Share

Fresh off the cutting block—Missing the Mark by Jed Doggo. A 33 page chapbook of poems and one short story which explore themes of religion, apostasy, and the mystery of life. Edition of 33.

UP NEXT: Naked Muse - Jed Doggo (R-COMPLEX-03)

Getting Started

Got an adventurous spirit? Ready for a new hobby? Bookbinding is fun and might just be for you. Let’s face it, the publishing industry has become bloated and stiff. Literary agents sift through what I can only imagine to be countless queries while publishers scheme over the tiny details to squeeze every drop of profit from what they deem worthy to print. This isn’t the purpose of art. It’s the foregone conclusion to the capitalistic mindset which sucks the literal soul from unknown creators by creating nothing less than a marketable brand. We’ve seen this trend before and time is nigh, while it’s more accessible now than ever, to publish yourself and share it abroad with whoever you connect with on the internet thanks to platforms like SubStack. There’s also a handful of great bookbinding channels on YouTube which serve as invaluable guides through the process such as DAS Bookbinding, Four Keys Book Arts, and Bitter Melon Bindery to name a few.

Our aim is to inform anyone with a hands-on approach or do-it-yourself mindset on how easy and rewarding it is to bind your own books, cover to cover. Especially if they’ve chosen to self-publish their work and would rather have it occupy a couple inches on a dusty shelf instead of getting buried in a digital cemetery of ebooks. Forever preserved with a purchase link online while decaying with the rest of the rot in an oversaturated market. When it came to bringing Jed Doggo’s debut novel into being we opted for classic paperbacks. Without getting too bogged down with technical terms like casebound (hardcover) or perfect bound, it’s important to note that paperback books are typically made by machines for mass production. Which makes the Lumbeck method, or double-fan binding, a practical alternative pioneered by German bookbinder Emil Lumbeck (1938) who achieved a technique of gluing single sheets of paper without sewing them. Our reference was the following video by DAS Bookbinding who does an amazing job detailing every step with the exception of the cover (more on that later)—Make Your Own Paperback Using Basic Tools // Adventures in Bookbinding

Right as we started full steam ahead with printing Black Diamond everything came to a screeching halt. The old Epson WF-7620 which had been moved from a basement to a garage ad infinitum and wasn’t operational for nearly ten year proved to be a problem. Turns out these inkjet printers like to be printed on at least once a month and every troubleshooting step found online simply didn’t work. After taking it to the only Epson repair service in the region (again, no more than five minutes away) they said Epson wouldn’t send a replacement print head. We were faced with replacing the printer if we were to even launch this press off the ground. Fortunately, technology has changed over the years and although the new Eco Tanks have a higher upfront cost, they should in theory save money by replacing expensive ink cartridges with refillable tank bottles. The sad reality of professional inkjet printers is that they only last a decade which makes ownership quite a luxury. If you are in the market for a new printer, you’ll find there isn’t one perfect model that meets all your needs. Even once I opted for another Epson, which was after lengthy reviews of Canon and Brother models. After wavering between the Epson WF7840 and Epson ET-8550, ultimately I settled on the Epson ET-8550 because of the refillable ink tank and it supports borderless printing.

Disclaimer: DO NOT purchase this model based off the latter feature. Borderless printing is really messy within the machine and the absorbency pad is irreplaceable, effectively limiting the printer’s lifespan. We’re under the impression this would likely only be problematic if you did borderless prints on a commercial scale but it’s certainly something to consider if that was a major selling point. Another downside noted amongst some users is that it relies on dye-based inks with the exception of the pigment-based black. However, such nuances can only be spotted by the trained eye and most will view them as just fine. Which was pretty much a nonissue for our purposes. The upside to a wide format printer is that you can always buy a larger paper size!

(EPSON ET-8550)

We strongly encourage that you watch Keith Cooper’s video if you’re unsure what works best for you:

Great printer deals

Admittedly, using the ET-8550 for the first time was marked by extreme disappointed in the lackluster results it produced. Then we found Keith Cooper’s blog, https://www.northlight-images.co.uk/keiths-photography-blog. Keith’s a wizard of the realm of professional-grade photo prints and graciously shares a wealth of information on the subject. He’ll even share his custom ICC print profiles if you buy him a ‘Coffee’. Basically, there’s photo paper made specifically for inkjet printers like this and unfortunately you can’t feed whatever cheap media you pick up at the FedEx store into the machine or expect smearing, wheel marks, or other print artifacts. So far we’re extremely satisfied with the purchase. In fact, we’d have invested in the ET-16650 given the financial means. The good news is that BestBuy and Staples run promos throughout the year and we were lucky enough to save $250 which is not nothing regarding an investment of this caliber.

Pro Tip: Public libraries are a fantastic resource. The ones in our city also use Epson in their Creative Lab and it was an invaluable resource to test print on different media while existing between printers. The only limitation is that they don’t support paper sizes with a width larger than 11-inches. For text blocks you might have to get more creative. Those could be printed from any printer you have access to. A little discretion is advised if this happens to be on the clock while at work.

The making of Black Diamond has been conveniently broken down into three steps.

1. Materials

2. Text block

3. Cover

Black Diamond Giveaway

***One more thing… in commemoration of our first release we’d like to offer a free copy of Black Diamond to one lucky subscriber. Stay tuned until the end of the post for your chance to win!

Share

1. Materials

As with any new venture you’ll have to account for startup costs. But there’s no reason you shouldn’t save wherever you can. For instance, using bricks (ours were found in the garden) wrapped in craft paper if you don’t have a book press. Here’s a short list of the essentials before you even think about getting started:

• ruler

• X-acto knife

• cutting mat

• PVA glue

• paintbrush

• pencil

• paper cutter (or guillotine)

• 12in bar clamp

• 2 spring clamps

• 2 thin wood boards

Now, sourcing the proper media for your book is critical. Your run-of-the-mill printer paper will simply not do the work justice. We found this to be the biggest obstacle during our first foray into bookbinding. What you're looking for can’t be found at Walmart, Target, OfficeDepot, Staples, or even art stores like Blick. Especially in regards to media for the wrapper cover. Cardstock from your neighborhood craft store simply won’t do (believe us, we tried) and as nice as their employees might be this is a hobby most won’t know how to help you with. Don’t even bother asking if they’ve heard of “fine art paper”... as DAS Bookbinding calls it. It’s wise in this case to seek out a local paper supplier. Copy and print services don’t offer the paper wholesale and we’ve found they usually get their supplies from the same place. Even they’ll have limitations, for instance, we were recommended to buy Mohawk Superfine 105gsm instead of 90gsm and that switch alone to a thinner paper saved a couple millimeters on the spine of the text block. Just do the best research and ask lots of questions. We ended up having a Kelly Spicers no more than five minutes away which offers the best selection without having to order from a company like Mohawk Paper by the ream online. Nothing’s more daunting than sourcing media online for your wrapper cover when you don’t even know what prints the best. And with inkjet printers like Epson, each model behaves differently. Even your particular unit might just print better on certain brands versus others. There’s plenty of third-party retailers which is fantastic if you already know what you want. It will take much trial and error before you find that golden combo of what you need without hemorrhaging too much potential profit. We burned through over half a dozen test versions before finally narrowing down the final template.

(the first four iterations—note the margins for Template 1)

Pricing:

$13.50- Mohawk Superfine Ultrawhite Eggshell 90gsm 8.5x11in ($40.57/500 sheets)

$0.62- Koala Ultra Premium Photo Paper Satin 270 g/m2 72lb 11x17in ($30.98/50 sheets)

$0.08- Astrobrights Eclipse Black ($40/500 sheets)

~$0.05- toner

~$0.05- PVA glue

= $14.30/book

Pro Tip: To save extra $$$ then go with Accent Opaque Text Smooth which is half the cost. We’re partial towards Mohawk Superfine because it’s got this amazing buttery feel to it but would likely make the switch if producing at a higher volume.

Share

2. Text Block

Pages: 576

Font: 11-pt

Spine: 38mm (~1.5in)

Margins: 1” Top, 1” Inside, 1” Bottom, 1” Out, 0” Gutter

Text blocks are comprised of end papers and your text, including front matter which are the pages that appear before the main story. For which, you can follow the traditional standard as much as you want for what appears on the right or left-hand page. Or recto and verso, respectively.

Page i (Recto): Half-Title Page

Page ii (Verso): Frontispiece

Page iii (Recto): Title Page

Page iv (Verso): Copyright Page

Page v (Recto): Dedication (Optional)

Page vi (Verso): Blank

Page vii (Recto): Epigraph (Optional)

Page viii (Verso): Blank.

Page ix (Recto): Table of Contents

There have been several breakthroughs as we began making the text blocks. The first was formatting to print in Book Fold with Microsoft Word. Not only does it save paper by arranging four pages per sheet, its landscape orientation makes US Letter paper (8.5x11in) the perfect size for a text block. All you have to do is cut the sheets in half. A wrapper cover should be as easy as printing on US Legal paper (8.5x14in) and calling it a day. However, most lasers printers cannot print borderless. So you’ll either have to settle for the white border (which might work stylistically for some designs) or trim the top and bottom of your text block in Part Two. Hence why we opted for a printer that supports wide formats. We use Tabloid size (11x17in) for Black Diamond’s cover so that no additional cuts to the text block are necessary.

In the effort to reduce the text block’s size as much as possible, for this we fault Jed for writing such a long debut novel, we tinkered with everything from margins to the font size. 12-pt is the golden standard for school but too large and distracting for a novel unless you’re really trying to fill up space. Conversely, 10-pt is much too small despite saving on the page count. 11-pt occupies that sweet spot where the words are clearly visible without having to strain your eyes or squint at the page. Lastly, there are definitely limitations (stylizing page numbers, for example) to using Word and we plan to further investigate formatting text blocks with InDesign. Stay tuned.

Part One: FORMAT & PRINT

Format your manuscript as Book Fold in Word by clicking Layout→Margins→Custom Margins…

Then under Pages, select “Book fold” and “32”. Although changing sheets in booklet isn’t a requirement, we found that the default “All” creates a weird split in the sheets once the text block is cut.

Ready to print? Just remember these crucial steps before you click!

• double-sided

• flip on short edge (landscape printing)

Part Two: CUT & PRESS

We picked up this paper cutter (guillotine) from Walmart for only $30. Is it the best? No. But it gets the job done.

(make your cuts halfway down the sheet, approx. 13.9cm)

This is one of my favorite parts of the process. Affording a great opportunity to listen to podcasts or zen out. It takes about an hour to get through the entire text block if cutting nonstop. Next comes imposition. A fancy word for arranging the sheets for the next step—pressing. Breaking up the signatures every 8 pages helps to ensure a consistent print job. There’s nothing worse than wasting paper due to silly goofs or hiccups. Both of which are part of the process. Remember: each book is another opportunity to keep refining the steps.

End papers = 1 sheet cut in half

Place your text block between two boards or pieces of cardboard. Place bricks on top. Let sit overnight.

