The Power of Scones

Another excerpt from "Leaving San Diego" (1997):

The turning point in my decision to leave San Diego occurred in November 1996, a period of time I lovingly refer to as my mini-nervous breakdown. For reasons that still remain unclear, I became totally obsessed with the wonderful British film, "Beautiful Thing." What is it about this film that made me see it seven times at the Guild? Why does this budding romance between two working-class teenage chaps taste so bittersweet in my mouth? Didn't I get past that gay-teenager loneliness years ago? Why am I reliving it now, over and over again, every time I see the movie, listen to the soundtrack, or read the original play?

In the midst of all this turmoil, it rained. I dusted off my Doc Martens, my crappy jeans, and my bent umbrella, then headed off to the heart of Hillcrest to buy the "Beautiful Thing" CD and a mocha espresso scone ($1.62 at The Study). All these idiotic people were smoking cigarettes on balconies or blabbing on cell phones in doorways: "Like, omigod, it's totally raining here!" (It's true what they say about rain in SoCal...people just can't deal.) After making my purchases, I slowly made my way home, trying not to step on snails.

For once, I had my eyes wide open instead of squinting behind sunglasses, and those boots kept right on walking, past my studio at The Provincial Apartments (aka White Trash Villas) and into the Bankers' Hill area. I felt like a robot suddenly breaking free from a looped, obsolete program. "WHAT THE HELL AM I STILL DOING IN THIS FUCKING TOWN?!" Right then and there, I decided that I had to leave San Diego after spring quarter, come hell or high water. It was quite a liberating moment, so I just walked and walked, revelling in it. I turned back only when I realized that my gum was stale and my flannel shirt was starting to smell funny.

Because I was a dripping mess, I marched right into the bathroom (like when Mom would yell, "March right into the basement!") and stripped down. Then I experienced the post-rain pleasure of putting on an old sweatshirt, flannel shorts, and wool socks. As the water boiled, I rekindled my eternal struggle with shrink wrap; one can never get to CDs and scones quickly enough. Then everything was ready, and the sensory overload was too much--the relief of the momentous decision, the rush of the sugar, the corny sentiment of the CD--so I just blubbered into my hot chocolate.