Mac ejected out of the bus at a sprint, heading straight for Beaverridge Resort’s staff entrance, behind him a mostly desolate parking lot still being cleared by several plow trucks. The inevitable horde of thrill seekers would be arriving soon, all jockeying for that coveted First Chair of the morning ride up the mountain. More importantly, it was 7:27 AM, so despite waking up late and being car-jacked by Chet, somehow, he was still right on time. Amazing.
“Ayebebe.” The words garbled together, fast and recognizable.
Mac glanced over at the bank of exterior lockers and smiled. “Diggler, what’s going on buddy?” Dirty Dave, affectionately known as The Diggler, was staring up at him, his backpack halfway hanging from an open metal cage near the top of the rack.
“How’s it hanging shuckybucky?” Dave slung out a shaka as his tongue enthusiastically licked at the crisp morning air.
“Oh you know, about to go in and get my ass chewed for being on time. Like seriously, if Cap wanted us to be early, why not just tell us the meeting started at seven-fifteen? Ridiculous. How about you, excited for all this fresh pow-pow we got?” Mac slid over and untangled the bag’s fabric strap that had snagged on the lip of the locker.
No matter how busy the day, how stressed he felt, how narrowly close he was to being late for something, there was always time for his favorite skier. Five-foot on a good day and built like a damn manatee, Dave was genuine and kind and possibly the only person in Vail who fully understood him.
“Ohbaby.” Dave’s eyebrows fluttered. “Jim wanted me at work. I told him to suckit.”
Mac shook his head, unable to hide the grin. “You know I’ll come down there and straighten him out if you need?”
“I love my job Winston. It’s how I meet all the hotties.” Dave worked at The Market, a local grocery store where he bagged food and stocked shelves. “Erica came in yesterday. She bent over for the mac n’ cheese on the bottom shelf.” He closed his already squinted eyes replaying the event with a sly smile. “Sweetass.”
“You dirty dog. Hope you at least put in a good word for me?”
“Hell no.” Dave loved the ladies almost as much as he loved skiing. And ketchup of course, the dude loved ketchup. “She said she’s done with your games. And I’m invited over for dinner whenever I want. I told her I had to clear it with you first.”
“By all means, not like we’re dating.” Mac winked. “They’re all the same, you know. They claim they want security and a long-term relationship, really though they just love being chased around. Attention dude, that’s what they’re all after.” Mac leaned a shoulder into the lockers, resting a leg over the other with his best McConaughey cool guy impression. “Besides, you know me, I like my options open. Play the field.”
“It’s been a year and you only talk about her. You’re in deep Winston, better let me have a crack before it’s too late. Now grab my headphones, this powder isn’t going to ski itself.”
Not like I’m that obsessed over her…am I? Mac reached into the bag, grabbing the pair of JBLs. “You’re the first one here every time we get fresh snow, please, for the love of God, use the lower lockers. You know they’re empty.”
Dave placed the headphones around his neck where he always wore them. “Told you before, lower rack is for the kids.”
He wasn’t wrong. Comments like that proved just how different he really was from the typical weekend warrior, hell, the typical 25-year-old anywhere, all reminding Mac of his older sister who also had Down syndrome. In her case though, she’d never get to experience moving away from home or living on her own. Maybe that’s why he connected so well with Dave, he was like an extension of family, vicariously living out an alternate of what might have been had things been only slightly different regarding the spectrum. Still though, there were superpowers and Dave showed them often. Always seeing the world differently, never concerned with getting a leg up or the brand name on the jacket’s lapel, only with living for the moment in the best possible way.
“We really need to find you a job up here at the resort. Plenty of hotties. And you’d be able to ski every day instead of most days. Win win buddy.”
“Jim wouldn’t like that.” Dave was looking at the ground like he tended to do.
“True.” Mac mirrored him, toeing his boot at the frosted sidewalk. “Also fuck Jim. Anyone can bag groceries for that bald-headed banana slinger. This is the big leagues pal.”
