Turkey Trot With Me: A Lynchian Thanksgiving
For most families, Thanksgiving is an opportunity to come together and indulge in the excesses of capitalism- binge eating, napping, football on TV. In past years the Lynches would wake up around ten, toss a bird in the oven, and passively watch the Macy’s Parade while thumbing through Black Friday sale fliers. But the grandparents have all passed, Mom is in the process of moving into a smaller condo in Santa Barbara, and the little two-flat my partner Margaret and I share in Encino isn’t anywhere near large enough to entertain. It looked as though Thanksgiving would be an intimate night of takeout and prestige television- until I happened upon an unexpected post on my cousin Riley’s Instagram. Apparently Uncle David was hosting a small dinner at his Brutalist concrete compound in Hollywood Hills, and by some odd turn of events, our invitation was lost in the mail.
It’s no secret that I adore my Uncle’s work; his films were a staple of my childhood and inspired me to go to film school. I’ve spent my short career working in his shadow, eventually changing my name to escape the tiresome comparisons. My first film, Pencilneck, a black and white horror noir about a Kafkaesque mill worker caring for his ailing wooden mother as she’s slowly overtaken by termites, actually found its way onto his IMBD page after taking honorable mention at the San Louis Obispo International Film Festival in 2014. La Cienega Boulevard and The Bearded Lady were less successful, but signaled a deliberate departure from my earlier works.
Despite my creative shortcomings, Uncle David has always been supportive and pleasant, if also understandably absent. He’s a busy and private man with a lot on his plate, and I don’t hold his tight schedule against him. All of this is to say I’m incredibly excited to see him as we make our pilgrimage through Sherman Oaks.
“This looks just like Mulholland Drive,” I observe.
“This is Mulholland Drive,” Margaret says. “Are you sure this is okay? Should we at least pick something up at Gelson’s?”
It’s my first time visiting Uncle David at home. I half-hoped his doorbell would emit some otherworldly cacophony of shattering glass and barking dogs, or perhaps a distorted recording of Embraceable You washed out in crescendoing psithurism. To my disappointment, it’s just a regular old doorbell. Cousin Lula answers the door in an adorable Annie Oakley costume and invites us inside with the grace of a woman thrice her age (she turns 8 later this year.)
“Don’t mind the chain gang,” she says, gesturing to a small line of ants marching along the sill. We watch their silent procession for a moment before stepping inside. “Can I take your coats?”
We find Uncle David in the living room, white coif deflated over his left eye like a tidal wave, half asleep on the couch with a bottle of Rolling Rock balanced on his knee.
“I see you’re watching the homoerotic egg-ball bloodsport,” I say, noting the game on TV. “I also find the nostalgic sounds of crowds and whistles soothing.”
“Bears are playing the Lions, might actually win one for a change,” he responds as he lifts himself up to greet us. “You one of Riley’s friends?” He’s in his mid-70’s now, so I don’t take it to heart.
“Uncle David, it’s me, Jon, Martha’s son. This is my partner, Margaret.”
“Happy to meet you. Can I get you a beer?,” he asks, gesturing to the kitchen with his bottle.
“No Rolling Rock, PABST BLUE RIBBON!” I respond, waving the six-pack I purchased for the occasion.
I sense something dark and unpleasant torturing Uncle David’s mind, but he manages a forced smile at my joke. “Does this mean we can expect your mother as well?” he asks.
“When we spoke this morning it sounded like she’d make it for dinner.”
“I’m a little surprised she changed her mind, but that should be fine. I think we’ll have enough for everyone. See if she’ll pick up some pies from Bob’s Big Boy though. Strawberry, if they’ve got ‘em.”
Margaret offers to help Aunt Emily in the kitchen while I catch up with cousins Riley and Jennifer. They’re out back by the pool, watching the kids play “Marco Polo.”
“Hey- is Aunt Martha here?” asks Jennifer, peeking back over my shoulder at the house.
“She’ll be by a little later- Uncle David invited us. Is he doing alright? I overheard Aunt Emily saying something about a will…”
“We haven’t-” Riley starts and looks at Jennifer.
“We were just inside talking to him and it seems like he’s slipping a little,” I say. “Went off about the kids making him anxious…”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” says Jennifer.
“Well you know, they get to be that age and the filter comes right off. Where’s Austin?” I ask, noticing their brother’s absence.
“He’s shooting a documentary in Potsdam,” says Jennifer, batting away a beach ball.
“Germany,” I guess.
“Yeah,” she says.
The rest of the afternoon is wholesome and weary, a typically sluggish Thanksgiving Day. Riley plays some rough cuts from his band’s new EP, and I offer some desperately needed suggestions. Jennifer sets up the old Kodak Carousel, professionally refurbished for the occasion. “Shame he couldn’t be here,” I whisper to Uncle David each time a slide of Austin comes up.
