At the Whitemare

It was unclear whether I was supposed to continue my work. The guests sometimes left used dishes out on tables, and sometimes did the chore themselves, chatting with one another. Few things more grounding than housework, one said. The first night of the blizzard, the storm of the decade the radio broadcasts and cable news networks called it, some staff sneaked to the least used balcony to smoke a joint. We huddled in a shaft some of the others had dug out, up to our necks in smoke and steam. In the evenings, a few of the guests watched films in the home theatre, at intervals turning their attention away to discuss anecdotes of the actors’ lives and the social or political relevance of the themes. Others gathered in the den, shuffling between the wet bar and the lounging furniture. I would do a sweep, one or two a night, and the guests’ countenance spoke of an uncertainty apparently not unlike mine. Don’t bother yourself, one said, clearly betraying sincerity as he did so. Anyway, there was no real inlet in the various social scenes for me or any of the staff to meaningfully join. I had come to Stowe, to Whitemare because I needed a job. I’d come to Vermont because, in my mind, it was the closest I could get to being somewhere while being nowhere, in a way. The catalyst for my decision to come to this place was a story, an overhearing that I, in time, integrated into my own set of possible choices. It happens more often than we’d perhaps like to think, more or less enacting the stories we pick up on our move through the world.