I lived with my parents until I was twenty one. I was working part time at a pre school and attempting my way through college. One night my father came home and said:
We’re moving!
But it wasn’t just any move it was:
We’re moving to Utah!
Initially my response was:
HELL NO!
With much difficulty I had removed myself from the Mormon culture I was born into. It was difficult being myself (in California) with my family and loved ones. I had no desire to live in the Mormon Mecca. Then my father offered to pay for my education. I would not have to work. I could attend school (full time), on his nickel.
I held out for a few weeks. Then reality set in. Working part time at a pre school and attempting to complete school grew large and scary. I decided I would take my father up on his offer. I went to Utah with my family to check out the area, help shop for a house, this is where the insanity begins…
While in Utah we stayed at a Comfort Inn in a (seemingly quiet) suburb of Salt Lake City. Around 10:00pm my sister and I went for a walk. It had been long day and I needed to chain smoke. As we walked through a deserted strip mall parking lot, a car full of teenage boys drove up to us. Driving large donuts around us, windows rolled down, yelling:
You bitches! We’re gonna come back and get you, YOU
BITCHES!
At first I was shocked, then scared. Until it occurred they were just stupid teenage boys. They drove off and we continued walking through the parking lot. As we rounded the corner we saw them park their car and walk into a supermarket. I WAS PISSED. The nerve of these fucking kids driving around us and making threats, THEN they just park their car and walk into a supermarket?! Talk about bitches. And I had NOTHING to fuck their car up with. Just cigarettes, matches and a useless hotel key card. I was mad but my sister persuaded me back to the hotel, rather than make a scene with the 16 year old boys in the store.
My dad had been telling me that Salt Lake City was a real city. A city with redeeming qualities he believed I could grow to love. A city where I could drink my drinks and smoke my cigarettes. A city where I could find people of the same ex-recovering-(whatever-you-want-to-call-it-)Mormon beliefs. Unsure of where to send me in Salt Lake City on a Friday night he offered to ride along my sister and I. The three of us would scope out SLC together on Friday, then on Saturday my sister and I could return on our own. Sounded good to me. We had NO idea what was in store for us.
The drive up State Street was surreal. State Street, a road which runs through the whole state as highway 89, leads to the Utah State Capitol. As we drove up State Street from the small suburb where we were staying, I felt like we had slipped into a time warp. It seemed half of Utah was cruising. Yes, CRUISING. Just like in American Graffiti, only it was 1997. I had never seen anything like this, I mean what city (or state) still allows cruising? The vibe was uncomfortable. There were easily distinguishable cliques, each playing their own loud music: country cowboy types with gun racks, angry metal heads, jocks and cheerleaders, etc.
After we maneuvered our way through State Street (cruising parking lot central), we ended up in Salt Lake City. SLC is a perfect grid pattern laid out according to Joseph Smith as directed by God (or some other holy unnamed figure).
I was driving the rental car, dad in the passenger seat, sister in the back. Driving back and forth through SLC is easy, as it is perfect grid. We were driving next to a car with three guys around my age. I noticed the driver was kinda cute. I thought perhaps there were people in Utah I could like…
We continue driving toward the edge of SLC, an industrial area. At a stop light the third passenger in the other car turns around, makes eye contact with my sister and mouths something to her. Confused, she does not understand him, or why he is talking to her. My sister scrunches her nose up and mouths her reply:
What?
As the boys car turned right, the backseat passenger rolled down his window, hung his head out and yelled at the top of his lungs:
Stop staring at me YOU FUCKING CUNT!!
My heart started racing, POUNDING. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. I had heard that word before, but never like that. It was venomous. Piercing. Violating. I will never forget his long stringy, reckless, blonde hair and icy blue eyes. He looked like Jake*Busey’s*Evil*Twin.
My dad’s Incredible-Hulk-Once-Every-Ten-Years-Rage set in. BAD. Through clenched teeth he said:
Follow. Them.
It happened so fast. One minute we are driving around SLC, the next I’m following three guys in their twenties with my enraged father. I pull up behind the car, not realizing what my dad is about to do. Before I am even fully stopped my father bursts out of our car and is pounding the shit out of their windows. I am still not sure how the windows did not break. My kind, loving father just wanted to show his daughters the redeeming side of SLC and some punk calls his daughter a fucking cunt?
The three guys all jump out of their car and start fighting with my dad in the middle of the intersection. And my daddy KICKED ASS. He held his own. He was in his fifties, going ape shit on three guys who were at least thirty years younger than him. It went on for several minutes, I am not sure how long exactly because I went into shock. My memories of that night are terrible bits of jagged pieces. The fight or flight fluttering in my stomach was unreal. I felt like my internal organs were going to explode. (Just writing about it eight years later brings back flashes of the dismal sinking sensation in my stomach.)
Then, there’s my sister in the back seat. Fetal position. Trauma. Shock. Crying. Hysterical. Rocking and mumbling incoherently.
Dad eventually started to melt. He began yelling for me to leave him. Leave my daddy on the edge of SLC? Hell no. His cell phone was in his pocket, I could not even call 911.
My dad finally managed to get back in the car when Jake*Busey’s*Evil*Twin ran over to the drivers side window to yell profanities at me and spit in my face. And I am not talking about dribble either, world class loogie contest kind of spit. IN. MY. FACE. A whole cup of it, wet and sticky in my eyes and hair. I tried to voice an objection but I could not form words. My voice had left me.
Then my father was back in the car and we were on our way. With the guys chasing us through SLC. I ran through so many red lights I lost count. 911 operator instructed us to pull over and wait for the police to arrive. Yeah, right. I drove through SLC like a bat out of hell with the angry car chasing after us.
At stop lights they would jump from their car and pound on our windows. At one point Jake Busey’s Evil Twin managed to get my door open and attempted to pull me out of the car, WHILE I WAS STILL DRIVING. It was fucking frightening but there was nothing to do but keep going. Drivi
ng, driving, just keep driving.
I happened upon and flagged down a police officer. The three boys jumped out of their car and started screaming about pressing charges. The police separated us, took both of our statements. The boys were told if anyone was going to jail, it would be them.
Thank God there were no weapons involved. In retrospect, it was extremely foolish to follow them. But hindsight and perspective are luxuries only acquired with time, not visible in the midst of trauma. It has taken many years to visit Utah without panic and fear. I no longer look over my shoulder for Jake*Busey’s*Evil*Twin and his angry throat full of phlegm