Part Three: GLUE & PRESS

Time for my next favorite step. Wedge the text block between bricks laid out side by side. Cut a sheet of scrap paper (Letter) in half. These will be your waste sheets. Place them on either side of the text block. // This would be the perfect time to DOUBLE-CHECK YOU’RE GLUING THE CORRECT SIDE!

Secure bricks with 12in bar clamp. Please note: bend the pages while gluing to “fan” the text block in both directions. Increasing the points of contact with the adhesive.

Add the smaller rectangular pieces of paper to the inside of your thin wood pieces. Secure the wood pieces with spring clamps. Let sit overnight.

(before)

(after)

Share

3. Cover

Design your image on Adobe InDesign or alternatively, a free service like Canva. In some ways this is the easy part.

Our reference video conveniently glosses over exactly what product they actually purchased for their wrapper cover. Something which you want to be weighty enough and with the right finish and feel that—here’s the kicker—actually prints well. DAS Bookbinding claims to use a “semigloss art paper” which is then “laminated” to cardstock to make it thicker. Resulting in nothing short of a goose chase to search for something nobody at any of the craft or office and supplies stores could point me to. In the end we followed the rule of simplification by removing both the need for spraying a glossy varnish (a necessity for prints on matte cardstock) and gluing two pieces of paper together for a thicker gsm. This was achieved miraculously by what Keith Cooper deems to be a “cheap photo paper”. Effectively saving two steps in the process. A net positive when each step is rife with potential to fail. For whatever reason Koala Photo Paper prints beautifully on my ET-8550 even without a custom ICC print profile. Which was a godsend after many months of witnessing so many horrid, god-awful print jobs that we nearly threw up our hands and quit altogether. The most disappointing example was testing Pecos River Gloss 360 from Red River Papers, a company which happens to provide their own print profiles for Epson printers. Fortunately, I had only purchased a 2-sheet sample pack. But coming in at 16mil thickness, 360 gsm weight, it sounded like a match made in heaven. C’est la vie.

Here are but a few examples of test prints which yielded poor results. Notice the subtle bleeds and wide-range of quality in the black-and-whites.

Part One: PRINT & CUT

Match the size of your image file with your paper size. Print. Cut the borders using a ruler and X-acto knife.

Part Two: SCORE & FOLD

You’ll be making four folds total. Two on the inside (reverse from printed image). Two on the outside—approx. 7mm away from the spine.

Make a line to fold on (score) with something blunt enough not to pierce through. This prevents busted edges along the fold line. We personally recommend investing in a bone folder for scoring and folding thicker paper. However, there are handy alternatives like a blunt butter knife or plastic card.

Per Mohawk Paper—As a general rule of thumb, the correct creasing channel is determined by multiplying the paper’s caliper by two and then adding the width of the creasing rule. (Note each 1 pt. of rule equals .014 inch).

(wrapper cover is ready to glue)

Part Three: GLUE & PRESS

(keys to success = wrapper cover, text block, brush, PVA glue, a pair of bricks)

Almost there. Apply glue between your fold lines and the spine (see image below). Place a scrap piece of paper to cover along the outside edge of your fold lines to prevent glue from extending these bounds.

Fit your text block into the wrapper cover. Place a rolled up sheet of paper towel along the spine and back with a brick. Place the other brick on the spine on top. And voila! All you need to do is wait for the glue to dry.

(no touching for a minimum of 12 hours!)

While crafting books by hand can be rewarding however, it’s hard not to focus on the imperfections. Especially at the beginning. Consider this part of the learning process and you’ll become more confident with each book.

Happy binding!

Share

Black Diamond Giveaway

Entering for your chance to win a free copy of R-COMPLEX-01 is as simple as 1… 2… 3… Subscribe. Like. Share. We’ll announce the winner sometime over the weekend.

In commemoration of Jed Doggo’s debut novel, Black Diamond, R-COMPLEX PRESS is offering custom spliff cards for a limited time in the online store...

R-MISSION STATEMENT. Printed on Mohawk Superfine Soft White Smooth 65# Cover paper. Simply the perfect gift for lovers of pointless ephemera. (approx. 5x7in)

Directions: Fold in half lengthwise and notch one end to assist in loading your spliff bowls.

Share

The online shop is live! Many thanks to all for seeing us through this crusade of bringing Jed Doggo’s debut novel into publication. For those interested in holding a copy of Black Diamond in their hand and smelling the freshly cut pages can kindly do so at https://reptilewithgrownwing.bigcartel.com. The book’s priced at $20. One of our primary goals when testing out different versions of the text was to produce something cost-effective that can be replicated with a slight margin of error. After months of sourcing the right media to print on which had the proper weight and feel we’re more than proud to share our first release. Our philosophy at R-Complex Press is very much in line with Jed Doggo’s writing as we agree that the hard work and effort makes everything worth it in the end. Even once it’s presented for all to see. Warts and all.

A more in-depth post detailing the steps we took to publish R-COMPLEX-01 to follow. We’re just glad to uphold our previous commitment to do everything in-house and look forward to focusing on other planned works.

Lastly, EPUB files of Black Diamond and Missing the Mark are linked in a prior post for free download. We love the idea of keeping our work widely available online so please share if you’d like to support.

“Well then, this is your second month training with us, but despite getting reamed on previous runs for exactly these issues, it looks like you’ve fallen back into old habits—endless deferrals of substantive skiing in favor of mechanical motions that suggest what you ought to be doing (but aren’t, because it’s not showing these things); tortured turns that, in trying to carve smoothly, abundantly aren’t; a near-constitutional inability to run in a straight-forward line with an active tuck or dynamic stance. (Please note the Academy policy whereby runs with an unacceptable number of faults will summarily be DQ’d: if the next run looks even remotely like this one, expect to be returned to the lodge.) The baffling thing is that in class discussion, you are totally on the ball, and seem not only capable of following the lecture but often one step ahead of it; in this regard, indeed, you seem even sharper and more confident now than when I first met you. So why, when you prepare to make a run, do you invariably approach it as a no-holds-barred approach to achieving uncontrollable speeds? Is this strategy really working for you? Do you feel like you’re genuinely learning anything, teaching yourself, improving, this way? Because you seem like the kind of person that that matters to. What happened?”

My run ended with a skidded stop in the finish area where Coach Price demanded to see improvement. Normally, I would’ve braced for his brutal tirade but I was unoffended by his usual criticisms. Both ears having been bitten off long ago.

I was foiled. Always overthinking the moment and any attempt at self-correction was an exercise in futility that fostered further malcontent.

“Come talk to me, and let’s see if we can get these two sides of you to connect. The problem here wasn’t just the execution, but that when it came down to it, there really wasn’t any willingness to take the next step and put our lessons into practice. Let alone prove your run even mattered. If my comments aren’t enough to do so—I’ll show you.” Coach Price shook his head in a defeated show of frustration as he turned me around to face the course.

Drake’s turn. Or what Coach Price referred to as the model for flawless fundamentals.

The drawn-out silence got shaken by comments along the lines of: “Observe how the ski on the outside completes the turn and the inside ski begins the next,” and “Simplicity: the art of arts.”

There simply was no match for Drake’s expertise. He performed deft cuts with skillful precision. I operated shakily. The difference between a carved turn and a skidded one. He had every option at his disposal. I had none. Always the touchstone of success, he was esteemed where I was distinguished only as an abject failure. Being the inverse of a working performance model, my skiing was like a poor rebuttal to an even worse argument.

The modicum of promise I once showed had all but petered out and the more I observed the stark differences between us, the more incompetent I felt. Like a rough draft hastily hurried to completion. Its plagiarized content merely parroting someone else who did it better than me. Drake’s performative knack placed him alone in the spotlight. With every device necessary to vaunt his prowess louder than his boastful attitude or grandstanding ever could. Living proof that the best stock was bred and those with proper birth, skill, wealth, strength, dress, and humor comprised the most fashionable imitators of human nature. Which was why I didn’t want to be good at anything. It was the fair versus the foul. The defining factor being in the accuracy of our marks. Some tracks cut impossibly deep. Never to be erased. You could only admire such precise and perfectly timed execution. Which shook the beholder with the same conviction as the quaking flags left in Drake’s wake. Calculated and planned. A mere function of second nature. Technically our best skier, he took a line devoid of any signature style. Every move ripped straight from the textbook. As if he were a turnstile of repeated tropes the rest of us so desperately tried to emulate. But there was almost an ineffable quality about him. I guess some flames burn brighter. Which is why large figures tend to overshadow the smaller ones.

“Look who’s running last,” said Blade to Drake after he’d completed his run.

“Let me guess,” Drake answered. “Oh wait, now I don’t have to.”

The tiny black speck started its descent from the top of the slope. Not exactly vanguard, but the jerky movements were fundamentally sound as they ran the course.

“Fifty bucks says he misses a gate.” Flank said to a fresh round of cackles which Drake added to with a laugh.

“I’m half-tempted to take that wager.”

“Come on,” I said aloud, more to myself. “Give him a chance.”

The Shanks continued to snigger throughout the entire run. I prayed that he made it to the bottom on both skis and most importantly, without missing a gate. I believed this newfound faith in a higher power had actually made a difference as he made all the way down before missing the penultimate gate.

Hanger groaned.

“What a waste,” he said. “We should petition to kick him off the team.”

“It would be for the best. I’m always one for trimming the fat.” Ended Blade.

“Yeah, right. You know who his daddy is,” said Chuck. “And as long as he’s the U16 ski instructor, he’s not going anywhere.” Drake said with rising boredom.

“So much for keeping it equal.”

“Alright, enough is enough. Come on boys, let’s bring it in…” Coach Price signaled for everybody to listen up.

There we stood. Lined in a row under the low sun. A sharp light glancing off helmets with hardly a dint in them. Hot lava bubbled beneath the surface in my veins. My heart alight as if set on fire. More so from the spark of flint and tinder as I was too distracted waiting for Coach Price to draw practice to a close so my plans with Sophia could begin.

Earlier this week, after all had been deemed hopeless, she called me out of the blue right after I finished up on the mountain for the day. I wasn’t prepared for what she gave me next. An apology of sorts. So with a shining glimmer of hope, I believed our relationship could only improve while speeding down the canyon as if at risk of being snowed in by an unexpected storm. The usual nagging voice that had become so commonplace in my head got pushed out by a volition I never knew existed and after every peak and valley I traversed wide-open pastures opened up before me. Temperatures in the valley began to warm, and whether the excuse ended up being a dead phone battery or a broken-down car later on I didn’t care. When she asked me what I was doing later on I answered hanging out with her and Chase without even asking Niko. I knew he’d be there.

Upon returning home Niko’s hand-me-down Mercedes-Benz was parked on the front curb. He sat on the porch with a lit Parliament in his mouth. A half-gallon of whiskey in a crinkly brown bag at his feet. I didn’t have the heart to tell him about Sophia’s surprise text. Setting him up with a chance surprise in the course of his terminal heartbreak.

