Saranac Lake: Day One

Waking up at dawn, I shimmied out of bed and went into the office. After adjusting my desk lamp and lighting a Froot Loop-scented candle, I settled into my red chair with The Virgin Suicides. Only one suicide had occurred so far and, based on the back cover’s blurb, I was anticipating the next.

As sunlight began to flood the room, I placed the book on my desk and blew out the candle and went back into the bedroom.

She was flat on her back, with a leg propped up on the other. Rubbing her shoulder, I whispered, “Time to wake up.”

Her travel stress—especially on departure days—overpowered her hatred of mornings. She skipped the usual stretch and yawn and slid out of bed with ease. Despite having experienced several overnighters with her, I continued to be amazed at how stress invigorated her.

She was now ripping open an English muffin while getting a stick of butter from the fridge.

I stood behind her. “Would you ever use the tub?”

She popped the butterflied English muffin into the toaster oven. “Mhm. I like the sticks better.”

“Are you against the tub?” I said, pulling out yogurt and a carton of strawberries.

“I like having a clean slice every time. With the tub I gotta work for it.”

“But have you ever used the tub?”

“When I was a kid.”

“But now?”

She shook her head. “I can’t go back.”

“I love the tub.” I began inspecting the strawberries, pulling them out of the carton and placing them onto a paper plate. Under the top layer I had just removed, a few were covered in white fuzz. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“Mold.”

She leaned over and clenched her teeth. “Oh, wow. Yeah.”

“I knew this was gonna happen. I predicted it. Remember?”

Transferring the English muffin to a paper plate (she had tried to obtain a ceramic one, but I stopped her), she said, “Don’t you have blackberries? Raspberries?”

I sighed. “How the hell did I not see this at the store? I usually do, don’t I? I see things, I spot them.” 

“Why don’t you eat the ones that haven’t been touched?”

“You know I can’t. I see one piece of mold, it’s over. The spores, they travel, you know. Whole thing’s infected now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you find it odd? They’re supposed to stay good for a while. I mean, all the other shit—blackberries, raspberries—have gone bad so fast. Actually, that’s not true. Remember that time I bought really good raspberries. From Stop and Shop.”

She frowned from the kitchen table while chomping down on her buttered English muffin.

“When I got pulled over, remember? And then we talked to that lady, and she was like, ‘Wow, they’re really fresh.’”

She nodded.

“Those stayed good for a long ass time.”

“They did.” She wiped her mouth with a paper towel. “Listen, I’m out of coffee. I’m thinking I’ll pack my stuff and go to Dunkin' while you finish up.”

“Okay.”

I looked down at the strawberries. By now I was probably surrounded by a moldy spore cloud.

I ate my yogurt with only granola and chocolate chips. It was quite good, but it was obviously missing something.

After we ate, I resumed last night’s packing while she carried her bags to the car. Some time later she texted me, saying that she was outside. Hooking my bags onto my arm, I did a twice over, checking the stove, faucets, lights, cat, and then headed downstairs where I threw everything into the trunk.

She had volunteered to drive first, so I was sunk into the passenger seat, reading my book and relaying commentary to her. She didn’t pay much attention; a podcast was playing.

After an hour, it started to snow. Around every bend were mountains that resembled alopecian bears. Many times I urged her to slow down so I could take pictures. And many times we hit dead zones and had to rely on directional road signs.

After two hours, we stopped at a dusty corner store. She went inside to buy snacks. I moved to the driver’s seat. A big pickup truck pulled up next to me whose driver was a stocky man with sunglasses. He didn’t get out. Not when she came back, and not when we drove off.

The snow fell harder as we gained altitude, causing our windshield to freeze. Our visibility became limited to a smudged circle, much like a porthole. For the remaining two hours, we were going thirty.

As we approached our destination, the woods thickened. Light pollution became a relic until we spotted a cluster of lights sprouting in the distance. The source soon revealed itself: gray streets lined with yellow lamps, enveloped by secular buildings and warm diners and closed shops. The GPS led us around a lake, where cabins were perched along the shoreline.

