Chapter 3 #2
Even so, my mind is fixed firmly on Milo Warner as I drive out of town, up a winding hill lined with trees that are still dressed in green.
In just a few months they’ll start popping with the oranges and yellows of autumn, hues I know all too well from my childhood in upstate New York.
New England gets the better hype, but upstate New York knows how to show off in the fall too, thanks.
My heart starts to pound a little faster as I reach the turnoff next to a makeshift sign that reads COMING SOON: DEVON FALLS COMMUNITY CENTER.
There’s no turning back now. I, Noah Hardaway, have officially left my life for a new adventure.
And I did it all wearing my beloved high-top Converse sneakers and a shirt that says, I’m not short, I’m fun sized! across the front.
“Wow,” I whisper to myself when I finally arrive at the parking lot next to a building that looks like a log cabin and a behemoth office building had a baby.
I assume that’s the former ski lodge, which is now about to become a community center.
I crane my neck to take in the rolling foothills surrounding me, then step out of the car and draw in a long breath.
The air up here has a slight chill to it, even in the height of summer, but I’m plenty comfortable in my shirt and jeans.
When he’d offered me the job, Gabe Gomez told me not to worry about arriving wearing anything fancy.
“We’re definitely not formal around here,” he’d said.
“And we’ll probably put you right to work painting anyway. ”
Thank goodness. I was very happy to leave my bow tie at home.
I slam my car door shut and start toward the front door of the building. I’m nearly there when a streak of black and white whizzes by me at lightning speed. It’s a dog, I realize quickly, and it’s racing determinedly across the hill toward the old gondola station not too far from us.
Instinct kicks in, and I go after it. “Dog? Dog? Who do you belong to?” I call out.
Not surprisingly, the dog doesn’t answer.
It just keeps running, and I follow, huffing slightly.
I do a lot of yoga and Pilates, but right now I’m realizing I should maybe throw some more cardio into my routine.
Luckily for me, the dog slows down when it reaches the gondolas, and it starts sniffing excitedly at the stationary cars lined up there.
Huh. Gabe mentioned that the center plans to get the ski operations up and running so people from the area can ski on an affordable sliding scale.
But he wouldn’t have the cars working yet, I don’t think.
The car closest to the dog has its doors open, and the dog sniffs with interest as it wanders inside.
I approach with caution, determined not to spook it.
“Dog?” I say softly as I pad next to the car.
I don’t see a collar or tags on it. It’s mostly black, medium-sized, with sharp patches of white on its legs, chest, and across its forehead.
It’s a pretty pup, and it nuzzles at my hand kindly when I offer it my palm.
Friendly too, then. “You got a home?” I whisper to the dog.
The dog makes a high-pitched noise that could either be a whine or a loud yawn and retreats farther into the car to sniff at one of the seats inside.
I look around for a rope or something—anything—to keep the dog in place with, but there’s nothing nearby except for a small selection of tools lying on the ground.
Is someone working on the gondola? I’m wondering about the answer to that question when, without any warning, a large rumbling sound echoes in the air and the gondola car starts to move forward.
Everything happens fast then. The dog yips and dives backwards into the car just as the thing heads in a circle around its track and begins to leave the ground. Once again, I act completely on instinct.
Which means that I make a lunge for the dog and the gondola car, grabbing for the edge of the door. “Stop the gondola!” I yell loudly.
Whoever’s operating this thing likely can’t hear me, though, and everything’s moving too fast for me to plan my next move.
Instead of either letting go of the gondola before it gets too high or fully committing and pulling myself completely inside before the doors close, I grab hold of the foot of the bench seat inside the gondola as I yell, “Stop the gondola!” again.
But the stupid thing is still moving. The doors start to close as my feet leave the ground, but I’m only halfway inside the car, my legs hanging out of it stupidly while I lie on my stomach across the floor.
I immediately have visions of being sliced in half by a set of gondola doors—what a way to go, huh—and I close my eyes against the impending pain, but all I hear is a sharp clicking noise.
I open my eyes to see that the doors have stopped closing just millimeters away from either side of me. And the gondola has stopped moving.
I let out a gasp of relief. The dog’s in front of me now, licking my face, as I hold tightly to the bench seat. I try desperately to pull myself fully into the gondola car, but no matter how hard I tug at the bench seat I’m hanging onto, I can’t move myself forward. I’m stuck where I am.
Maybe I will die half in and half out of a gondola car after all.
“Help!” I scream again. “Please, help!”
The words echo through the chilled Vermont air. No response. The world around me has gone quiet. I’m alone with a stray dog about seven feet up in the air, my body hanging from a gondola car, my legs swinging wildly.
For some reason, my racing mind focuses in on that fortune cookie. You will find the change you seek.
This is definitely not the kind of change I was looking for when I came to Vermont.