It wasn’t long before Lefty arrived followed by everyone else looking to buy a sack. My mindset reverted back to worry as Sunday’s competition entered back to the forefront. I could only dwell over how different all of this would be if I had taken the plunge at ski camp. If I’d raced in Park City maybe this anticipatory dread would be nonexistent. Or not.

The girls arrived reeking of high spirits and perfume. Once again, they apologized profusely for last week’s game. Which Niko dismissed entirely after one look at Chase. So what if they didn’t bring any weed to match? A small price to pay for unforgettable company, and which could easily be written off as any other business expense. Whisked away by whiskey. We discussed future activities for us to do between endless rounds of bowls, with Lefty rolling his eyes after every word I said. Anything sounded plausible in this swirling state of intoxication and high emotions as we eventually settled on meeting at my house again the following night.

Even once they had gone our heads continued to spin.

Leftover smoke hung in a grayish smog. Our mouths open, speechless and fixed, unsure exactly what had occurred. It was like that all week ever since making up with Sophia. I awaited each meeting with her by tossing endlessly in bed during the night only to daydream about her throughout my waking day so that I truly got no rest. Always being in a hurry after practice as I maneuvered against the homebound traffic of those returning from work. In fear of whenever she might flake out again.

Come this morning I woke already primed for some afterhours activity with its prospects looking favorable over the top of a generously loaded bowl.

The breeze outside pierced the shell of my warmest down-feather coat. While the car engine heated up, I used my ice scraper to chisel off a solid block of ice from the windshield and brushed off the newly fallen snow from my car’s windows in order to leave for practice. To which, I arrived much too early. Mistakenly of course, yet Coach Price was duly impressed and showed his gratitude by instructing me on the proper technique for anterior lunges until the team filtered in. Then it was back to the old classroom dynamic for the day.

It was becoming harder than ever to pay attention, and by the time my focus drifted back Coach Price had finished breaking down the financial costs and liability waivers we’re required to sign before moving onto registration deadlines: “…with the Regional Open around the corner I recommend registering early to avoid disappointment if the race closes. As usual, I prefer submitting entries as a group. That also prevents you from paying a twenty-dollar late fee. This does not include your bib deposit. Although not a qualifier, we’ll treat the Regional Open as if it were the Intermountain Cup. Meaning there’s a certain expectation we must uphold as the host.

“So with all of that being said, I’m extending my usual office hours. Lord knows there’s still plenty to get ready for come Sunday morning…”

He scanned over each of us with the same burning intensity which forged his sharply-pointed words, then proceeded to forewarn us about popular races like over Christmas and how priority is given to ski racers with lower points. Pertinent information I should have listened to but was too busy wondering what pleasures of enjoyment the night would bring.

I glanced once more at the frustrated tracks I had left behind on the shredded slopes. Sunlight blazed upon the west-facing edge. Leaving the ground littered with countless glittery specs embedded in the snow like diamonds.

Although we were already over the allotted time, Coach Price droned on a little longer.

“In closing, I’m sure you’ve heard another winter storm may affect race conditions. I also know there’s rumor of a program change but I wouldn’t substantiate such whisperings until the official snow report comes in. Come sleet, snow, or shine, we’re showing up to compete. I’ll keep you posted.”

Dismissed. I could already feel another cold wave coming on.

I stooped for my ski poles. My head hung heavier than the sweeping boughs of an ungainly pine. I skulked under the shade of my wooded path so preoccupied with thought I didn’t see the first snowball coming until it smacked me squarely in the back of the head.

By the time I turned round a second flying projectile nearly collided with my face. Passing within an inch of my nose. Beneath his white helmet Drake wore his best shit eating grin.

I packed together a snowball of fluff in haste for a return volley that missed him entirely.

“You haven’t spoken all day,” said Drake once he skied down to meet me, resting with his weight on his uphill ski.

“Are you suggesting I’m a dumb mute?” I asked in earnest.

“Or is it catatonic shock?” His hand pressed upon my shoulder. “Ease up. The world doesn’t stop spinning after one hard practice.”

“Try a whole slew of them. Not that I expect you to understand. You couldn’t imagine how bad they’ve been.”

“I’ve had an off day or two. Believe me. But come off it, we still need to catch up from PC.”

“About that, the condo party was a lot of fun. Thanks again for showing me the door.”

“Want to get tuned up—or you feeling too tuckered out?”

“A drink’s always in order for the working mind.”

“How about the resting mind?”

“Even better.”

“Meet you at our spot?”

“Sure. Where’s that again?”

He responded by taking off down the mountain. Cutting laterally and traversing across the slope in a horizontal line towards the skiable trees.

With my plans not until later I had time to knock back a few. That, and the more I got to know him the more tolerable Drake came to be. An enemy mere weeks ago, he now exhibited those intimate qualities of a close acquaintance. If not a friend.

Drake beckoned me along with both of his middle fingers up as he disappeared into a dense pocket of aspen mixed with evergreen trees. The entrance marked by a fallen spruce which lay brown and bloated like a beached whale. Its exposed side completely stripped of bark from the repeated scraping of passing ski poles.

I followed him off-trail into a steep chute, narrow and filled with twisty turns and difficult corners. Turning left, right. Left, left, right.

Trails for glade runs were hidden all throughout the park. It was only a matter of knowing where to find them. All the unseen obstacles and dangers you had to pay attention to, from difficult turns and corners to concealed roots and fallen limbs, logs, broken stumps, underbrush, tree wells, and other hazards, were what made such runs enjoyable. No surprise the woods held the best snow with the shade coverage provided by the trees.

Once out of the twisting thicket he stopped at a cache of ungroomed powder bordering the embankment to the parking lot, ending all too soon the most fun of the season I’ve had thus far.

Last light broke through the darkening rack of clouds as if triumphant. Drake was already out of his skis before I arrived. He waved me over to his souped-up white Subaru WRX and instructed me to use the ski rack on top. After kicking the icicles off his bumper, he fired up the ignition before peeling off loudly into the coming night.

Drunken Moose. Back where it all started. Where we first solidified our friendly rivalry through liquid means and with the shared misery of practice still fresh on our minds there was plenty to discuss. Mostly the usual griping one shares with a fellow classmate or coworker following a long workday. Even Snappy rolled his cyclopean eye upon our unexpected pairing as we sat side-by-side at the splintered bar top.

It wasn’t until Snappy set down a couple steins before us that Drake spoke about skiing again.

“Speaking of Coach, he can’t quit going on about that miracle move bullshit.”

“You mean the ‘infinity loop’?” I raised my foamy mug into the air.

“Don’t get me started. I love the guy and all, but his pedantic five-step fundamentals are an outdated doctrine.”

“More times than not I benefit from his teaching once I understand the method to his madness.”

“I get it all right. Trust me.”

I couldn’t help being distracted by his beardless face. Or the words coming out of it while he talked on at his cool pace.

“Take all his harping on dated techniques like stemming, for example. But want some real keen advice? Pick up some high-performance race boots and ditch those carvers for a pair with more bite.”

“Trade the Elan SCXs! They’re all I have.”

“They’re practically fossils. What? Don’t look at me like that. Time to evolve with the rest. You want rounded, non-pointed tips. That’s what it takes to be a five-event skier.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know any?”

Drake rolled his eyes before downing his glass.

“Suppose I followed said advice,” I began after a long pause. “What do you recommend?”

“Keeping a couple in the quiver.”

I nearly choked on my suds.

“A couple pairs!”

“Naturally. Different skis perform better on certain events. Your base grinds also depend on the snow type with each discipline requiring a different angle on the sidewall. This can be done at any ski shop with a machine. You’ll want a smaller base bevel for more edge engagement while racing slalom. Base structure depends on dry versus wet, coarse snow and in-season grinding the base to match these conditions can improve performance. But for best performances you have to keep the bases waxed. Which I recommend doing yourself.”

I was speechless.

“Tell me you’ve tuned those skis up.”

Upon reading my confusion he seemed too pained to go on until Snappy refilled our mugs.­ “Well if you ask me, which you did, I’d recommend a wider set of rockers to start.”

He clarified further. “Basically whatever has a turn radius between SL and GS.”

“I won’t quit my day job.”

“And that was? Something about inbound sales?”

My mouth opened. But only to sip more beer. Drake continued on.

“You should also treat yourself to a stone-grind. Come now. Just wait until you’re obsessing over all of this in the offseason with extra coarse grit sandpaper and a set of fibertex pads in hand.” Drake took a big gulp before picking up again: “Ahh. Not sure if it’s the rising suds or what but the mood is pleasant and I’m willing to divulge another secret—for our club’s sake. Every skier abides by a core set of principles. An ascetic code, if you will. Like rituals. Mine’s not a strict diet. Or shaving body hair. It is absolute devotion to treating skis and priming them for any given race condition. This requires tuning your equipment every other week and before race day. Especially for speed events, where you’ll want to use a stone grind over a belt grind to avoid producing a flat base. All of this demands utmost care and attention and to nurture intimacy with your equipment is the most sacred part of the process. The wax cycle increases and skis get faster. But apart from prep waxes and tuning up, want to know what else it takes to be extraordinary? A winner’s attitude.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Subscribe to what you will.”

“You can’t fall on your ass if you’re already sitting on it.”

“Whatever you believe can be confidently brought into being. That’s the secret. Even you could make first seed.”

I about added delusions of grandeur to that as well. But I sucked my teeth instead. I’d never have such confidence in my abilities. I was too painfully aware of how often they proved on the contrary.

I stared downwards. Down into the frothy head sloshing around my mug while tight coils wrapped snugly around me. Such blind faith I could never have or understand. There was no talent to be honed to a finer point. With dull faculties no sharper than a butter knife.

Drake signaled for refills. I chugged my remaining drink to catch up while hmm, hmming to each of his points about sharpening skis to save the pains of added conversation.

“Call it pedantic, but what you want is a razor’s edge. Sharp enough to cut your teeth on. Some say to wax and sharpen after twenty days of riding. But I’m in the habit of tuning them after each race day. I’m known to be quite fanatic about my wax preps. It’s the ritual that’s gotten me through every season. Taking care of your gear is of utmost importance. You can never be too hands on.”

“Are we still talking about skis here?”

“Take from it what you will.”

“Having no experience on the matter, I’m in no position to scoff at any advice for what it’s worth.”

“Objectively, when it comes to the best structure for local conditions, I’m a vast reservoir of wealth. And regarding prep waxes, you can never wax them too much.”

“I’ll have to add waxing and grinding to my routine.”

“For thirty-five to fifty race days it makes all the difference. I also wouldn’t get too troubled by qualification results. All athletes get to attend a special state wide event. Either the Championships or Finals.” He finished clueing me in on what I should already know by now.

We drank as another lull in conversation set in. My mouth stayed shut except in attempt to swallow my lumps with deep gulps. I thought our conversation was at an end when, savoring his next swig longer than the last, Drake spoke up again.

“So tell me about your new lady.”

“Are you being funny?”

“No. I’m talking about the resort girl.”

I nearly spat out my drink having forgotten I mentioned her before.

“Oh, yeah, we’ve been hanging out together. That’s all.”

“And she works at Carbonado?”

