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Ganesh is an Indian god. He is, according to Cabbit, the remover of obstacles and bestower of prosperity. He also has the head of an elephant. Indian restaurants often portray him sitting on a throne in red or gold saris holding aloft a lotus flower. The line of poetry comes from “On Receiving an Eagle’s Quill from Lake Superior.” It was written in the nineteenth century by the American poet John Greenleaf Whittier, a well-known Quaker and Abolitionist. The poem seems to be about the joy of westward expansion; Cabbit does not seem to be aware of this. “Alright, let’s go,” says Cabbit. Mark is coming over soon to read to Cabbit in bed because she is sick. He is bringing The Lorax, her favorite Dr. Seuss book. *** Sitting behind the wheel of her black Toyota with the vanity license plate, Cabbit is getting very uncomfortable. She is wearing a puffy peasant chemise with a laced-up corduroy bodice over it. Breathing is difficult; movement is restricted; her chest swells voluptuously. A leather belt with a Celtic-knot design keeps two full-length purple and gold skirts in place. She has the skirts pulled up past her knees--exposing sensible brown loafers bought for an office job she kept only two weeks--so that the fabric does not get caught between her foot and the pedal of the car. This is Cabbit’s sixth year driving to the Renaissance Faire, and she is half an hour late to meet her friend Jessie. Late and lost. She accidentally got off the 57 East, exited somewhere in Chino Hills. Brown slopes and cracked roof shingles roll in every direction. She needs to concentrate so she turns down the volume on her Celtic Instrumental CD in the middle of “Scotland the Brave” and grips the steering wheel with both hands. It was Jessie who first introduced Cabbit to the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. Valentine’s Day, 10th grade, and Cabbit was sitting alone by the school vending machines filling out cards. She was wearing her favorite Hot Topic shirt, “Protected By Vampires” in bold letters across the front. Jessie walked by and noticed Cabbit’s awesome shirt. She kept walking past trying to get Cabbit’s attention, but Cabbit was absorbed with her cards. Jessie finally decided she needed a different approach and yelled out, “Are you an Ann Rice fan?” Anne Rice was the greatest author of all time. “Yes!” An instant Goth-Erotica connection was made. The random meeting eventually led to a friendship and an invitation to “RennFaire.” The first time Cabbit attended she remembers being worried that her thrown-together costume, one part leather bondage and two parts Japanese schoolgirl, was going to be stared at. She would learn, however, that RennFaire’s appeal lies in its casual acceptance of freakdom. RennFaire itself is a strange amalgamation of fantasy. It is possible to see Harry Potter, a half-naked fairy princess and an aging, half-baked hippie all cheering on the knights at a joust. She felt like she belonged. Rotted telephone poles lean in unison down the Chino street; there is an empty golf course and dusty palms. Haze settles over the distant San Gabriels. Cabbit drives past a faded sign: “EXTREME BRUSH FIRE HAZARD! DANGER! NO SMOKING!” Then another: “DeVry University/Phoenix University 2 Miles.” “This is the type of place you end up when you’ve done something wrong with your life,” Cabbit says, accelerating past a neon orange advertisement for Club Spice (Call for the VIP List!). Idling at a stoplight, she notices the name of a stucco-box storefront, “Prenatal Peek.” “Getting pregnant doesn’t scare me,” she says. “I know Mark would be a great father. I mean, I don’t want it to happen till we’re married. But, you know, if it did.” If it did, this may or may not be the type of place Cabbit would end up: Miles from the coast, miles of apartments for lease and plenty of affordable mini-storage. The thought settles quietly until, with an excited clap, Cabbit dispels it, “I see an entrance ramp!” For the last two years, the Renaissance Faire has been held at the Santa Fe Dam in Irwindale, California. It is a place far outside the Los Angeles of California Dreamin’ idylls. Right off the Irwindale exit there is modest billboard planted in the chaparral: an Amtrak caboose roars past an oceanic sunset, “Escape” spelled in caps. Part of the San Gabriel River Watershed Management Plan, the Santa Fe Dam controls the mud and runoff from the swollen San Gabriel, keeping it from flooding residential neighborhoods. Instead, every spring, a torrent of persons wearing starched collars and buckled shoes, speaking the Queen’s English and smelling of cannabis, floods through the gates in the opposite direction. (conclusion on page 4) |
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| UCI | School of Humanities | Literary Journalism |