Living back in Jackson is like returning to the scene of the crime in a lot of ways. Yes, this is where I truly found myself and where I made some of my best friends and where I found the love of my life… but I also had a full-on rumspringa here in Jackson when I moved here in my very early 20s. I was coming from Texas: from a Christian college and from a self-selected sheltering. Before I came to Jackson, I was scared of alcohol (which obviously lead to hard drugs) and I was scared of boys (who obviously lead to pregnancy). But once I got here, things changed. As Miley Cyrus just said, “…Legends get scared too. I’m scared right now… It’s legendary to be afraid and do it anyway.”
I did it anyway. I made out with a lot of boys when I was first in Jackson. At the time, there were five men to every woman in town. I didn’t buy myself a drink for myself for the first year I lived in Jackson. And I drank a lot. This was my rumspringa.
When Evan and I first got together, he knew that’s where I was coming from. We’d be walking down the street and run into a guy, have some small talk with him and then when we’d part ways, Evan would ask or I would volunteer the information if I had made out with that guy. Once we were at an art show and ran into a tall, climber of a guy I’ll call Ben. We had small talk with Ben and then walked away.
Evan: You never hooked up with Ben, did you?
Me: No. Almost, though.
Evan: Almost?
Me: There was guacamole involved.
So what happened was… There were about two weeks of my four years in Jackson where I didn’t drink. And one of those nights, I did the usual Tuesday night party scene in Jackson—Bluegrass Tuesday at the Wort and then dancing at 43° North until the wee hours of the night—completely sober. Ben was there. He was a good-looking guy, but not my type. He was a bro. He climbed hard and liked to go to the gym and then drink protein shakes. I was more into bearded men who wore plaid or guys in my friend-group that would alter the whole friendship dynamic.
Ben and I danced. Ben was hammered. When I decided it was time to retire for the night, I asked the obviously smashed Ben if he wanted a ride home. He lived close enough to where I was living at the time that it would be an easy favor. He took me up on it and soon my Nissan X-Terra was screeching away from the bar. (it had this horrible belt problem that made it completely lose its mind with an anxious screech for the first 30 seconds of driving.)
We sat in Ben’s driveway and it was the time of my life when if the passenger didn’t get out in the first few seconds of pulling into the driveway, you knew they wanted to make out.
Ben: Come inside for a nightcap.
Me: I’m good. I’m not drinking right now.
The hardest part of this dynamic wasn’t that Ben wasn’t my type. It was the fact that I wasn’t his type. I knew that he didn’t really want this. If he had, he would’ve reached out to me any time in the year prior. He would’ve asked me about me sometime when we were at the bar—sober. He would’ve asked if I wanted to go to the climbing gym together. He didn’t want me. He wanted something and I was here. But my struggle came from knowing at one point I did want him to want me. Before I was okay with not being a bro’s type, I wanted Ben to want me. Ben was cool. And I was, well…
I wanted Ben to want me. I wanted him to want to take me back to the east coast to meet his rich parents and show me off. But he never wanted that. He just wanted a warm body right now.
Ben: Come on. Come in… We’ll just talk.
Me: It’s late. I need to get home.
Ben: I can make guacamole.
Me: ……………………(thinking about how broke I was and how expensive avocados were/are and how much I love guac) Okay, just for a little bit.
Before I knew it, I was sitting on Ben’s kitchen counter while he made fresh guacamole. We talked. He tripped over nothing. We laughed. The guacamole was delicious. He massaged my shoulders and remarked, “Wow, your shoulders are so tight. Let me give you a massage. Here—lay down.”
Before I knew it, I was laying down facedown on a crash-pad and Ben had BROUGHT OUT MASSAGE OIL THAT HE WAS PUTTING ON MY BACK. He was lifting up my shirt to massage my back.
Ben: Let me undo your bra so I can massage you better.
He did. And while homegirl does really love a good massage, I could not relax. My running commentary in my own head went something like this…
I didn’t feel in actual danger. I trusted Ben. I just knew I was in over my head. I was getting rubbed down with oil and with no bra on by a man who I knew didn’t want me, but did want to sleep with me. And why? Why are here, Rachel? Huh? Oh, that’s right—GUACAMOLE.
I snapped out of it and sat up.
Me: I’m sorry. I have to go home. Thank you for the guacamole.
Ben: What? Noooooo…
But I was gone. Half-way out the door. Re-hooking my bra while pulling my shirt back down and knowing it was going to be stained with oil while simultaneously grabbing my keys from the kitchen counter and making sure there wasn’t any guac left for one last nosh. (nope, empty. gotta go!)
Evan loved hearing this story. For a few years after telling him about it at that art gallery, he would poke fun at me every time I ordered guacamole at a restaurant. “Should I grab the massage oil?”
The other night, Evan and I went to a concert. It felt like one of those moments where we were dating again. We (temporarily) forgot about our super stressful new jobs. We didn’t have the responsibility of our daughter pulling at the hem of our shirt. We were in Jackson, in love, together. As the show ended, we made our way for home and held hands as we walked. We both spotted Ben at the same time—across the crowd. We all waved, but didn’t go in for a chat. I just leaned into Evan some more and said…
Me: Oh, man.
Evan: Do you wanna go home and make some guacamole?
Me: (lightly shoving him and then laughing) I do. I really do. I love guac!
Evan: I know you do.
Quick Hits:
Jam of the Week: Ibibio Sound Machine — Black Notes.
(I’ve been missing London a lot lately. I want to go back there someday and dive into the house music scene. I wanna dive into the WHOLE music scene, but that would take years of residing. this new song from the Londoners is such a vibe and needed for the coolness coming.)
YES To This New Show.
(the soundtrack of that trailer is also just putting me back in my 2008/9 Jackson feels.)I’m Late To The (Pink Pony) Club.
(this Tiny Desk is iconic. and I don’t know why, but I truly cannot get “Pink Pony Club” out of my head these days. I wake up singing it.)
I Dreamt Of A White Turtle.
(I’m hoping for all the goodness of that symbolism.)Somehow, This Bonkers Event Has Re-Entered Our Group Chat.
(my favorite essayist is even referencing it.)We Went Camping The Other Night, Made Hot Dogs, & Didn’t Have Mustard.
(I blame myself.)
Thank you for being in this silly little club. I promise promise I’m back at it with astrology insights and special playlists for my paid subscribers SOON. Your patience is not lost on me. Thank you for supporting my writing (over-sharing) adventures.
xxo,
rachel.