“That’s right. Think you might know her?”

“It’s possible.”

The moments ticked by before he picked right back up with a smirk.

“Speaking of, that reminds me—back to our little condo party. I’ve been meaning to ask if you had any special encounters with that fine selection on hand?”

“No. None that I can recall. But the archives are slightly waterlogged.”

“Yes, that’s fine and dandy and all but did you meet any beautiful ladies or not? Any wearing a sexy red dress to be specific.”

“Now that you mention it, I may have engaged in some light conversation. But only one was special enough for me to fuck it up.”

“You sly dog. And with Tati from PC, no less. Can’t say I’m not impressed.”

“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” I tried to explain. “Nothing happened. I dunno. Maybe she has a boyfriend.”

“Don’t they all? Tati and I, we go way back to our early years in ski school. You know she’ll be racing at Carbonado, right?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” I tried to play it cool. “What if they both come?”

A deviant smile spread over Drake’s face. These kinds of scenarios kept the blood hot in his veins.

“It’s the ideal situation. Naturally, whenever I’m obliged to choose between two courses of action I have to ask, what am I picking for and why not have both? You can stop after taking one sip or keep sampling from others. It is your choice in the matter after all. No one, or nothing rather, has the authority over your will. This is the ultimate dream come true. That which separates the men from the boys.”

I was completely at a loss. My head still spinning by the time he was done. Never had I considered the possibility of her and Sophia being at the event. I teased out each potential future. Each as fleeting as the other. Including the prospects of having it both ways. But instead of choosing between them I’d likely end up with neither. Further proof all I ever courted was disaster. And as well intentioned as he could be, Drake failed to see any perspective apart from his own. Especially one that couldn’t seize whatever it wanted by bowing to the ego’s superficial whims.

“As much as I’d love for that to be true, that’s asking for trouble. Besides, I’d likely ruin it with them both.”

“Really? You strike me as the tell-it-like-it-is type that women can’t get enough of,” said Drake. “You’d be a certified pimp where I come from.”

“You’d be surprised. I only wish the timing was better. Or that they wouldn’t converge like this.” Yet as I said this, I felt something was owed to this new spark within me. Even if that meant dousing the match in gasoline to guarantee a flame.

“Suit yourself.”

“It’s an occasion I’ll never be tailored for. If only shit could hit the fan at a more convenient time.”

“Does such a thing exist? Someone’s always getting devastated or heartbroken in this field. Don’t let it be you. Except you strike me as the type that makes the right choice.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I’m certain of it. We are one and the same. Only with wholly different approaches to our style. That’s all. For example, I myself had a beautiful and engaging chat the other night at the condo.” Drake continued on: “A couple, in fact. One with a stunning blonde.”

“Let me guess, and a second equally stunning blonde?”

He thought it over. “Couldn’t say. This was back in the hot tub which admittedly was a haze since we weren’t talking too much.”

He pounded his formerly neglected drink as I thought back to that night at the condo and the chance I might’ve had myself. “Are you going to see them again?” I asked at last.

“No way,” he said. And would have gladly got on with his day if it weren’t for my noticeable reaction. “Why would I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” I could no longer hold back and quickly fired off: “They were beautiful!”

Drake merely examined his fingernails for dirt.

“That’s a been there done that sort of thing.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Winning races. Threesomes with beautiful women. An auspicious future. How could he abandon privilege so recklessly? Yet I knew I was behaving foolish all the same.

Drake remained unfazed as he eyed the arrival of a couple. An older brunette with an upturned nose, dressed business casual, and her husband. I looked at him with incredulity. Which I took as the perfect segue to drop my accusatory tone.

“Forget I said it. I shouldn’t be unfair.”

“That’s because you’re a good guy.”

“Too bad for me.”

“Regardless, we were shit-canned beyond all recollection that night. Fancy another alcoholic beverage?”

“Does a fish piss in the sea?”

Drake signaled to Snappy from across the room and pointed to our vacant mugs. Snappy rolled his eyes as he finished wiping the countertop with a filthy rag.

“Think he got the message?” I asked Drake who leaned back on his stool to eye the lady whose boyfriend had left to use the boy’s room.

“Meh—just living up to his name.” He said with a smile.

Snappy slammed two sloshy pitchers before us then wiped his hands clean of us altogether.

That was when the conversation really started to pour.

We discussed our childhoods in depth from the similarities of disappointing our parents to the stark differences which defined us. Having focused on skiing since an early age, Drake crammed all his schoolwork over the summer so he could attend private ski academies and train all winter long. Such talk spilled over to expectations for the current season and beyond until, checking his watch for the time, Drake nearly fell off his bar stool.

“Where’d the time go? I’m off to some stupid birthday dinner with my folks so thanks for indulging me with drinks. They’ll certainly be needed.”

“Today’s your birthday?”

“Right before the cutoff for U19. And another couple years I’ll be lumped in with the Seniors. Can you believe it? Me racing with those grandpas.”

“Nineteen’s not that old.”

“Under eighteen is FIS age. Settling for the mediocrity of normal life is my biggest fear. Which makes time the greatest enemy of all. My own cursed expectations, I know.”

“If that’s what it takes to be the best.”

“I don’t want to be the best. I want to be a living phenomenon.”

The tube light buzzing overhead revealed not a single hair or imperfection on his waxen face to break its smoothness. Nor a single wrinkle or line which marred the perpetuity of youth held ransom by his colorless cheek. Behold, the perfect model for an alpine skier. And somehow, I crossed paths with this great up-and-coming tale while it was being written.

Art came naturally like a wellspring from the individual. Or so is the idea. But I saw Drake for the first time as a culmination of all his hard work, training, and painstaking efforts. I didn’t even have to scratch the stubble on my chin to recognize the actual differences between us. Where he had every option, I had none. My story forever doomed to be redacted while I choked down the next frosty draft in lieu of further refinement.

So be it. Even confronted with such diametric opposition I preferred to wear my own groove. Nonetheless, it was good to know all of this show he put on wasn’t strictly vainglorious.

I raised my mug for a birthday toast.

“Allow me to pick up the tab. Here’s to another trip around the sun.”

Drake’s glass met mine with marked hesitation. “Which is yet to burn out.”

“Speak for yourself. Think we’ll have a program change?” I hastened to clear the melancholy air.

“It might not be the worst thing to happen. You heard Coach Price. We’re not even close to ready.”

I fell silent. Caught in a web of doubt as if the criticism applied solely to me.

“Better get going while we can still see the lines on the road *burp* until we’re out of the canyon, at least.” He slid off his stool. Landing onto slightly unsteady feet.

I hung around a little longer like a bad odor. Sipping the last of my beer. Even with a plan for the night I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was doing. Or where I was going. But I left anyway with the prickly realization there was no going back after a decision was made.

Our talk ceased again until we were back in Drake’s car where he kept his luxury cigarettes inside the glove compartment. He coolly lit one up using the flint wheel of a flip-top butane lighter with a gold finish.

“Can I bum from your fancy pack? I’m tapped out and overdue for some lung damage.”

“What’s mine is yours.”

He handed me the pack along with his gold plated lighter which featured a side ignition system. Sleekly engraved along the side of it was S.T. Dupont in cursive lettering.

We were two individuals from opposing walks of life who happened to share a single objective. Except I always got it wrong.

Drake blew cottony white clouds into the night. As if picking the right occasion to give more sagely wisdom: “So what if she doesn’t come Sunday?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“She should be.” I didn’t bother explaining she was scheduled to work.

“Try not to get your hopes up too much—just in case.”

Now I felt like the one being pressed. It grew hot under my collar. Sweaty, damp, as if someone bumped up my internal thermostat. Why bother investigating further? Nothing I could uncover now would be of any potential benefit. I chose my bed. And I’d have to sleep in it.

Yet I couldn’t leave it alone. My interest piqued.

“Just in case what?”

“In case reality doesn’t match your expectations. Don’t mean to put you out,” he flicked his fiery butt onto the pavement. I couldn’t help from watching it fizzle out into the snow as he spoke. “I’m saying this strictly out of confidence because I know all about these resort workers. It was only this past summer I met a bar back from the resort. Or was it a hostess? I digress...”

“Was her name Sophia?”

“I don’t recall names. This is only a forewarning not to get hung up if so. No need to crash and burn still in the preseason.”

Her personal life was certainly no business of mine, but having a history with Drake slightly diminished the appeal. As if she should’ve been better than that. Except I knew that was unfair so instead of adding any input I drank my remaining suds.

“Thanks for the consideration,” I blurted out, choking on a mouthful of hot ash and flushing red. All of it looked tarnished now with his mug in the picture. “But you’re not even sure it was her.”

“C’est la vie, mon ami. All that matters is on the mountain. The rest is extracurricular. Speaking of, think you’ll be ready?”

“For what?” I stalled for an answer.

“To race, of course.”

“Ready or not. Any more winning advice?”

“Yeah. Be cool.”

“Thanks.”

“The first time is never as bad as you imagine. The opening run is no more than a breezy jaunt.”

“Which course is that? Slalom? Giant slalom?”

“Very funny. You’ll be fine.”

Hoping for the words of encouragement only found in your fellow teammate and compatriot, I elected for a little truth in my response. “I’m pretty nervous about it, to be honest.”

“Bah, that’s only the excitement talking.”

“Closing like hands around my throat?”

“Trust me. You’re golden.”

“As a well-polished turd, perhaps.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was half-joking. Truth be told, I had become so engrossed with my personal affairs I hardly knew what to expect for the coming season and simply rolled along with the calendar dates. However seriously you may treat life’s drama we’re no more than jesters at play in the court.

From there, I receded into my smoky exhalations.

Drake dropped me off at my car feeling more unsettled than before. I wondered if he even struggled with these same problems and pondered over what it would be like to have the luxury of always getting the green light. But I never wanted it so easy.

He lit another one of his fancy over-priced cigarettes. After taking a long drag he broke the silence: “Before you go, I’ve got a present for you.”

He stepped out of the car with me and handed me the skis he used to run gates in earlier that day. They were stiffer and narrower and rather short in length compared to his body height.

“They could use a good tune up but a pair like these are best suited for technical events like SL and GS. Consider them yours.”

“It isn’t my birthday.”

“I already replaced them with a new pair of hybrids.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say nothing at all.”

He hopped back in the still running car.

But before he could speed off, I stuck my head in the car window as white flecks lightly covered his windshield.

“Have you ever met with Coach Price after practice?” I asked him.

“What for?”

“To talk with him in his office.”

“What would you talk to him about?”

“I dunno. I guess my progress in general,” I felt as perplexed as Drake looked. “You’ve never gone?”

“I always thought it was a joke. I mean, what’s the purpose in schmoozing him? He’s impossible. All that he cares to do is instruct you.”

“Isn’t that his job?”

“Yeah. Except he’s the most pedantic asshole you’ll ever meet. He’s got an imaginary style guide in his head you’ll never have access to yet somehow expected to live by.”

“The virtue of tough teaching, I suppose.”

