My legs brought me to the beach by bike, with a milky, coffee-colored iced-coffee tucked into the water bottle holder which, when I thought about it, made me smile smugly. I knew this place and knew where I was going (if only literally.) I passed people, the obvious tourists-- the Quebecois speaking their hard, unromantic version of French, the family of 4 all wearing as close to the same shade of green as possible."On your left," I announced because, if they lived here, biked this path weekly for four summers; knew the stops, the public-but-private beach where they used to meet a friend and former lover and acted naturally when he said how magical their eyes were-- if they lived here, they would know to keep to the right to let others pass. And I always pass; I never know what is my rush.
That day, I was planning on going downtown for errands: getting an iced coffee and reading some Jane Eyre in the park that the townies called home, until the cops told them not to. But prior to my iced coffee I had my tires pumped and couldn't get the phrase "You'll go a lot faster now," which the bike mechanic told me, out of my head. So I just left and headed to the bike path and went fast. When I approached my first possible sit-and-read beach stop, I kept going. And 5 miles later locked my bike up and went down the long wooden staircase leading to the beach where I used to meet J. We weren't sleeping together at that point; I was an over-eager texter and then saw him walking home with another girl on a night we were supposed to hang out, so it was over. A month later, I convinced us both that I didn't hate him and we met at the beach. I was hesitant to give directions-- I discovered it on one of my bike path adventures, craving a change of scenery which is a thing that happens on a regular basis in this town. I went down at 5 pm and was one of three people there and wanted to keep it that way, as any other option would involve Coors Light and Frisbee. We lay down on my blanket watching the sun set across the lake and behind the pointed mountains and he rested his head on my stomach and I tried to think of something to say, but silence was okay between us-- it always had been. We met when I was Arts + Entertainment Editor for our college paper -- a position I look back at and question in the pre-music-blog-reading-illegal-downloading version of myself. J's pieces were always past deadline but they were well written and didn't need much editing. I started seeing him out at the bar where everyone knows your name, but would never talk to you, and one night after some $3 pitchers of PBR he mentioned an old typewriter he bought but was now broken.
"Maybe I can fix it," I said, and we left the bar.
And at the same bar several years later I was saying goodbye to him and wishing him and his girlfriend of 1 year the best of luck as they joined the ranks of the brave and motivated who fled town for the throes of a city and some culture and anonymity.
"This town is so small," is a complaint often made but only grave enough for several who mean when they say they will leave. Others are in a constant state of "thinking about trying to leave, maybe. Someday..." and wonder if they've missed their chance and why would they leave if they have a job and the economy is bad and they're kinda sorta seeing this boy and do you even know how expensive rent is in Brooklyn?!
But the longer I wait for the time to be right to move, the more attached I get --though it sure feels detached!-- and my strings are being tied tighter and I'm holding onto them for fear of change and starting over somewhere else as a grown-up who will not use staring across a huge lake at the Adirondacks as a source of entertainment.