Dave’s face lit up. “I got you something.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Mac watched as he felt through several pockets of his ski bibs, finally landing on a compartment near his left knee. It took another minute to navigate the zipper with his gloves on, but he finally got it open, producing two glistening cans of Red Bull. Hallelujah.
He handed them to Mac with a sly nod. “Perks of the job.”
“Okay fine, you got me there. But the second I find the right gig, I’m getting you in. No arguments.” He opened both cans, handing one to Dave with a wink. “On three?”
Before he could get the next word out, Dave had already drained the can with an impressive execution, then a burp, then a crushed aluminum souvenir right back in Mac’s hand. Scarry to think what the man could do to a couple of beers.
Without warning, Dave wrapped his arms around Mac’s torso and squeezed.
He nearly resisted, then relaxed and hugged him back, every cell in his body collectively exhaling with a comfortability unique to an embrace like that.
“Time to fuck shit up. See you out there.” Dave pressed play on his phone, turned and abruptly started walking away, trailed loudly by a Yellowcard serenade.
How he managed to only listen to one song was impressive, or rather, at least should have been. Superman had the cape, Batman the mask, Thor the hammer, and The Diggler, well…he had Ocean Avenue.
And Mac had completely lost track of time. Shit yeah.
He burst through the door of the meeting room at seven-forty-two, red faced and panting, only twelve minutes late…this time.
Captain Craig Flores glanced down at his watch, stopping in mid-sentence, while Mac navigated the long oval desk, finding the only empty seat. Right next to his least favorite person alive. Great.
Jawny Blake softly patted the leather chair beside him, a shitty grin complimenting his stupid face as the overindulgence of cologne assaulted everyone within a ten-foot radius of his position.
“Winston Mac.” The piss-evoking voice of the ski captain broke the silence as he sauntered over and stopped directly behind Mac’s chair. “Glad you could join us.”
“Sir, the roads,” Mac began, staring straight ahead before being cut off.
“Don’t sir me. Nope, not today.” Captain Craig reached around the chair, placing his middle-aged hands firmly on Mac’s shoulders. “I can’t take another one of your excuses. Especially not today. No, today is a special day for me. A day of reckoning. A day of honesty. A day I’ve been waiting for.” His hands dug hard, ratchet-strapping Mac into the seat rest. “See, when I accepted this job as the ski school captain, I was just like you Winston.”
“What can I say…men want to be me, woman want me to be inside of them.” Mac shot an elbow into Jawny’s side. “It’s the circle of life little buddy.”
“I think he means you’re a fucking loser.” Jawny pulled away rubbing his side.
“Cut the shit, slappies!” Craig snapped, walking back to his position at the head of the table, face nearing his signature shade of maroon.
The other instructors snickered, probably feeling rather good about their stock with the captain, at least for the moment. The Beaver Brigade, as Craig not so affectionately called them, was made up of two factions. Meredith Chow, Jacques Bardot, Sameera Gupta and Jawny Blake taught skiing, while the snowboard lessons were handled by Hideki Ashi, Valentina Oliveira, Ayesha Booker and Winston Mac. And absolutely everything they did was measured harshly in the lifeless eyes of their thinly haired captain.
“Twenty long years,” Craig continued, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve been at it for as long as most of you been alive. Seen it all, heard every dumb excuse along the way. God help us, a far cry from Fallujah. Most you wouldn’t have survived day one in the sandbox.”
“Here we go,” Jawny muttered, getting a laugh from his underling, Meredith Chow.
Pretentious peas in a pod.
“Especially you two dickweeds,” Craig continued, glaring at Mac and Jawny as if he were back in Iraq on another tour. “Fuckin IED’s.” He slammed his fist onto the hard oak table, the entire room startled, posture straightening. “Truth is, as much hell as I been through, the snow is becoming more than I can tolerate. Ski bumming around, not a care in the world…sure, sounds radical when you’re young and dumb. At forty-five it’s downright pathetic. That’s why I met with Ellis Feldstein yesterday morning. Told him I was done, finished, this would be my last season then I’m hanging up the skis for good.”