He paused to exhale a silvery plume into the glittery starlight. “No spoon feeding or hand holding with that one. Now that I think of it, I suppose he’s mentioned something along the lines of visiting him before. But I seriously doubt anyone’s taken up the offer.”

“Well, I’m feeling righteous enough to walk straight into the lion’s den.”

“With how unapproachable he already is, you want to meet him a few nights before a home event? Good luck!”

His engine revved before he zoomed off in a swell of swirling gray exhaust into the gleaming obsidian night.

I stood under the blinking parking light. Unsure whether I was more lost to drink or to thought until the slow burning tip reduced the cigarette to a long column of ash.

Uneasiness set in as I stowed the old skis along with my new pair of rounded, non-pointed tips as was in style, into the back of my old hatchback. Then, between deep heaving breaths, I took my first step of several towards a new direction. Heading straight for the main lodge.

Not a sound stirred the night. A waxing crescent moon watched over me. Liable to drop out the sky at any given moment as I raced with my heart throbbing to escape the coming cold.

All that I wanted to say caught in my throat like a barbed lozenge. Rounding the corner at the top of the stairs conjured a torrent of horrific memories from that bright day I first started training with the Academy. Now, the hallway was dark and foreboding. I tread past rows of lockers on either side to Coach Price’s office.

I stopped before a closed door. Its tiny window blocked-out with white construction paper.

I steadied my breath and with a hesitant fist knocked a couple of times to announce my arrival.

“Yes?” Coach Price’s voice boomed from the other side. “Somebody there? I was on my way out.”

I still had a split second to run away. But going against my better judgment I pushed through the doorway and entered.

“Oh—hey, look who it is,” he said while he organized a paper stack. “Please, come in…”

Not claustrophobic. Not roomy. My beleaguered sight adjusted to the fluorescent lighting of his office. Gradually I could discern the sketched outlines of a polished oaken desk, a single serve coffee maker, the portable whiteboard he used for lectures in the corner, a brimming bookshelf ran along the wall crammed with all the ski instructor materials needed for teaching on and off the mountain, making this as much his study as it was a second home.

Seated there in the center of it all was the most composed individual I’ve ever known. Staring unblinkingly at me.

“Practice ended hours ago, you know?” Coach Price broke the ice with a little humor. So it awkwardly began.

Already questioning the motives for what brought me here, my failure to articulate my intentions befuddled every action, every line, to where I was unable to say what I had been rehearsing on the walk over here.

In the end, I opened up with what came naturally.

“That is true. Earlier you said we could come visit you. Is it a good time to chat?”

“Yes, of course.” He shuffled around the folders on his desk.

“Sorry. You must be swamped. Maybe I should go–

“No, no, no…” He stopped me short.

“And come back another time–

“Stay, please. Clearly there’s ample pressure on all of us. Proving Carbonado is a well-rounded program. Much of which, is resting on Sunday’s event. But I’m never too busy for a quick chat. I’ll set these interminable forms down over here—oh! allow me.”

After dashing around the desk to move a brown leather briefcase and tweed jacket with elbow patches he cleared some space on a two-seater couch for me to sit on.

“Nice jacket,” I said, making conversation while sitting far enough away in the hopes that he didn’t detect the reek of alcohol on my breath.

“Uh, yeah, thanks. It’s a new one.” He settled himself at his desk, slightly distractedly. “All right then, much better. Sorry about that.”

He pointed his laser beam stare directly at me.

At once I began to stir.

“Looks like they got you living out of here,” I said.

“Only nights and all weekend. It’s pathetic really. Most weeks I wind up working 60-plus hours. But I thrive on it. Just ask my wife and kids. Please, do excuse the clutter. As you can see there’s many preparations to attend to as the host resort. Want it or not.”

“No worries. The place has got a certain charm, anyways.”

“It’s quite a cozy corner they’ve got me tucked into. As you can imagine my tenure as Head Coach came on condition that I serve on the Committee—hence, extra work for me to do. It’s sure better than being an adjunct instructor though, which is how I started my career here at the Academy. Back then I operated out of a space no bigger than the supplies closet and now I am in a slightly bigger one. Yet, with how much time I spend on the slopes these days I hardly ever get to enjoy it.”

“A great escape, nonetheless. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.” I spoke up. Almost a little too loosely.

“Erm­—thanks. So, what brings you in here today?”

I was unable to meet his burning gaze head on. I glanced about the room in a struggle to find space within its cribbed proportions. My chest tightened. It usually took more than a couple pitchers to spill my contents out.

“In brief, to discuss my progress. Or lack thereof. Either of which shouldn’t take up much of your night.”

He filled the room with a heavy exhale. “About time.”

Being caught unaware by this reaction I merely gaped back at him in return.

“What I mean is that I’ve been expecting this. Only sooner. Much, much sooner.”

“Good timing isn’t my shining virtue.”

“Tell me where you think the focus of your training should be and identify the steps to produce the desired results. Speak as openly as you please.”

I stopped to clear the lump in my throat. Now dry and scratchy. Then I opened up to loosen my tongue.

“To be honest I’ve been (pause) frustrated, I mean, really frustrated with my performance. Especially today. Having the opportunity to train at the Academy has been the single best experience, but I can’t seem to move beyond this current threshold I’ve been stuck on. I have gone from stripping bad habits to executing nothing but personal frustration to catch hold of a technical grasp. I’d greatly appreciate whatever insights you have on the matter.”

“For starters, let me ask this: what are you doing here?”

“In addition to your professional feedback?”

“No. Like why’d you decide to leave the comforts of your home before sunrise every morning to train on the mountain? Kind of a crazy thing to want to put yourself through when you think about it.”

“I guess I wanted to be a skier,” I said. Causing him to further contract his brow.

“OK, fine. Why?”

“It’s always been my dream. Ever since childhood.”

One of his eyebrows raised.

Without thinking about it I continued trying to explain. “And the only passion I find worth pursuing in life.”

Then the other eyebrow lifted. “So in effort to identify any cause-and-effect relationships, what are you trying to get out of this?”

“Even being here, in a competitive setting such as this I feel as if I’m gaining a sense of control. Like I’m where I should be. Just not as far along as I’d like.”

“Exactly what have you done to rectify this?”

“What now?”

“How are you correcting that? Any precautionary measures? Or better yet, changes to the formula. It’s the only way to reach a different result.”

“I feel as if there’s been some improvement–

“You think? Where exactly have you seen this?”

My cheeks turned crimson. I stuttered on: “I-I can admit to a minor lack of preparation before runs.”

“Just to put it bluntly, your marks suffer less from a lack of improvement than some sort of cognitive disconnect whenever you run through the gates. You’ve certainly got a mind for it, but become so caught up in your head and discombobulated that you abandon what helps to prevent any unnecessary complexities. Instinct and fundamentals.”

Profound shame welled up inside of me and I had to avert my eyes. My line of sight falling to the black and white tile floor. Instead of Coach Price saying he saw something special in me that first race with Drake, this one-on-one only seemed to confirm my suspicions. It was all in my head.

He continued on: “Fortunately for all parties involved, technique is not static. Rather adapted to meet the conditions in contrast to so-called talent. That’s why I’m here. My trained eye sees all and I’ll break the movements down for you. But if you’re showing up here to mindlessly mark line after line… what’s there to be said?”

“Nothing at all.”

Having no discipline whatsoever, it was becoming all too clear that my performance anxiety was the result of my futile efforts to harvest months before the fruits of labor could be sown.

I looked up to meet his hardened stare once again.

“And for the record, I agree with you,” I said to Coach Price’s shock. “If I appear rushed and unprepared it’s because I am. Admittedly, balancing our ski schedule with my personal life has been a challenge.”

“I understand what you’re saying. I really do, and want to care. But I don’t. Sorry if that was snarky.”

“No offense taken.”

“It’s the same story. Old as time. So when I say that I don’t care it’s only with the best intentions. We each have our own schedules and personal lives. That’s why time management is not only critical, it’s essential. We can only hold ourselves accountable at the end of the day. Any other explanation is demonstrably false. As in life, the dilemma is all about the trade-off between the choices a skier must make in which various movement options are necessary for aerodynamics during ski/snow interaction.”

“Well, I asked for the truth if it was harsh to hear than I deserve it. So thanks for that.”

“My pleasure. I only abuse you like this now so that you’ll thank me for it later.” A soft smile broke his steady gaze only for it to disappear at once. “Now. The question is, do you intend?”

“Intend to what?”

“Try to compete. US National Championships, National Performance Series, NorAms; the Western Region has quotas for national events like these and established procedures to fill them if Intending.”

Unsure of what he fully meant I nodded stupidly along as if I understood.

“Don’t worry too much about your position at the start of the season. There remain plenty of regional events for us to meet our quota for intents which is based on enrollment numbers in each region. As long as the USAA collects their headtax I found everybody’s happy so if you’re thinking of any date in particular make it known ASAP.”

I hadn’t thought of future events let alone considered the season’s calendar. The scheduled dates and deadlines sucked all the fun out of what I loved so much. But I continued nodding as if I understood.

“Intent deadlines are submitted by me eighteen days from the first team captain’s meeting. Which, speaking of, you seem to be getting along with everybody since ski camp.”

“Yep, and all it took was my reputation. And then some.”

“I do have a bit of a confession regarding your room arrangement. I set you up with Drake thinking you’d help keep him out of trouble.”

“That was obvious.”

“In a way, I guess you did.” Coach Price chuckled.

I shifted in my seat. All that I had to drink at Drunken Moose broke my dammed tongue in a rushing flood and I asked him off the cuff: “Question for you: do you regret bringing me on?”

“Not yet. You’re just another problem for me to work out.”

“Thanks. Any other soul-crushing truths I need to hear?”

“Let’s see,”—I held my breath, expecting him to deliver the worst— “the good news is that it’s not as complex as you make it. Except what you thought you knew about skiing needs to be forgotten and relearned. Now you only need to concern yourself with rote exercise.”

“Could you elaborate further, please?”

“On the whole, with a very long way still to go, your skiing has indeed improved since our first-time training, and if that took some effort of concentration on your part, you are to be applauded for such progress. Today was also a better (if highly unstructured and free associative) attempt to weave together what’s discussed in lectures. But those tips and pointers are where the exercise was meant to take you, and you entirely skipped over that exercise. I kept waiting for you to show, or remember what you learned—but it never materialized, and in fact you treated the whole run as if making up for lost time. You have potential to be a top tier ski racer but become too ambitious whenever your tips touch snow. The frustrating thing is that I know you can ski. You’ve done it your whole life like you said but when damned up you always seem to miss the mark…”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Allow me to recapitulate the case. There is simply no rubric for excelling in a discipline. From my objective stance with the binoculars, all I can judge is the final product from the bottom, same as the rest. Up there on the icy slopes, the run is your argument. Whether it’s a good one or not is up to you. It’ll take hard work and time, lots of it, before you see the changes you want. But in my estimation, you’ll eventually find what you seek through all the daily hardship and toil.”

