Thanksgiving in LA, a short story from the series "NBA Players before the NBA, 1982 Edition" by Charles Box Daddy
Posted by Box Daddy
Thanksgiving in Los Angeles and Greg Kite remained alone. Like the day before Thanksgiving.
Six-ten, two fifty, and possessing decent hoop acumen, Greg had the requisite skills to pay the bills, roundballwise. He even played reserve center for Brigham Young last year, averaging five 'bounds a game. Now things had changed. After this year's first scrimmage, he impulsively decided to take the year off, telling Coach Granger that he needed "to clear his head." Maybe he did.
Now, he's a six-ten, two fifty LA actor without any current ventures. To supplement his nonexistent acting income, Big Greg Kite became a part-time security guard. "Part-time only" as he emphasized in conversation. So far, he had done a few tests for offbeat commercials, but mostly he watched MASH, Little House on the Prarie and Kojak on Channel Nine and ate take-out Chinese.
For Greg, Solitary Thanksgiving was depressing and liberating. Plusses: you get to be a voyeur. You avoid the food and small talk. Sure, his mother, brothers and sister would wonder what he was doing. Why wasn't he in Houston like everyone else? He had his reasons: Avoid the arguments. Avoid the football watching. Basically, Thanksgiving is all about capital-A Avoidance for Big Greg Kite.
The Big Minus: you're alone in a city that hates solitude as much as maturity.
Big Greg Kite hunches his way down to the Blackdog Cafe on San Vicente. Disturbs him how many businesses are open today. Seems as though when he was a kid, no one worked on holidays. Everybody took the whole day off. Greg orders a sesame bagel with tomato. Sits down in the corner with a day old copy of the LA Times. The store's pleasantly bustly.
After a lazy hour, he walks back to his apartment, straps himself into his beat-up ride, takes Sunset over to Canters on Fairfax. Has the scrambled eggs and lox as a late lunch, looks over the script for an Army-themed pilot called "Base Alpha." His prospective character is named "Cal." Cal misses his wife and daughter back in New Jersey, but he's nonetheless debating signing up for two more years to keep his wife in dental assistant's school. Greg wouldn't have many lines in the pilot, but future episodes might turn to different players in the ensemble cast. Like Cal.
Greg drives around aimlessly in a light blue '77 Celica. Suddenly finds himself heading south on Normandie.
As he navigates, the neighborhood changes and he notices a few things.
When he gets near I-10, there's a lot of hooped concertina wire everywhere. On the fire escapes and around the parking lots. It's very LA, he thinks. Between the poor and less poor neighborhoods there’s a Berlin Wall kind of situation. Though it's funny because everywhere else in LA, the barriers never become so literal. Nothing says: "You can't go there!" It's not necessary. In LA people just don't go places where they don't belong.
The houses in South Central are big. The streets are wide. One thing hits you high and tight: in the really depressed areas, they WANT chain stores like they want Christmas and Wrestling. A raft of mom and pop stores and restaurants flood South Central. Suburban America could never recognize this landscape.
Greg drives all the way to Redondo Beach, practicing his "Cal" to an immaterial, skeptical audience. He swings back north on the San Diego Freeway. Gets home around nine, notices three messages on the answering machine, thinks about making dinner, strips off his outer clothes, collapses on his mattress, sleeps til the 7AM alarm.
Thanksgiving in Los Angeles and Greg Kite remained alone. Like the day before Thanksgiving.
Six-ten, two fifty, and possessing decent hoop acumen, Greg had the requisite skills to pay the bills, roundballwise. He even played reserve center for Brigham Young last year, averaging five 'bounds a game. Now things had changed. After this year's first scrimmage, he impulsively decided to take the year off, telling Coach Granger that he needed "to clear his head." Maybe he did.
Now, he's a six-ten, two fifty LA actor without any current ventures. To supplement his nonexistent acting income, Big Greg Kite became a part-time security guard. "Part-time only" as he emphasized in conversation. So far, he had done a few tests for offbeat commercials, but mostly he watched MASH, Little House on the Prarie and Kojak on Channel Nine and ate take-out Chinese.
For Greg, Solitary Thanksgiving was depressing and liberating. Plusses: you get to be a voyeur. You avoid the food and small talk. Sure, his mother, brothers and sister would wonder what he was doing. Why wasn't he in Houston like everyone else? He had his reasons: Avoid the arguments. Avoid the football watching. Basically, Thanksgiving is all about capital-A Avoidance for Big Greg Kite.
The Big Minus: you're alone in a city that hates solitude as much as maturity.
Big Greg Kite hunches his way down to the Blackdog Cafe on San Vicente. Disturbs him how many businesses are open today. Seems as though when he was a kid, no one worked on holidays. Everybody took the whole day off. Greg orders a sesame bagel with tomato. Sits down in the corner with a day old copy of the LA Times. The store's pleasantly bustly.
After a lazy hour, he walks back to his apartment, straps himself into his beat-up ride, takes Sunset over to Canters on Fairfax. Has the scrambled eggs and lox as a late lunch, looks over the script for an Army-themed pilot called "Base Alpha." His prospective character is named "Cal." Cal misses his wife and daughter back in New Jersey, but he's nonetheless debating signing up for two more years to keep his wife in dental assistant's school. Greg wouldn't have many lines in the pilot, but future episodes might turn to different players in the ensemble cast. Like Cal.
Greg drives around aimlessly in a light blue '77 Celica. Suddenly finds himself heading south on Normandie.
As he navigates, the neighborhood changes and he notices a few things.
When he gets near I-10, there's a lot of hooped concertina wire everywhere. On the fire escapes and around the parking lots. It's very LA, he thinks. Between the poor and less poor neighborhoods there’s a Berlin Wall kind of situation. Though it's funny because everywhere else in LA, the barriers never become so literal. Nothing says: "You can't go there!" It's not necessary. In LA people just don't go places where they don't belong.
The houses in South Central are big. The streets are wide. One thing hits you high and tight: in the really depressed areas, they WANT chain stores like they want Christmas and Wrestling. A raft of mom and pop stores and restaurants flood South Central. Suburban America could never recognize this landscape.
Greg drives all the way to Redondo Beach, practicing his "Cal" to an immaterial, skeptical audience. He swings back north on the San Diego Freeway. Gets home around nine, notices three messages on the answering machine, thinks about making dinner, strips off his outer clothes, collapses on his mattress, sleeps til the 7AM alarm.
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