Even the flakes of snow seemed to freeze in midair outside of the window.
Mac had always just assumed the man would die on his skis. Guys like him didn’t know how to retire.
Craig scratched the stubble on his chin, a puzzled glaze shielding his eyes. “Let’s just say Ellis didn’t take it so well. Told me I’m a quitter, and there’s no longer a place for me here on his mountain. Gave me five days to find my replacement, otherwise he’ll appoint one for me. And we all know what a fucking disaster that will be. So…anyhow…his mountain, his rules. Sunday will be my last day, which means one of you miserable little cunts will get to step up and try and make something of yourself. Mac, you’re the senior snowboard instructor. What is this, your second year?”
“Third, actually.” Mac considered mentioning that since he also stepped in to teach ski lessons on occasion, this was basically like his sixth season, but the man had already moved on.
“And Jawny, I know this is your first season in the Brigade, but you have the resume, the look, the attitude. Hell, you’re the best damn skier we’ve had on this mountain in over a decade. So here’s how we’re playin’ it. Frida Olsen, the lovely Norwegian supermodel that I’m sure you’re all very familiar with, will arrive tomorrow morning. Not sure how anyone who grows up in Norway doesn’t come straight out of the birth canal on a pair of skis. She might just be looking for a rebound after her recent breakup, but unless you were gifted a perfectly symmetrical face and pair of ultra-bright fuck-me eyes, I suggest holding your judgments for someone who actually gives a shit. Jawny, she’s all yours. Take her hard. Killshot, like your job depends on it.”
Jawny stood, clearing his throat. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
Surprise, surprise. Jawny was all Craig ever talked about anymore, fitting that he would hand him a slow pitch right down the middle. Kiss ass.
“And as for you, my habitually late fuck up.” The captain turned his attention on Mac. “Nate Towerman will be here tomorrow at nine sharp. He didn’t specify ski or snowboard, only that he’d be making his own craft, whatever the fuck that means. As luck would have it, you’re the only one who goes both ways, so that means you’re my guy. Now I know he’s fun on TV, but don’t get it twisted, one sour word from his heavily mustached mouth and not only will you not get a promotion, I’ll make sure my last official decision is to have you demoted to teaching peach fuzz full time. We clear?”
Teaching the kids class wasn’t so bad, once you got past all the piss and vomit. Truthfully Mac was more concerned with losing Captain Craig. Sure, he could be an unstable porcupine at times, he’d also been like a father figure, showing Mac the ropes and teaching him things you only learned after two decades on the mountain. Dare I say, mentor?
“No need for that, Captain,” Jawny offered, crossing his arms. “Once you put me in charge, my first order of business will be to get this sorry sack of shit removed from service permanently. No more bending the rules, showing up late, half-assing his way through lessons. I’ll be firing you Mac, for all of us.” He smiled, but there was no joy in his eyes. Only a sadistic coldness, the kind found in people who thrived on hurting others.
Meredith pouted her overly injected lips as punctuation.
So performative. “Sounds fun.” Mac twisted the lanyard around his neck, letting the badge spin and flop like a diseased fish discarded on shore at a youth fishing derby. “Just one quick question though…who’s Nate Towerman?”
Craig flashed a look of bewilderment, ignoring the question like he wanted off the ride before it crashed into the wall. “Gentleman, before either of you gets too high on the hog, just know you’re only getting this opportunity because all of our other instructors are fluent in multiple languages, and we can’t afford to put them out of service. Congratulations, whoever proves himself this week will be given the keys to the castle. And not just here with your fellow Beavers, you’ll be running the Icon school as well. A massive responsibility, commanding the two premier ski schools ever imagined…glad I won’t have to watch them burn to the ground. Lifts open in thirty, so get out there and make me proud before I physically hurt someone.” He nodded at no one in particular. “Class dismissed.”
Really has a way with emotional openness.