Wearing his emotion on the deep, recessed lines of his brow he divulged more than his words ever could. Showing the age and wear of a career dedicated to developing a model student. And with its antithesis now facing him, the sad reality was that neither of us were getting what they wanted.

“I’ll try to make the Academy proud.”

“If that’s required to declare interest.”

“Thank you again for the opportunity and taking the time to chat. I’m not entirely sure what the inspiration was.”

“You have a personal connection with skiing that no one can take away. That’s paramount above all.”

“Being a skier is all I aspire to be.”

“That’s great. Now what’s left is to develop a focus with respect to your angle or direction. Speaking of one’s destiny, never forget the importance of the process to fulfill it. The only obvious factor is your age. A proper trainer would agree it’s rather late to get in the running.”

“Improper training it is.”

“Nothing’s impossible. Who cares what others say? I for one never have, and look at where that’s gotten me. However, be forewarned many obstacles remain strewn upon the path to international-level competition. Forget having an occupation as an alpine skier. Even then, sponsorships hardly sustain a living beyond a lifetime supply of free gear and equipment. At least that’s how I found it to be after having first moved from Toronto. Being a ski instructor is the only other viable career path through the program. Which, from personal experience I would recommend against it unless that’s where you really want to be.”

“You’re saying that only one percent makes a career in this?”

Coach Price scratched the top of his bald head.

“Oh, it’s much less than that. If you already had the prerequisites, who knows where you’d be. Yet I found whenever one sticks to their discipline, they can overcome any adversity. At least in terms of subjectivity.”

“Which always lies with the beholder,” I said. “Much like one’s fate.”

“No wonder. It’s your deceit.”

“My destiny.”

Regardless of how promising my progress could be I wholeheartedly rejected the notion of ascension altogether. We tell ourselves what’s important is an upward arc in your trajectory when the Academy only cared about those at the top. At least until you inevitably plateaued.

And by the time I could command influence over my runs I’d likely drop-off cliffside and let gravity do the rest.

“You know what,” Coach Price spoke in almost a hushed whisper, as if caught in a watery-eyed reverie. “I used to hold mandatory one-on-ones with everyone. Weekly too. But for the vast majority, and for what reason I know not, it never mattered. Even those at the top of their class think they know it all as if by divine right. Coming and going through the motions. All they want are the results. My goal is to teach you a lesson. If you can take away one new thing than I’ve successfully done my job. Although when it comes to giving advice, I found people will do what they want anyhow. Maybe that’s being too sentimental. In any case, I’m glad you made the decision to drop by.”

I learned all sorts of new things about Coach Price today. I would’ve never guessed he was Canadian which explained his peculiar accent. But after speaking with him you’d think he had been with the Academy over twenty years already when he was still an up and comer in his own right. Cutting his teeth as a career professional in the refined world where you adorned your title like an appellation on the lapel of a decorated war soldier. That was the myth of the teacher-student dynamic. All I ever wanted was a mentor to confirm I possessed some latent ability I was yet to tap into—forget comparing with the rest. But I never heard it growing up. And didn’t expect to hear it now.

After a brief pause, I opened up again. “You know what? This was a great idea. It’s already helping in a way.”

“Who knows where you’ll end up if you continue to whet your appetite and pay your dues. Opportunity awaits. With respect to one’s fate, it not only chooses you, but you have to choose it.”

“That’s it?”

“Boot canting would correct your stance problem. Ideally, your skis should lay perfectly flat on the snow. Boots shimmed opposite to the lean of the leg. Oh, and one last order of business before I forget.”

He held up a black jacket in my size with a black diamond crossed by a pair of skis on the sleeve. He then tossed me a red-and-white race suit with blue camouflage and certification plomb for the season which was still in its plastic shrink wrap.

“Until we meet again?”

It no longer snowed by the time I had stepped back out to meet the crystallized night.

Instead of the usual yawning abyss the open skies rang so clearly it hurt.

My impromptu meeting with Coach Price had ended on an off note. That and a twinge of guilt from not having understood all which was said. As if I suffered from some mental block. With any hope of one day conquering the mountain officially squandered.

Seeing almost too clearly now, I pulled off onto a shoulder of the road with an overlook that was near vertigo-inducing. The guard rail of the canyon rim being all that separated me from glittering black night.

I put the car in neutral and pulled the handbrake, then I killed the headlights. In the darkness I dug out the glass pipe left loaded in the center console. I sucked in a cloud. Exhaled. Then I sparked another.

I puffed away with the car door open. Nearly careening over the edge due to the swirl of conversations I couldn’t quite get out of my head. My thoughts buzzing like flies circling a pile of garbage.

I always did prefer to walk through the fire.

The occasional car passed by on its way down the canyon. Fleeting mementos of ending a full day skiing on the slopes. Our sopping wet skis tossed into the back of my dad’s hatchback—now my own.

For the first time in what could have been months I thought about my family. Knowing how proud they’d be I was doing something purposeful with myself. To them it legitimized me somewhat to say I was somebody by societal standards.

In a swirling haze, with smoke curling at the corners of the windshield, my attention was drawn back to the cliff edge I was parked next to. I didn’t know what concerned me more, its sheer drop or the wild urge to hurl myself off it. As if beckoned down to be swallowed by the hungry abyss.

Before rolling off into the roaring deep I became stricken by the sudden need to reach out amidst the strange and unfamiliar and make the call that was long overdue.

With the inner-peace of a tropical rainstorm and hands trembling, I fumbled for my cellphone. I hesitantly listened each time the phone rang out. Believing no answer would ever come I mulled over what to say for the dreaded voice mailbox before deciding against leaving a message altogether when the last ring got cut short–

“Hey, Sonny Buck. Been wondering when you’d give us a ring.”

More of a statement than a greeting, I was met with a voice deep, stern, and familiar all in one. The nickname was also a dead giveaway it belonged to someone keen to receiving late calls from impertinent telemarketers and wayward sons.

“It’s about time.” I tried to answer as if it weren’t contrived. A pulsing heartbeat in my throat. My nerves haywire. I felt the same degree of paranoia I used to have talking to my parents stoned back in high school.

“So what’s the latest? Not dead and rolled over in the gutter, are you?”

“Not yet. Just taking time to figure things out. Same as before.”

“Right. Taking care of yourself?” Although an honest question, I sensed the worry in his tone.

“Still living and breathing according to my last bill of health. And you? How’s work going?”

“Gone to hell. I’ve got another work trip coming up.”

“Nothing new for you. And Mom?”

“Great. She’s puttering around the house here somewhere. I’ll can put her on the horn for you.”

“No, thanks. No need stopping her from what she’s doing.”

“You sure? I bet she’d love to speak with you,” he said but I hurried onto the real reason I called.

“Yes. There’s something else I wanted to discuss though…”

“I’m all ears.”

His voice had a slight change of pitch. I wanted nothing more than to be direct with him. But the words I wanted to say circumvented my tongue. Even though my parents would love nothing more than to know about my first ski race so they could plan to attend.

“I’ve been putting serious thought into our previous talks, you know, returning to school and building a career.” I lied. At least—contextually as to what prompted this call to reach out after so long. I even contemplated earning credits over the summer so I could still focus on the ski season.

“Not a bad idea.”

“I’m more than ready to make that change and already signed up for night classes in the spring.”

“I can’t say how much that means to hear. I used to be there doing the same thing as you, smoking pot, getting drunk, and soon enough you’ll be twenty-one. But I’ll tell you what, all those hours wasted going to bars was never worth it.”

With him being on a roll like this I didn’t have the heart to tell him about my fake ID.

“I appreciate the advice. But I should get going. I don’t want to get trapped up here if the weather takes a turn for the worst.”

“Up where? The canyon? Wait, you’ve been skiing again, huh?”

“Yeah, here and there.” The back of my neck felt hot. With my free hand I adjusted my collar so cool air could penetrate through.

“Atta boy! Call me when you’re going up one of these days. Maybe your old man can still beat you down the mountain!”

Without a second thought I blurted it out— “There’s another reason why I called.” The other end stayed dead silent. Only imagining the horrors and atrocities conjured up in his mind the longer I kept him waiting.

“I’ve been training with Carbonado’s Alpine Ski program.”

“The Academy! Why not? You’ve always had a knack for it. When’s the first race?”

“Sunday.”

“Next week?”

“This Sunday.”

“The day after tomorrow? And you’re telling us now?”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“I’m guessing that’s what made you too busy to spend Thanksgiving with the family. That about broke your mother’s heart, you know?”

“I’m sure she managed.”

“Never mind that for now. You must be talking about the Regional Open. What’s the event lineup?”

“Two slaloms, two giant slaloms. Sunday through Wednesday. So I’m told.”

“Hearing that gives me an itch to return to the mountain. It’s been too long since I drove up the canyon. We sure had some great times in the past. Just us and some good tunes as we left the city far behind.”

“I benefitted from my season’s pass all through grade school. How come I never skied for the Academy as a kid?”

“I tried signing you up for their development program. Back then you never cared to compete. At least as far as I could tell.”

“I never thought I had to.”

“Last thing I wanted was to push you into doing something. Not without your heart being in it.”

“Makes sense. Hopefully we’ll get the chance to go up together again.”

“We will. And soon. Please, call your mother sometime. She worries about you.”

“She sure does.”

“Good talking to you, Sonny.”

But right as I thought our surprisingly pleasant discourse was over, he undercut the harmony of our little moment with a cautious warning.

“And keep taking care of yourself. See you Sunday.”

I disconnected from the call with a smile. My capsized world may never right itself fully. But at least I could always rely on some absolutes to never change.

After I cashed the pipe bowl, I loaded another with the drifting haze snaking across the valley to bar my vision of the dark canyon road.

Secluded within my car, my head swam. Fogged over with Coach Price’s last words as if it had struck the eleventh hour. The day nearly done. I thought over what was said from my amateurish skiing to having drinks with Drake when I realized that even with the right tools being handed to me his likeness remained an unobtainable archetype. I thought about my dad and how I could never be better than him or live up to his legacy. I thought about our talk and his decision to never push me into competition. Something I thought I was grateful for at the time. Now, I had grown to be inexperienced and unproven. In defense of this charge, I hold my dried-up muse in contempt. If not to teach her how it should be done, having queried the argument I once supplied for her. Thoughts just as quickly turned to Sophia. Star-crossed. I never felt more insignificant than being under her tiny thumb. A minion to her passing desire. Like the hopeless romantic type of pursuer: beside myself in a loving fit while caring about her more than life itself? No thanks. I’d rather be reduced to a drunken one-night stand lost to all memory. Both equally unhealthy behaviors. Incoming storms on the forecast were flung to the nether regions of my mind while I entertained another side—so what if she’d been flaky? And that her stories occasionally contradicted themselves? Previously, I found the invitations to join her in feast to be distasteful. But the agony of her refusal of my denied advances was a grievous blow. Injurious enough to kill in the act. Like having to temper my expectations, always and forever.

