The Bassoon King by Rainn Wilson

Author:Rainn Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-10-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

VOLCANO LOVE

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Let’s fast-forward a wee bit. We’ll get back to my journey in and out of moral confusion and bohemian depravity very soon.

It’s a year or so later in our story and, on a break from doing a Shakespearean theater tour for the Acting Company (see the list entitled “Adventures in Theater”), I went to Seattle to visit my dad. The first thing I did was look up Holiday Reinhorn, the mesmerizing girl from my old University of Washington acting class, who still tickled my memory banks. I had been thinking about her for years, frankly, and was excited at the idea of reconnecting.

To try to find her, I actually looked her up in the white pages. (This was back in the day of these things called “phone books.” Pre-Internet. Pre-Google. Pre-Facebook. Pre-Chatroulette.) And, for some strange, miraculous reason, Holiday Reinhorn was actually listed in the Seattle phone book.

I called and we spoke briefly and set a time for a date. When I walked into Holiday’s house, an eclectic abode filled with rabbits and cats and that gorgeous white pit bull, Edison, and I saw her in a beautiful vintage 1950s dress, a red cardigan, lumberjack boots, and sporting a Day of the Dead arm tattoo, I was gobsmacked.

I don’t believe in love at first sight—it simply doesn’t make any sense—but that’s what happened to me on that night. And, to be quite honest, even through the most arduous times we’ve had (and we’ve had plenty), I’ve been deeply in love with her ever since.

For the record: Holiday is just awesome. Dark sense of humor and dangerously smart. With a giant heart and a lovely Modigliani face. I hope you get to meet her someday. But don’t touch her inappropriately because then I’d have to punch you in the tooth.

A devout feminist in college (she pioneered a women’s studies degree from the University of Washington), she used to wear earrings made out of steak knives and carry around a book about women artists with a giant Medusa face on the cover called Angry Women. Her worldview became a bit more compassionate and varied when I met her, but I always respected her commitment to equality.

We had a series of amazing dates during those few weeks in Seattle that kicked off an incredible, passionate, sometimes difficult, but mostly mind-blowingly awesome twenty-four-year relationship and twenty-year marriage.

Holiday, who had been doing plays around the Seattle area as well as some other odd jobs (such as working at the Pacific Northwest Ballet box office and making giant vats of hummus for a local hummus company), had been planning on moving to NYC before I ever got reacquainted with her. Sure enough, with a little coaxing from me, a year later she shipped out her books, clothes, pit bull, and collection of animal skulls and antique lamps, and we began an incredible life together.

My wife was an excellent actor, and she moved to NYC to be a performer. After a few auditions for some dumb plays, she completely shifted gears as an artist, however.

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