It was late in the summer of 1999 and we had just moved from Berkeley to rural Connecticut on a choking, dripping hot night, one of those nights that trick you into thinking it might rain at any moment. Californians can’t handle humidity; their blood is too thick and innocent. They count on the sun to rise in the morning and a gentle fog blanket at night. I hadn’t experienced a hot night in almost ten years.
So we’re in our little cottage in the woods, half-naked and savage, crowded in by a sheen of oily sweat and by boxes, and it’s so late and we can’t breathe. The electric fans are hopelessly, helplessly buried. We’re a good 30 miles from civilization. The crawling, singing things throb around us, pressing us in through the open windows.
I had just seen The Blair Witch Project, and with the keening of the forest and the cats bugging out and our soft California reality rotting into vampire meat there was absolutely no doubt whatsoever that the witches of the Joshua’s Tract Conservation and Historic Land Trust were closing in.
We have to leave.
We have to leave. Now.
The car has air conditioning. We drive. There has to be somewhere cool to go, somewhere to wait it out…
I have no idea what we ate.