After having built temples of her wisdom, I relied on Sophia’s guidance in all things to know what was right or wrong. Ready to receive her. I was unable to bear the growing urge to prove just cause for us to be in union any longer, and so with a renewed spirit I called her next to change our plans by asking her out on a dinner date instead.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

A long trail of trash and beer cans littered the front yard and led up the front steps of my house. The porch light left on in broad daylight. Glittery bits of glass from a broken bottle lay embedded in the snow around the rose bush and stuck like tiny shards in the conifer shrubs. The snow-laden porch railings on either side had been converted into stand-up ashtrays with discarded butts sticking out like soggy discolored quills. I was ready to blow before I stomped up to the door and kicked it open to behold two good for nothings playing a video game on the couch. The little monstrosities of impertinence even had the gall to greet me with glee. Both standing there all glassy-eyed and blinking in the bright morning light. As if welcoming me back home at the expected time.

“Top of the morning to you—look who it is, Billy!” Lefty said. To add insult to injury he was wearing my robe.

“Come on in,” said Billy, now rifling through my refrigerator like a greedy rat picking through garbage.

“Thank you for inviting me into my house.” I sneered. “Can I cook you breakfast as well?”

“Nah man, I’m already out. Appreciate it though!” He replied slapping my shoulder as he passed me to the living room. A gallon jug of milk in one hand and a block of cheese in the other.

Lefty worked the corners of his big mouth to keep from smiling. Still unsure exactly what mood I was in. “You asked for a house sitter, right?”

“What a job you did. And in my robe too. Move over. It’s been a long trip.”

Lefty hopped out of my usual seat and stripped off the robe. Tossing it onto the ground.

“I knew it! Here, I just ground this up for you.” He handed me his spliff card, spilling half of it in his haste.

“Will ya take a look around at this dump. And is the other couch broken?”

“Yeah, about that, you really missed out the other night. Billy decided to invite some of his female friends over…”

“Fuck off. That wasn’t us.” Billy jumped to his own defense.

“And then Niko’s drunken antics last night, you know how he gets. You’re lucky we were even around.”

I cut Lefty off short— “What favors have you done exactly? Or am I supposed to thank you for breaking my furniture and leaving a goddamned mess?”

“I was going to clean, promise. If only someone called beforehand to inform me when they’d be back it would’ve been done by now. I could’ve brought a bottle to boot for the damages.”

“So you do assume some blame. Don’t bother helping now. No amount of repair can fix this shit hole.”

“An easy fix, really. And I already know what I need from the hardware store. One two by four, a couple of screws—we’ll come first thing after tailgating, right Billy?”

“What now?” He looked up from his phone.

“Please,” I started to plead. “Leave me be. I can’t handle having company over right now.”

I sank onto the couch deeper than ever, defeated.

“But I just ground up the last of my sack,” said Billy.

“Get out.”

“What about my flask?”

“Now!” I proceeded to bark at them and their lukewarm reception. My mouth dripping with foamy pearls of spit as I gnashed white canines at the absent-minded housekeepers.

“Pshh, no need telling us twice. Heard ya loud and clear. Let’s go guys.” Lefty ended crossly, motioning towards Billy who blinked twice, puzzled, before stumbling out with him.

The door slamming shut behind them was the best homecoming I could have asked for as I recovered breath from my weeklong stranglehold.

Alone. Stuck with only my past regrets.

To think I had returned from all my travels without a single change or improvement. If only I would’ve put it all out there for the world to see…

I plugged my cellphone into the wall charger and reached for the bong, the couch groaning under my weight, until remembering there wasn’t the smallest leftover crumb in my stash. I unscrewed the grinder’s kief trap. Empty.

And the trip kept giving.

That was the problem with inviting an infestation into your home. It only took a few days left unchecked before the pests had gotten into everything. The normally see-through bong water was crawling. Its water so brown and disgusting the glass beaker appeared acrylic. If ever there was a penance for such an egregious crime, smoking the contents of Lefty’s spliff card would be it.

I loaded the bowl piece only to discover there wasn’t a single shred of tobacco in the house. The one scenario worse than having nothing to smoke at all so I grabbed the car keys off the dresser and made the thirty-second trip down the street. Swearing off my ravenous pot use, excessive customary drinking, insensitive friends who took full advantage—any general hindrance or obstacle in my life, in four-letter words the whole way to the gas station on the corner. Flying into a blind rage at the tiniest inconvenience like a red stoplight which furthered my derangement.

I approached the clerk at the counter with my wallet already opened.

“No ID, I remember you.” She said in stark contrast to the usual treatment I received from her neurotic husband. He could be seen watching the monitor screens in the back office as she picked the tobacco pouch from the shelf.

Back home the bong hit stabbed at my lungs as I ripped the bowl with a steady, rumbling hiss.

It ended up being one of those disgusting hits that not only tasted bad but went down the wrong pipe. Despite choking on harsh, bulging wisps of smoke I could relax. This light-headed stupor was enough to catapult me into sudden bliss. Practice wasn’t for a couple days. Allowing some recovery before the six-day on-snow training schedule, Tuesday through Sunday. Off-days would be my only salvation and even that sanctity got threatened by the persistent buzzing from my cellphone. Likely desperate clients sick of calling their backup hooks or having to resin hit their pipes.

Heady with smoke and vision fuzzy, my many shortcomings to date were brought to the surface as I plummeted into a deep, downward spiral. Buried far below, stirred the monstrous, multi-tentacled question of whether I had made the right decision. Below that lurked my uneasy anticipation for the coming season, lingering like a tireless phantom inhabiting every thought.

I had to rest for now in hopes I could recover from the repercussions still to come. Besides, this was my down time. Which I shouldn’t feel guilty for spending however I pleased. Right?

Except one glance at the state of the house compelled me to fetch the bottle of all-purpose cleaner from under the kitchen sink cabinet. It was near unrecognizable from my view within the wreckage. White powder covered practically every surface which sure wasn’t a week’s worth of collected dust. Even the untouched coffee in the coffee pot had green discs of mold floating on its surface. Used dip cups, beer cans, and soda bottles, some of them tipped on their sides with their fluids spilt out, and countless empty cigarette packs piled up on the coffee table which I used one arm to clear. I sprayed it down with cleaner and wiped it over and over until having lifted a week’s-worth of hardened grime. Using practically an entire roll of paper towels which never stopped turning black as I scrubbed tirelessly to remove the stains.

After that I emptied out the ashes from the ashtray. Scrubbing the crustier bits along the perimeter of the coffee table while using the rest of the paper towel roll to lift the moldy stench of old bong water from the carpet before I could vacuum it.

The living room got put back together, cushion by cushion. I juggled stacks of used shot glasses and dirty plates to the kitchen where I buried myself in mounds of porcelain plates and glassware for nearly an hour handwashing each dish by scrubbing the caked-on food with a crusty, old sponge until leaving the dish rack crammed full with dishes to dry. After that I moved onto the bathroom. The smallest room but the worst to clean by far. Despite living on my own I hosted enough company to account for the filth of several roommates. The bedroom however, was quickly made spotless by shoving armfuls of laundry into large black garbage bags to be washed along with my robe.

I took advantage of the clear countertop in the kitchen by rinsing out the swamp water from the bong. I cleaned it with rubbing alcohol and table salt along with the bowl piece and downstem until it sparkled like brand new.

I lifted up the bong to reward this hard work. The fruits of my labor still strewn around me.

I might’ve been starting anew, but the dirtiness remained. Like that tiny black speck below the ice catcher which was inaccessible to any brush. Such efforts were merely superficial with plenty more to be done from scrubbing the grease-splattered stovetop and walls to cleaning the thick layer of dust topping the doorframes and ceiling fan blades.

Throughout all of this my cellphone incessantly rang. Half-off the edge of the coffee table. Amidst the steady stream I was greeted with a text that no high could match. R u still up?

Alas! An odyssey of pain and suffering ended almost too abruptly with Sophia’s message being in response to a drunken late-night call I didn’t remember making. So what if I had tried reaching out? With more pressing concerns placed on the backburner I straightened upright after noticing the time of her reply.

What was she up to at four in the morning? I further mused, with a peculiar admixture of censure and surprise. It was in that fateful moment I knew I’d have to pick up.

Here’s to new beginnings committed by the same follies of the past. Having already sunken far enough to shift dirt like any lowly worm.

Before deciding to spend the remainder of what I had on a cheap plastic bottle I appealed to Thorny first to pick up. Going back on all that I said last week.

Within minutes he was already on his way. But knowing him, he had a couple other stops. There was a good and bad side in having such privileges with your dealer. In return, he sometimes needed a place to operate from for the better part of the day. Not a bad trade-off considering the goods got personally delivered to me.

Reupping covered, I sent a friendly message to let the usual clients know I was back in business.

The last order of business was a quick visit to the neighborhood liquor store in Sugar House.

Even the sky didn’t know what to do with itself. Remaining muddled with the endless passing of misshapen clouds. Not even halfway there I received my first phone call— “What you getting into today?”

It was a formality for Billy to ask considering Lefty could be heard yammering away in the background.

My response was no warm welcome: “Nothing really.”

“C’mon. It’s game day. Don’t act like you got nothing better to do.”

Last thing I wanted was to jinx the occasion and muck it up further with ill-casted lots. Although, I could practically see their smugness vanish once Sophia arrived and they had to leave.

“I’m expecting someone.”

“Ooh say no more, playboy,” said Billy, wrapping up with the biggest lie of all: “Only for a little while. We’d hate to overstay our welcome.”

“If you say so.”

Niko called next. He must’ve sensed I was en route to pick up booze. I took the call despite his contribution to the abuse of my home and property. Giving him a free pass, even if by merit of being absent this morning.

“What’s up, Niko?”

“Same shit. Different toilet.” He spat. Sounding slightly exasperated as if he were managing several tasks at once.

“No work?”

“There’s always work to do. If not at the restaurant, then something around the house or yard. My dad sees to that. But I switched days off with my brother.”

“I’m getting to the L store now. Sophia and Chase wanted to watch the game. Down?”

“On my way.”

Niko would never miss an opportunity for heavy drinking. Even if it meant driving through a hellish storm.

The formerly subdued sky from earlier this morning rippled in chalky currents that broke up the sky into billowing, black patches. Ravaged by the harsh and unforgiving wind. A pale gray cloud could be seen forming over the city, becoming swollen with the foreboding atmosphere. I had to move fast. But what I hoped to be a quick in and out process became a manic frenzy requiring two laps around the lot to find available parking—the mad dash of every heathen getting their fix before the storm as if it were the liquor store’s closing minutes.

One foot out the door I was nearly flattened if not for the warning beep of a car horn. My cellphone continued to buzz in my jacket pocket along the way. The burden of being available for everyone but myself pressed upon me with a cruel vengeance.

I shuffled past the pudgy cop who glared at everyone upon entry and replied to each person the same as the last. Be there in 30

Inside the festering state-owned establishment was worse than ever. Checkout lines extended down the aisles and wrapped around the wine section ending somewhere between Argentina and Tuscany. The sheer number of needing mouths without a bottle to suck on was quite sobering. Except I was more instilled with the irrational fear the waterhole would dry out.