I excuse myself to use the washroom, but get lost and wind up in Uncle David’s office. It’s organized chaos: countless notebooks ordered by color, half empty coffee cups filled with spent cigarettes, stacks of tapes and records in cardboard boxes labeled with strange symbols. His desk is locked.
Aunt Emily pokes her head in. “Can I help you with something?”
“How’s Uncle David feeling?” I ask as she leads me to the washroom.
“Fine, why do you ask?”
“Jennifer and Riley were talking about a will, I just wanted to make sure everything was alright health-wise.”
“Everything’s fine.”
Mom arrives shortly before dinner, paper shopping bags in hand. There’s a tense moment when Uncle David meets her in the kitchen, but after some hesitation she wraps her arms around him. “I’m glad you could make it,” he says.
Their reunion is sweet but ephemeral, like cheap gum.
“What is this?” Uncle David asks, rifling through the bags.
“Their from Winston’s, best pies in LA!” Mom titters.
“What’s wrong with Bob’s Big Boy?” asks Uncle David, pounding the counter with his fist.
“Dad, I’m sure these are fine,” says Riley the peacekeeper. “Thank you, Aunt Martha.”
“It’s not Thanksgiving without strawberry pie from Bob’s Big Boy,” shouts Uncle David as he pulls his coat out of the closet. “Start without me.”
“For god’s sake, David, you can’t drive in your condition,” says Aunt Emily.
I offer to drive him to Burbank, relishing the opportunity to pick his brain about my newest project, a semi-autobiographical piece about my father and the Nuremberg trials starring marionettes called In Absentia.
Unfortunately, Uncle David insists on spending the entire 15 minute drive silently meditating. The car is a rental but I let him smoke his American Spirits anyway. It’s worth it to watch a living legend in his element. Moths flutter through the headlights as we fly down twisting roads into the valley, fog rising slowly from the asphalt.
When the giant neon “Bob’s” sign emerges from the red murk in the distance, Uncle David lets out an audible sigh of relief. I offer to run in and grab the pies while he finishes his smoke, but he insists on purchasing them himself. He’s been coming here for over forty years, and though he tends towards healthier fare these days, this greasy spoon still feels like home. I watch him discreetly pat the plaster Big Boy on his belly for good luck before disappearing into the bustling diner.
The lights inside flicker. Power outages are getting more and more common here in LA, but the effect is still unsettling. I help myself to one of Uncle David’s cigarettes to calm my nerves.
When I raise the match to the tip, it recoils from the flame like a frightened worm. I gasp and chuck it out the window. The ember explodes against curb, startling a one-armed cowboy and his horse as he struggles to hitch it to a bike rack. “Whoa!” he shouts, dropping the reins. Spooked and untethered, the horse takes off at full gallop but makes no progress- hooves gliding over the sidewalk like ice. The cowboy stoops down and examines the cigarette’s label. “That Tecumseh fellow is A-OK by me,” he says before taking a drag. The neon sign flickers electric red on the smoke as it pours out of his black lips and crawls up his hollow cheeks.
“We got strawberry pie!” yells Uncle David as he tears open the door and climbs back in.
My head hits the roof.
When I turn back to look out my window, the one-armed cowboy and his horse are gone. All that’s left in his place is an inexplicable pile of writhing nightcrawlers.
We drive back home in reverse while smoke pours in through the passenger window, growing three whole cigarettes from the butts Uncle David pulls from the ashtray. He delicately returns each one back to their pack. I take my foot off the gas and we back into the garage slowly with expressionless faces.
We sit in silence for a moment while the car idles.
“Why are you here?” Uncle David asks.
I don’t know what to say.
“Are you giving me a blanket?”
“Am I giving you-”
“They killed them with blankets, did you know that?” he says. “Millions, tens of millions. Turned their skin yellow and made their noses bleed. I’ll ask you one more time. Did you come here to give me a blanket?”
Inside the family is arguing around a long dining table, hungry and impatient. Whatever they’re discussing is put on hold when we walk in the room.
“I told you to start without me!” says Uncle David, setting the pies on the counter.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” says Aunt Emily. “We celebrate together as a family.” She hands Uncle David the electric carver and smiles wide with clenched teeth.
It takes Uncle David fifteen minutes to carve the turkey. We all watch intently as the buzzsaw rips through golden flesh, at times making the same cut four or five times before moving on.
“Why do pilgrims pants always fall down?” asks Margaret, trying to lighten the mood.
No one responds, salivating eyes glued to the platter of meat at the end of the table, nails digging into each other’s knees under the table.
Lula screams.
A line of ants march solemnly into the gravy boat.
