as he says them. Then, as we stare, he repeats the punch line two or three times, laughing in delight at his cleverness.
• • • • • • • • • • • •
On the way out, Jen took me on a short climb over the red clay-and-sandstone hills of Snow Canyon. Christmas-colored landscape—red rock, green brush. I asked how the serpent-scale patterns on the rock surface were formed. Jen didn't know.
It was unutterably gorgeous. I wished I'd had my busted, beloved old Yashica 35mm fixed before I came. Then I remembered that sometimes when you take too many pictures, you miss the event entirely. Jen wants to come back and have a picnic on the red rocks, sometime in the spring.
Stopped at Buffalo Bob's (or Bill's, or Brad's) Casino in Nevada Landing to find something healthy to eat—a bigger challenge than my thesis. Unearthed and split a California Burrito at La Salsa (no lard, preservatives, additives, cans, microwaves—very cool). Jen tried to get me to join her on the house roller coaster, but I don't do that during Retro Merc. I knew I'd bust a seatbelt. (Not that I could die—my family's always been sort of charmed where any kind of transportation is concerned. Coasters are too transportation.)
And then I came home and got kayoed by the killer flu, my final thesis week, this. I am NEVER sick—an impatient patient. Illness is a huge waste of time. But this killer flu the last couple of years...
I know, I know. I beat up my immune system with thesis stress, months of zero physical activity, major miscombining (complete with rich, fatty foods), and doomed love. So of course the little critters slid right in and attacked.
• • • • • • • • • • • •
Oh. J. called, four months after his last letter—the one I didn't answer—and nine months after I saw him last. Says he misses me and asks to "steal [me] away for some lunch." I've been stalling. Just until after Retro Merc, about 10 days from now.
And then I don't know what I'll do. Maybe achieve closure. Certainly answers. This time I'll try to pull truth from him, instead of just poetry. ◊
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