A Moose, a Cake, and Unseen Eyes

The bottom of my jaw rumbles like a bony jackhammer as I press it against the car window, a feeble attempt to merge with its glassy surface and disappear forever. ​​For an eight-year-old boy, a four-hour car ride feels like an eternity. One can only be entertained by the twin LED screens of a Nintendo DS for so long before the inevitable queasiness of boredom and car sickness sets in. I struggle to unglue my rear end from the fossilized layer of gum, wax, and candy covering my seat while my brother snores nearby. The radio rings out incoherent chimes, and a blurry sign whizzing past informs me that we have just entered Queensbury, NY. I sigh and lean back onto my sticky throne, drumming impatiently on the transparent walls that imprison my hyperactive nerves.

But eventually, the car stops, the bags unload, and the doors of childhood paradise slide open with a shuddering squeak. Our luggage glides soundlessly across the musty brown carpeting, eternally damp from the sweat and spilled drinks of a thousand squealing children. A stout old porter with a voice like sandpaper leads us past the lobby’s yellowing walls, which are covered in a thin layer of grime with the same consistency as a smoker’s lungs. As he points out the bathroom and the entrance to the lockers, a tumultuous battle between stale cigarettes and overpowering chlorine rages on in my nostrils. Nearby, the arcade glows in bright neon sin, tempting me with the promise of expired candy, plastic toys, and useless trinkets. While my parents argue loudly with the woman at the front desk, I initiate a staring contest with the faux moose head mounted above the seedy gift shop selling shot glasses adorned with cartoon critters and hoodies marred by gaudy designs. I try to peer past the moose’s hollow ping-pong eyes and see beyond the peeling walls and the humming lights, past the hotel’s decrepit shell and my mother’s exasperated sigh.

Welcome to The Great Escape Lodge.

It wasn’t really my idea, anyways. In fact, I would have much rather preferred to be spending my time with friends in New York instead of staring at phony taxidermy. But my mother had insisted that we “do something special” for the occasion, and thus my protests fell on deaf ears as we piled into our Honda Pilot and set off for the third largest indoor waterpark in New York State. Sitting just outside the Adirondacks (yet still “Adirondack-themed”), The Great Escape Lodge opened in 2006 as Six Flag’s second venture into the resort business. The hotel was greeted by to minimal fanfare and mediocre reviews, boasting a number of second-rate amenities and poorly-aged attractions like “Tak-it-Eesi-Creek” and “Tip-A-Kanu-Beach”. There were greasy fast food restaurants, subpar spas, moldy sports bars, and some kind of strange indoor hiking trail that was just a single carpeted hallway with trees painted on the walls. But the real star of the show was the state-of-the-art water park inside, which featured over 16 waterslides, a lazy river, and a comically large bucket that groaned and tipped over every 30 minutes, drowning anyone nearby in a deafening roar of ice cold water. I watched it empty its contents onto a group of unlucky guests through the sliding glass doors that separated the dingy hotel from its artificial Arcadia. My mother turns to me with approval shining in her eyes. “Isn’t this fun?”, she pleads. I shrug apathetically. The bucket apparatus sat atop a nest of pipes and girders that looked one loose screw away from a million-dollar lawsuit. A tangled mess of metal tubes spiraled out of its steeple and snaked down its sides like the brightly colored intestines of a dying animal. Children spewed out from under its limbs like hornets from a nest, howling maniacally as their pudgy feet slapped against the wet concrete floor. I grimace at the sight of the swimsuit-clad horde and try not to think about how much urine was currently stewing in those pools. Instead, I turn my attention to the Family Agenda PowerPoint Presentation, which had pinged my inbox a few minutes prior.

My mother’s greatest passion in life is not going on vacation, but rather the delicate art of planning it far in advance. She finds solace in spreadsheets, spends weeks spinning webs of numbers and codes, until it all fell neatly into place and produced the illusion of ease. Our only glimpse into the full extent of her plans was the Family Agenda, a detailed catalog of events, dates, and dinners that was expected to be reviewed prior to the Morning Debrief. I never truly understood why she would do it. Why would she torture herself with self-imposed deadlines and color-coded calendars on her breaks when her job already demanded the same level of organization on a daily basis? My eight-year-old logic concluded it was the same degree of adult madness that forced me to make my bed every morning, or made me talk to my grandma when I couldn’t understand Spanish. I skim the itinerary as the porter guides us through the carpeted labyrinth to our room, his aching lungs wheezing like a broken accordion under the weight of our luggage. The door to Room 313 demands three incorrect key card swipes and a violent tug on the handle before shuddering open, and we are greeted by a tiny motel room stocked with cardboard couches and styrofoam beds. A painting of an unidentifiable landscape hangs on the wall, a smoke alarm lets out a shrill shriek, and a folded greeting card on the counter hopes that we enjoy our stay. My mother beams proudly as my brother approaches the pièce de résistance of her grand scheme, a tiny indoor shack covered with cheerful woodland creatures that takes up half of the room’s square footage. Included in the “Klub Moose Suite” package, it features a pair of bunk beds that are practically touching the popcorn ceiling and a small outdated television that buzzes with static electricity and minor radiation.

