The Sticks

part 17, memoir

Dec 28, 2024

This is part 17 of my attempt to rewrite my memoir here on Substack, posting as I go.

(Here is part 1)

The Sticks

While it had still been summer, and hot, Jesse and I had walked—down through pines at the bottom of my property and out onto the dirt road that ran along the creek.

“I can't wait until the weather starts to get cold,” said Jesse. “Have you ever spent a winter up here? It’s pretty awesome.”

“No. Is there a lot of snow?”

“Sometimes. I can’t wait to walk around in the snow with you.”

I couldn’t wait either.

“Tell me about the winter,” I said.

“You got it. Well, first we’re gonna have to get all bundled up in coats and hats. And we’ll need good boots. Then, we walk. It’s icy cold and the snow is white and sparkly and soft and crunchy at the same time, you know?”

“You make it sound so beautiful.”

“It is beautiful.”

“Then what happens?”

“We keep walking. We walk for a long time and after a while we’re freezing our fucking asses off so we turn around. We have to get the fuck home and warm up!”

“Yeah!”

“At home we build a big fire and make soup.”

“Soup?”

“Yeah.”

“I love soup.”

“Who doesn’t?”

I remember when the weather started to turn. Maybe rain for the weekend, they said. “Soup is in the air,” said Jesse. We put on our coats and boots and tramped down the dirt road. It seemed like the cold weather was going to stick around.

When we got home I built a fire in the wood stove. I made a stew in the big enamel pot and set it on the stove to simmer. We lay on the living room floor in front of the fire, smoking weed and listening to records. It started to rain. Jesse looked over at me and smiled. I thought about making a move on him but didn’t. I was too high, but still enjoyed thinking about it. I smiled back. Nobody made any moves but then again we were together, listening to Kitty Wells and the rain on the roof and the crackling fire.

Jesse had a gig later that night. “Just so you know,” he said, “Some friends are in town. They’re friends of Sadie’s that I used to hang out with in SF. They’re coming up for the show tonight. She can’t come this time. Maybe for the next one. It’s no big deal, but they’re—it might be a little weird.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

He looked relieved.

The fire died out in the woodstove. It was time to go to the show. I stood up and looked down at Jesse, stretched out on the floor. I prodded him a little with my boot.

“Come on, let’s blow this shit hole,” I said.

Sadie was Jesse’s ex-girlfriend. She had a lot of tattoos and black hair and wore fishnets and played drums in a band. I knew because I’d looked through the box of photos that Jesse kept under his bed. Sadie was cool. I had red hair and played the violin. I had never been cool. I had freckles, which I wore with jeans and a flannel.

At the show, I stood by the bar and watched Jesse play. It never got old. The friends from the city were dancing in front, all hairspray and spandex, fake fingernails and high heels. They looked like they were having a good time. I decided to have another beer.

The band finished playing and Jesse came over to me. He’d had a few beers himself.

“Hey. How’d we do? You like the show?” I nodded, looking past him at Sadie’s friends. Jesse turned to see what I was looking at. One of the girls looked up and caught his eye. She had big, bleached blonde hair. Jesse waved, then turned back to me.

“I wanna introduce you, okay?”

We went over to the girls. “Nice dancing, Chicas!” said Jesse. Then, “this is Anna.”

They said hello, then turned and began talking amongst themselves. They seemed extra animated, somehow. Jesse watched them for a moment, and, with a sideways glance at me, put his thumb under his nostril and sniffed. I shook my head and laughed.

“What are you guys doing now?” he asked.

The blonde haired girl smiled.

“Actually, we still don’t know where we’re staying tonight! The motel was all booked up.”

“Oh shit!” said Jesse. “Yeah, that place gets packed on weekends.”

She shrugged.

“You know what,” said Jesse, “Anna has a really big house. There’d totally be room for you guys—” He looked at me. For a moment I wished that he was less friendly, or had had less beer.

“That would be great,” I said.

Jesse drove slowly, a little drunk, down the dark bumpy road. He missed a couple of holes. I could tell the girls in the back were kind of freaked out. We made it to the house. Jesse watched, laughing, as they carefully made their way down the gravel drive in their high heels.

We went inside. It was late. I brought the soup that I’d made into the kitchen; it was still warm. I set a few bowls on the table.

“Nothin’ better than midnight soup!” Said Jesse. I explained how I’d spent the afternoon making it, how I’d cooked it on the woodstove. My words sounded lame to me as I spoke—it all seemed kind of affected now—living in the mountains, wearing flannels, cooking from scratch on a wood fire. The blonde girl looked at her friends and raised her eyebrows. I wasn’t supposed to see it but I did. I turned back to the stove.

We stood around in the kitchen for a while. The girls were high—twitchy and abrupt. They didn’t want any soup. They laughed and chattered while we tried to keep up. Jesse came over to me.

“Thanks for the soup,” he said, putting down his bowl. He leaned in close. “Sorry,” he whispered.

A gust of wind rattled the windows. The creek roared.

“I didn't realize we were so close to the freeway,” someone said.

“No,” I said, “that's just the creek. It’s pretty loud.”

Finally the girls said goodnight and went into the spare bedroom which was just off the kitchen. We could hear them talking through the door. Jesse was standing right by it.

“I guess we're really in the sticks now,” said one girl. “I can’t believe there’s like, what did she say, a creek outside?”

“I know,” drawled her friend. “This place is like, so weird.” Startled, Jesse backed away from the door.

“Welcome to The Sticks,” he said, and I laughed.

It was hot in the kitchen. I opened the back door. We went outside and stood on the deck. Jesse put his arm around me.

“That soup was so good,” he said. The wind bent the tops of the pine trees. The creek roared. We stood huddled up, listening. It sounded like the freeway.