by Evangeline Buchenberger
Quentin Tarantino is not my father.
But he could’ve been.
My real father is employed as a software engineer. I developed a fascination with his work as a child, occasionally sneaking into his office after dark. Endless chains of ones and zeros illuminated his computer screen. The code had a certain beauty to it, akin to that of cobwebs and lace.
Surely, my father recognized the same beauty. His obsession is with creation.
My father’s hands are rarely idle: tying flies, fixing cameras, building bicycles. Spare parts cover most surfaces of our house, all pieces to a greater whole that will never truly be finished.
Growing up in the church, he was introduced to the concept of creation at a young age. This church did not preach a benevolent prime mover but sought to seed dread in its followers. At fourteen, he witnessed a tree transform into the devil. He froze as its long branches twisted their way into his soul. The LSD eventually wore off, but fear is not so easily dissolved.
Algorithms provided him with an opportunity to define the undefined and experience freedom when there was none.
My mother fears my freedom. She mourned the day I let her hand go first, the day I called for Mom instead of Mama, the ways I began to resemble my father. Beyond the crooked smile, tired eyes, and constant dis-ease, my father and I share an unwavering sense of longing.
My mother, too, was once driven by longing. At eighteen, she moved from Denver to Hollywood. Old headshots litter her closet floor, and in them is a girl who could see opportunity blooming before her, petal by petal.
She took work at the Formosa Cafe in West Hollywood, often frequented by celebrities. Quentin Tarantino was a regular. His drink of choice was a Long Island iced tea, and he seemed to keep to himself. “Polite but awkward,” she would tell me. Despite his reserved attitude, he was thrown out frequently for snorting cocaine in the bathroom.
Sometimes I wonder about what could have happened if my mother had stayed in Hollywood. She wonders about that, too. Probably, she would have gone into the bathroom with Quentin Tarantino if he’d asked. She was beautiful and impulsive—the type of girl who should be devoured trying to reach stardom. She returned half-eaten to Colorado when her hope finally gave way.
Now, she is the kind of alcoholic that demands forgiveness after every sip despite never saying sorry. She detests her boyfriend but can never bring herself to say goodbye—not to him, not to her habits, not to me on the telephone, and certainly not to the little girl who went to Hollywood.
If she wasn’t my mother, I might say that she was doomed. But she is my mother.
If I’m not careful, I may end up like my mother or my father. Odds are, in fact, I end up a mix of both.
Maybe if my mother wasn’t a drunk, or if my father wasn’t afraid of God, or if Hollywood was a forgiving place, I would end up like those who find fulfillment.
Quentin Tarantino is not my father, but maybe if he were, I would have grown up believing in a different kind of creation. Creation less mathematical than code, less cruel than Hollywood, less omniscient than God.
Evangeline Buchenberger is an 18-year-old filmmaker and student currently pursuing a degree in screenwriting and directing. Her work has previously appeared in Nowhere Girl Collective. She is passionate about developing her storytelling across mediums and aims to establish her voice as both a writer and director.