My mother turns to me with a smile on her face as I stare at the inside of the closet-sized cabin and begin unpacking my bags. “Well, what do you think of your surprise? Isn’t it awesome?”, she chirps as I meticulously place my stuffed animals in the correct order on the bottom bunk. I shrug in response. “Are you excited for your presents? We can open them now if you want”. I focus on adjusting the sitting position of Baxter the Bear instead of responding to her question. A murky yellow silence hangs above us in the air. Her smile cracks slightly on the edges like a porcelain doll, and I wonder if this is what I want to be doing to my mom. She steps out of the wooden mockery and walks over to my dad, who whispers something to her that I pretend not to hear. I follow her out of the cabin and into the room. The TV is stuck on the hotel channel, cycling through an infinite loop of families plunging down innertubes and splashing happily in the water on loop. My mother has a strained expression on her face instead of a joyful one. Her voice is shaky but stern, her lips tightly pursed. “I know this isn’t what you wanted for your birthday. I know you’re tired and cranky from the drive. But don’t ruin this vacation for everyone else. At least pull it together for the next three days and try to make the best of it, okay?” I feel bile boiling in the back of my throat. A million burning thoughts rush through my head and obscure my vision. But I swallow my pride and nod. “Yeah, it’s alright”, I murmur. “Alright? I work hard for this, Luca. The least you can do is be appreciative.” The floodgates open and my thoughts come pouring out. “Yes, I appreciate it! I’m just tired from the drive, okay? I don’t even want to be here, and I’m just supposed to act like I’m happy? Why are you always so crazy? Why can’t you just relax or something?”, I snap back angrily. I regret the words the second they leave my lips, but it’s too late. My mother’s mouth drops open to respond and her watery eyes shimmer in the light. I feel my heart drop into my throat. Before I can say anything else, there’s a loud knock at the door. My mother walks over to open it, and I can hear her quickly mask her emotions with the phony enthusiasm she uses at her job. I hear heavy footsteps and frantic whispers behind the wall. I rise from the couch to see who has just come in. My heart sinks further into my stomach and does a triple backflip off an Olympic diving board.

It is Spruce the Moose, the lodge’s mascot, and he is standing in our room.

Accompanying him is the woman from the front desk, awkwardly grasping his elbow to lead him inside. His antlers scrape the top of the door frame and threaten to gouge the light fixture swinging overhead. I take a step backwards as he lumbers into the room, his unblinking eyes staring directly into mine as he fills the space. I look at my mother, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes and a smile plastered onto her face. I don’t think I can ever forget that look. The silent mascot holds out a cake decorated with his smiling face, and the woman from the front desk informs me that Spruce heard it was my birthday and wants to celebrate. I look up at the figure towering over me and think about the costumed employee inside. I hear him panting inside the mask, feel the gaze beneath his eyes. I think about the costume’s weight resting on his spine, the cold sweat trickling down his back, and the self-imposed binders narrowing his vision. I wordlessly opt out of the hug he offers me and shake his hand, feeling the grip inside his glove and the blood coursing through his veins. He stares at me for a moment before his head bobs up and down, his hands form a heart, and he shambles out into the hall as the front desk lady shoves a gift basket into my arms and scurries out behind him. The room lingers in stillness for a moment before dissolving into hysterical laughter. We couldn’t believe the absurdity of it all, my mom’s final surprise interrupted the one thing she couldn’t plan for. Tears trickle down her cheeks as she hugs me tight and my voice cracks in the middle of my apology. I am officially nine years old, and a chlorine-filled oasis is waiting for me beyond the musty walls of the hotel lobby. Tomorrow, I will plunge down twisting tunnels, float alongside my brother in a man-made lagoon, and squeal as an oversized bucket dumps freezing cold water down my back. But right now, the only thing that matters is that I am with my mom, and I am loved.

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