The war had been fought, the champagne emptied, and now all that remained from the night before was a scalding headache. Nearly tripping over his roommate’s leg, which was dangling off the couch like a contorted snare, Winston Mac reached for a silver and blue can hoping luck would be on his side just one more time. A minefield of Miller High Life empties and five open cans of Red Bull, the odds ever in his favor. Anything but chew spit again.
His first pick came up empty. As did the second. But the third can yielded a righteous harvest of caffeine and sugar which he took down in a series of rapid gulps before discarding the crushed aluminum shrapnel over his roommate’s body as he willed himself on into the unknown. Clothes on and get your ass to work…actually, sounds like every morning.
A deep growl echoed from somewhere inside the sofa. Then silence.
He found his snow pants crumpled beneath the mouth of the dryer, making it hard to say if they’d ever actually made it inside the machine at all, but it didn’t matter because he was already hopping into them before swinging the matching coat around his back, both items a horrendous shade of brown. Boots on, he made for the door looking like a winterized UPS driver.
I should really get my shit together. Tomorrow. Eventually.
He stopped, whirling back around. Maybe just one more? Nothing pulls harder than a habit half-kicked. Toss in a pinch of sleep deprivation, a jarring hangover and the thought of sitting through an hour-long meeting to start the work week, and the decision practically makes itself.
He rushed back, reaching under the coffee table for the glass bong. Without hesitation he sparked the lighter, inhaling the charred smoke to capacity, then headed for the door. Now that was the last time…
Cans and bottles toppled somewhere behind him as a sofa-imprinted hand reached for a cellphone that had most likely been abandoned during the Battle of the Coffee Table. Left for dead, or at least he could only guess based on his roommate’s track record of keeping the device pinned in the red zone, always in desperate need of finding his next charge.
Mac exhaled, deflating like a balloon before the words were ever spoken.
“Thanks for letting me take your ride today.” Chet Riley sounded like he’d just swallowed a pile of glass shards, coming back to life at the worst possible time. “My mom wouldn’t let me live it down if I missed another one of her weddings, courthouse or not.”
“Oh. Give her my condolences.” But the ride’s definitely off the table. Through the small triangular window on the front door was the outline of a 4Runner buried under a fresh blanket of snow. Hand on the knob, Mac considered running for it. So damn close.
“What are you talking about? No one died.” There was a tinge of annoyance in his voice.
“Real shame. See a body like hers being pulled off the board in her prime.” Mac somberly patted his chest, an act of solidarity.
“Give me the keys, dick.”
“No way. If I’m late to another Wednesday brief, I’m gonna wind up on a missing persons list. Captain Craig doesn’t fuck around.”
“Who cares, you promised.”
“But did I?” Technically I was under the influence. Like heavily.
“Don’t be a cock-weasel. I need it more than you.” Chet sat up looking shellshocked, the blood rushing out of his head undoubtedly sending him into orbit.
“Whatever.” Just say no. Problem solved. He unclipped the key from his lanyard wondering why he couldn’t walk away. Chet would figure something out; he was an adult…sort of. “Just promise you’ll have it back by tonight. Not trying to ride the bus all week.”
Apparently not taking the conversation seriously, Chet reloaded the bong, inhaling a giant rip before exhaling a string of hardly coherent words. “Shouldn’t be too difficult unless you want me to do it blindfolded, in which case all bets are off.”
Fuckin’ excuse me? “That’s a pre-pandemic edition. They just don’t make ’em anymore.”
Chet ignored the plea of good faith. “Now the reception might get tricky, comingling families and you know my mom, she’s a bit of a talker…that part could take all night.” His mouth smiled but his eyes remained painfully bloodshot.
Prick. His mom was certainly something. He’d met her over Thanksgiving to pick up some discounted kegs, perks of her working at the Coors brewery. Four-foot-nine, all torso, and could probably bench twice Mac’s body weight, she was built like a damn forklift. But it wasn’t her stature that was concerning. He knew damn well Vail to Golden might take an hour and half on a good day. But when you factored in ski traffic from Copper Mountain, Breckenridge, Keystone, A-Basin, Loveland and Winter Park, plus the storm that’d blown in overnight, he’d be lucky to have his car back by midnight. And this was Chet he was talking to, the guy that’d just taken a full swig from a wounded soldier. And that's the guy who’ll be operating my vehicle later...what could possibly go wrong.