I drove down a snowplowed street, observing family dinners and personal interior tastes, while she checked the addresses and eventually directed me into a parking space in front of a four-story house.

After she texted our host, we got out of the car and went up to the front door.

Moments later, our host emerged in full winter gear: multiple layers of clothing and thick boots. And there I was: singular jacket, jeans and hi-top Vans. She had come prepared: thick coat, insulated pants and winter boots.

He retrieved a big sled and loaded our luggage into it. “Drive go okay?”

“It snowed a lot on the way,” she said.

“Couldn’t see anything,” I said. 

“That can happen,” he said, starting down a hill. “You want to be careful going up and down this. Easy to slip.”

I leaned into her. “I should’ve brought my deck. My skateboard deck. I could tear this shit up.”

He led us to a red porch that was engulfed in steam from a hot tub. “Especially here.” Sliding his feet across the wooden planks, he said, “See how icy it is? Shovel’s there. You’ll want it at some point.”

We smiled and said okay.

“Welcome,” he said. “Let me show you around real quick.” He unlocked the door and gave us the key. “When coming in, be sure to take your shoes off.”

We all bent down and took off our shoes.

“So, living room and kitchen.” He pointed around the room and then toward the kitchen. “Restroom and shower’s right over there.”

She and I rounded a corner and found a room the size of a suburban pantry.

“Thermostat’s here.” He slapped a wall that divided the kitchen and the bedroom and then slid open a door. “Bedroom.”

She and I squeezed through the doorway. I went over to the bed and pushed the mattress, feeling its give.

“Only complaint people have is that it can get too hot.’” He laughed, and so did we. “So, be mindful to turn off the fireplace if you leave the cabin.”

She and I nodded.

“Another thing, keep the sink running at night. It can get down to negative twenty.” He paused and smiled. “Any questions?”

We shook our heads and thanked him. As he pulled on his boots, patches of snow fell onto the doormat and lost their shape. Standing in the doorway, he asked, “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

“No,” we said.

“There’s a great café in town. Blue Moon. Just right up the road on your left. I’m heading there now myself.”

It was in fact right up the road and on our left. Through the glass window, past the inscribed letterings, old men were seated at a bar, our Airbnb host being one of them, with an aproned woman hunched over their shoulders. When we walked in, the aproned woman called out, “Seat yourselves wherever you want.” We chose a table with its own nook, flanked by windows.

“You know, I bet their breakfast is fucking slamming,” I said.

“Oh, for sure,” she said.

We looked around the room. The walls were greenish brown—paint or cheap wallpaper, we didn’t know—with wood panels. I couldn’t begin to list the articles hung on the walls. Mostly because I have forgotten, but also because they were so sporadic, ranging from metal sculptures to obscure artwork.

The woman rushed over and started apologizing. We told her that it was okay and that we were easy. This, oddly, didn’t ease her. She talked fast and her knuckles were white from clenching her notepad, which she hadn’t used for the duration of our meal.

I ordered the steak, medium, with potatoes, while she got a chicken sandwich with a garden salad.

“Should we do the hot tub tonight?” I asked. “It’s freezing.”

“It is cold,” she said.

“What time is it, anyway?”

“Six forty-five.”

“That’s not late, is it?”

She shrugged. “Depends. I don’t want to watch anything.”

“Me neither.”

“We’ll see how we feel about the hot tub when we get back.”

“Okay.”

The woman came back with our food and, setting our plates onto the table, apologized again. We told her, again, to not worry. When she walked away, we told each other that she was really nice and that we should leave her a big tip.

In between bites we talked about how good it was that we were finally here. We talked about our plans for the next few days. About me turning twenty-five tomorrow; about her turning twenty-six in six months; about how beautiful this place must’ve been two months ago, and she mentioned that despite the beauty, she could never live this far from civilization.

When we left, we said goodbye to everyone. Back at the cabin we stood in the bedroom and gazed through the glass doors at the snowfall and the steam coming out of the hot tub. Exchanging glances, we said, “Tomorrow? Yeah, tomorrow.”