Sunday December 21st, 2003 (Later)
Finally Home
If you met two people who lived together in LA and asked them where they go after work one might say, “Home” and the other might say, “To my apartment.” Instantly you know the first person is a California native and the second is from some other part of the country. For the five hundred thousand people who move to Los Angeles each year LA is not home. It’s practically another planet; home is where you grew up. Home had trees with leaves that changed color during things called “Seasons.” When you see a familiar face at home it’s because you know the person, not because they were crew member #21 who died while Starbuck was chasing down cylons. For the first time in a year, I was home.
Staring at the hideous floral wallpaper my mom put in my room I wondered how long I must have been asleep. As I tried to estimate the time I realized it didn’t matter. I didn’t have to work, there were no chores to do, and no one was waiting to hear from me. I was home. It was an almost spiritual realization, like I suddenly REALLY understood all that crap about the plastic bag in American Beauty. Just as this perfect moment washed over me the bedroom door flung open, “Get up pig fucker it’s time to eat dinner.” From the hallway I heard my mom yell at my brother, “I said nicely!” With that Scott corrected himself, “Please get up pig fucker, its dinner time.”
Walking toward the kitchen I could smell the beef stroganoff. Anticipating my favorite meal, I had no doubt they had meatloaf two days prior when my brother arrived. I entered the dining room and adhered to the assigned seating established over twenty years ago. Over the next half hour I had the same basically conversation I had with my mom in the car, this time with my dad. Being a little more conscious I was able to interact and answer questions. “How’s work?” “How’s Kevin?” “What’s this your brother is telling us about you, a transvestite, and the police?” Standard dinner conversation. (See 9/24)
As I washed the dishes I tried to remember the last time I ate food
off a plate. Most food I’m accustomed to either comes in some
type of microwaveable pocket form or requires you to yell into a giant
plastic clown head. “So is there anything special you want to
do while you’re here?” Although we both knew almost exactly
how the next week would go I appreciate that my father asked. I talked
to him for about an hour or so before he went to bed. My dad wakes
up at 4am for work; my mom sleeps in until 5. Both parents now asleep,
I looked forward to a night of fighting with my brother for the remote
control. That was until the front door opened.