“You’re always welcome to take the shuttle instead.” Or better yet, have your stepdaddy pick you up. This conversation was a dead-end; he needed to go.
“What, like some sort of second-class citizen?” Chet rolled his eyes. But they both knew having a future stepdad who worked in tech didn’t exactly set him and his family up for abject poverty. “Don’t forget who gave you a place to crash when you needed it.”
“That was like three years ago.” And I’ll never live it down, will I? “Not like you’d have been able to pay rent without me.”
“Only because I’m investing in my future, unlike somebody.”
Right, because dumping money into shitcoins, NFTs and sports betting are all sound long-term investment strategies. “You know, next time I need advice about cooking gas station hot dogs or which flavors to mix out of the slushy machine, I’ll be sure to consult you first.” But taking financial advice from the convenience store clerk?
A hulking green and white blur flashed by the window.
Shit…gotta run. Mac ripped open the door, sending the key over his shoulder as he cleared the house at a sprint. Frag-out.
Snow masked the ice at the end of the driveway, which became painfully clear just as he was attempting to take the corner onto the sidewalk. He got up as quickly as he’d fallen, cursing Chet while continuing his chase. Lazy bastard.
The bus was just ahead of him, barely visible in a whiteout haze of lazily falling popcorn blobs. Still visible though, a good sign. Too bad it’d already made its stop, passengers had been exchanged, and now no one was left to slow it down.
The air brake released, sending a puff of sugary dust up and around the transport as the large wheels began inching away from the curb.
Mac screamed through the intersection, pumping arms and legs, willing himself to run even harder. Obviously it didn’t hear you or it wouldn’t be back on the road picking up speed…but by all means, keep flailing.
He was on the ropes, knowing one more incident like this could be his last, and of all days to be tardy, this one would be especially egregious. The infamous Wednesday brief would start at seven-thirty sharp, with or without him. Those who missed it, or tended to show up later than the rest, would be assigned the weekend’s least desirable clients, as he had the week before when he was bestowed the wonderful pleasure of teaching a 9 year-old YouTube influencer how not to crash into trees for three straight days while his mom got wrecked on mimosas in the lodge. To be fair, cougars gotta eat too.
But yelling hadn’t helped, and he couldn’t run any faster. The damn bus was inching farther away. Desperate times, desperate measures. He slid to a stop, scooping up a fist full of ice from where the plow had pushed a wall of mucky snow into the curb. Target acquired. He reared back and let it fly. The ice missile arced beautifully into the air, exploding into the rear window, sending a fan of road-soiled debris out in all directions with a loud smacking sound. The brake lights flashed red and the transport dove for the side of the road, stopping hard with a screech. Target destroyed.
He hesitated, then sprinted for the bus, thankful he hadn’t shattered the window with that one.
The door opened and he wasted no time jumping aboard. One small step for man, one giant leap for my lackluster career.
The side-facing seats were all taken, a baby cried, the man in the front was sopping up coffee from his lap with a stack of wafer-thin recycled napkins, the paper cup still rolling in the isle. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, the driver yanked the door shut and punched down on the accelerator, slamming Mac to the ground as the vessel lurched back out onto the open road. Who needs headphones when you have a bus full of angry commuters openly talking shit about you?
All good, ten more minutes till the resort. Eagle, West Vail, Eagle-Vail, they liked to throw a lot of names around, but one thing was certain; he did not live in Vail. No. That was reserved for the select few. The people who’d actually done something with their lives, the ones with money. As far as he was concerned, there were just two types of people in Vail – those who woke up and skied onto the mountain from their winter home get-a-ways, and his people, the workers who broke their backs daily to cook, clean, repair, maintain and entertain. Except for Princess Jawn Jawn.
He picked himself up off the filthy bus floor, shit-colored snowsuit still intact, and reached up for the support strap to claim his position as the only standing passenger in a fishbowl of nasty looks, thankful to at least be heading in the right direction, saving his job one more time, or at the very least, avoiding another costly no-show to the weekly brief.
Truthfully, it wasn’t the looming punishment from Captain Craig that bothered him most, or the threat of losing his job. The state was dotted with ski towns, all in desperate need of a willing instructor. Rather it was the inevitable comment that would be waiting for him, the one reminding him, and everyone else, that he was a complete failure. I prefer time-management challenged, thank you very much. And even worse than the comment, was the person who would be making it. That silver-spoon wielding dickhead who’d shown up at the start of the season, apparently set on making Mac’s life a living hell.
Jawny-fuckin’-Blake.