Leaving Saratoga
Leaving Saratoga
The struggle to get out of town is real.
“I know a friend of a friend of a friend who owns a car company.”
“Don’t they charge $75/hour?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s as much as a DUI.”
“How much did that other one charge?”
“Sixty bucks total.”
“Yikes.”
“No way.”
“That scares me.”
“Who used this driver before?”
“They used him last week!”
“And they’re still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Good enough for me.”
“Everyone meet at my place?”
“Then we all have to drive home afterwards.”
“That defeats the purpose.”
“Oh, right. Ok, will pick everyone up.”
“Now this feels fancy!”
"And they thought we wouldn't make it."
"Of course we will!"
"We should do this more often!"
"Yeah!"
"I'm going to repeat-wear the same top I JUST wore—this is amazing."
"Why don't Saratogians get out more?"
"Such a weird thing, to never leave your own town."
"Are we patting our own selves on the back right now?"
"Yes."
Eight days and 252 text messages later, three Saratogians arrive to meet friends for dinner in Schenectady.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have your reservation.”
“But we came all the way from Saratoga.”
—Abby