I made straight for the whiskey section in back where I reached slightly higher than usual but stopping just short of an imported bottle of the Irish persuasion.

Back outside, a ceaseless explosion of white confetti fell from the sky.

Bringing with it the first flurry to start the count down until the dreaded “big one”. The storm which would pummel this valley and leave it out of commission for days on end.

Once safely encapsulated in my tin can cockpit, I navigated the near-blinding flurry of snowflakes which flew past my windshield as if traveling at hyper speed to Main Street when a bent figure appeared right before me, causing me to slam on the brakes.

The old man! Dressed in shabby rags like a long, flowing black robe with a beard of icicles and a slow calculated step, he advanced slowly down the snow-packed street with tennis balls on the legs of his walker. His absence was no surprise given the long duration and harshness of winter. The very sight of him ambling around warmed me over. One simply never knew if this would be his last lap around the block.

But all the relief of knowing he was still around and pushing through the worst weather we’ve seen in years got undercut by the guilt of complaining about my own perceived pain and misery. It was a wake-up call to appreciate each and every day. Even despite the parked cars in front of my house and dark figures wearing cuffed beanies and smoking cigarettes on the porch.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I greeted them on my way up the porch steps.

“We’ve got all the time in the world, don’t we, Riley?” Thorny, wearing a red cap and red gloves with an oversized pack held over his shoulder, elbowed his partner. Riley grinned. The whites of his eyes entirely bloodshot. Pupils dilated.

I grappled with my key ring as I passed them both. Nearly toppling over Niko’s wiry frame sitting Indian-style against one of the brick columns. His haggard chin rested upon his fist where a pulsing network of veins, purple and thick, ran weblike across each forearm.

“Any word from the girls?” He asked right away.

“Not yet.”

Niko nodded back. Shrouded in smoke. The whiskey bottle I held felt emptier already.

“I wasn’t planning on picking up,” I began to explain myself as we entered the house.

“I know you weren’t.” Thorny replied.

“I didn’t even think I’d be smoking anymore.”

“Yet here we are,” said Thorny.

“Same song and dance,” said Riley. His face broke into a multicolored smile. Out of which flashed a stained brown front tooth. What he lovingly referred to as his resin tooth.

“Also, I was hoping for a tiny favor.”

“On the front, I presume?”

I stared at my feet. Ashamed.

“Yes, please.” I remained flushed, unable hide the shame of not having a cent to offer him for restocking my supply. Once again. Thorny peered back at me. The blue beady eyes of his muskrat face magnified by thick spectacles.

“I’m getting pretty good at this, aren’t I, Riley?”

Riley kept smiling. His lizard eyes slowly glazing over, congealing.

“Except you know I’m good for it,” I said.

“I’ve heard that one as well.”

“You know I have a solid clientele base and will always have the money. It’s a matter of when, really. And who knows, it might be my last hurrah before leaving this life of degeneracy behind for good.” I half-joked, half-hoped it to be true.

“Doubtful. Judging from your aura, faint as it is, I foresee a dark nimbus on your horizon. Unless, of course, you can find a middle way…” Thorny’s words trailed off.

“I haven’t got much faith to tell the truth.”

“And in every truth, something’s concealed.”

“This time it’s different,” I said. Almost as if trying to convince myself.

“But first you need some ganja.” He started filling in the gaps.

“No sense cutting off my supply overnight.”

“Oh, I understand,” Thorny offloaded his pack onto the floor. The skunky smell hit me in the face as soon as he unzipped it to reveal a cornucopia of fuzzy nugs with long red-orange hairs in large plastic sacks. “Another cutie pie, I presume?”

“Yes. A quarter-pound should do.”

“Which do you prefer? Sativa or indica?”

“Make it half of each.”

I eyed the stash enviously as he began clumsily scooping nugs into the plastic cup which he placed onto his digital scale. Some of them missed the cup and fell onto the floor. But he didn’t seem to mind. Dealing in so much weight a single nug for him didn’t account to much compared to the total burnouts I knew who picked at the carpet fibers when their sacks ran out.

He handed over four ounces of leafy green goodness and my entire disposition turned to that of a giddy schoolboy.

“I must be out my mind.”

“A change of heart let’s say. There’s also dab for sale. We extract it ourselves from full ounces of flower and purge the impurities with a vacuum.”

Expecting him to pull out a wrapped-up piece of brown parchment paper, he showed me a round silicon container instead which was full of an amber wax-like material.

“How much?”

“Fifty a gram. Except you’ll need to get yourself one of these.” He proceeded to pull out his dab rig which looked more or less like a fancy bubbler. Except instead of having a bowl piece there was a glass needle that Riley began to heat up with his butane torch until becoming red hot.

“Sounds like quite an investment to get high. Maybe next time.”

Thorny removed the flame and used his dab tool to drip a fat glob onto the glass needle as he started to inhale.

“As you wish. We’ve gotta be in and out like a trout today. We’re looking for a spot to rent.”

“No more conducting business out of your mother’s basement?”

“Nope. It’ll be Riley and myself. Just like the old days.”

I thought back to high school and the old shed where Thorny and Riley used to smoke out of a handmade smoking device called a third lung. Made from cutting the bottom off a plastic bottle and taping a plastic bag to it. The bottlecap fashioned into a bowl piece using a wad of tin foil shaped by hand.

“Tell him what we talked about,” said Riley, still smiling.

“That’s right. You’ll have a new contact from now on. I’ll send you the number to call.”

“Who is it?”

“Riley’s brother.”

“Which one?”

“Little brother. The plan is to split operations so we only handle the big deals.”

“That might be for the best.”

“Unless you wanted to pick up more weight?”

“I’ll have to mull it over. Wanna chief?”

Our automatic impulse was to both reach for the bong at the same time.

“Dealers first.” I reclined in my seat.

“You’re too kind.”

“And I owe you eight-hundred dollars. But we can chalk it up to kindness.”

Thorny packed a leafy bowl and capped it with brown tobacco flakes. Not a speck of green could be seen. And leaning like a wizard with his pipe, his cap pulled over his head, he smoked his bowl.

With a poof he was gone. Leaving behind wisps of smoke where they sat only moments before.

It almost didn’t feel like I was in the negative having a full jar again. Niko and I took our first shot of many. Then he took another.

“Can I get a dime on the front?”

His question cut right through my stupor. I looked at him straight as if seeing clearly for the first time. He was dressed in his best lounge attire. An otherwise plain hoodie with ‘Ratchet’ in cursive print across the chest. His sweatpants covered with a colorful print pattern which could be found on your grandmother’s drapes. The bottleneck protruded from his clenched sausage-link fingers as he manhandled the brownbag. Funny how grating it was to be asked the same favor which funded this entire operation.

Like usual, I conceded to his request.

“Thanks. At least until I get this script of Adderall from Lefty.”

“Ah, legal meth. Lefty is coming over?”

“It’s only amphetamine. But yeah. He’s leaving the tailgate with Billy and I told him I was on the way if that’s chill.”

“I wasn’t planning on having many people over today.” I said, omitting this morning’s fiasco entirely.

He must’ve picked up on my air of indifference and backpedaled.

“We can do the deal elsewhere. If you want.”

“No matter now. I need you with me and I hear somebody’s heavy trod on the steps already.”

Despite the desire to be left alone an even stronger force had lighted upon the porch, and as scheduled, two voices conversed loudly, in argument no doubt, while exchanging thick puffs of cigarette smoke.

Back-to-back spliff bowls had me too glued to rise and I offered hardly more than a grunt to the rattling duo as they entered the living room.

I beheld their shivering figures. Bundled up to their ruddy-faces and bringing with them a baleful wind that whipped through the open door to howl at my threshold.

Billy wore a slate gray peacoat with six glossy buttons. A woolen scarf, charcoal-colored, and with fringed ends, wrapped around his neck. He rambled incoherently to himself in the doorway while Lefty slipped from one drama mask to the other, storming by with the grace of a tempest battered shipwreck. Sullen, dejected, his eyes watery and cheeks reddened from excessive drink and the cold. First thing he did was openly declare being unwelcome here: “I know I’m not allowed under this roof. I only came to do this one favor for Niko. He’s waited long enough already. Then I’m gone. It’s been a hectic day since we last spoke and as you know there’s no other place I can go. So here you are, Niko. My apologies for the delay. The script should be filled same time next month. Now with that out of the way, I take my leave. Or after a bong hit, maybe. If you’ll allow it. I’ll grind up and be gone. Exactly how you wanted.”

I stayed silent. Having seen this routine one too many times I wasn’t letting him guilt trip me. Amused nonetheless, I allowed him to load and smoke his bowl and meander back towards the front door, mumbling under his breath as he froze with his hand on the knob before I reneged.

“You can stay I suppose,” I said.

“Bup bup bup,” he contested. The final bit to his act. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on whatever you’ve got going on. No, no, I’ve been made well aware that I’ve overstepped my bounds as of late and wouldn’t dare doing so again.”

“Sit your ass down already and let’s smoke a bowl.” I quickly grew tired of the thespian’s played out performance. “I still owe you for watching the house.”

“You sure?” He said, his hand still gripping the doorknob. “And that oughta be worth more than one bowl, might I add.”

He let it go at last. The door closing shut with a dull thud behind him.

“Also, if it’s any consolation I was planning to clean up the place.”

“Hardly.”

“How so?”

“It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think?”

“But you never told me when you’d be back!”

“Here we go again. So you’re saying it’s my fault?”

“In a way, yeah. If you think about it.”

“Now that’s pushing it. Even for you.”

Lefty lay splayed out on the couch. Right at home. “Feel free to help yourselves from this twelve-pack of imported gingers I lifted from someone’s tailgate.”

Forgiven but not forgotten, he at least had the decency to bring a peace offering.

“Gimme one of those,” Niko swiped the one from his hand. “I’ve gotta catch up.”

“That you do. Would you mind if I take some mixed amphetamine salts to wake up? The prescription is in my name, after all.”

“If you must.”

“Thanks.”

“How’d you get them anyway?” I asked as Lefty gleefully popped the equivalent of legal meth and swallowed without a swig of water.

“I made an appointment with a doctor and told them I had ADHD. Something which I proved after taking a series of tests. Now I get a bottle of twenty-milligram pills every month.”

“Except last batch were extended-release capsules.”

“Yeah, I know, Niko. I done fucked up this time. I told you I’ll switch from the generics back to the XRs.”

“Since when were you ADHD, Lefty?” I asked with half-curiosity and half-concern.

“While you were gone last week. Clinically diagnosed after a single visit.”

“Yeah, but are you really? Or just making a mockery of the system for a script in your name?”

“Meh, I do have a tendency to mix up my sentences, I forget the word for it, but as long as the doctor agrees this bottle stays filled.”

“And you sold them all to Niko.”

“I’ll refill the script in a couple weeks. No problem.”

The first person arrived to pick up which brought about an end to this unsettling exchange. My weeklong hiatus was felt by the whole hive who, with their keen senses prickling and antennae twitching, had already started upon the swarming.

It was only then that I finally returned to Sophia’s message and sent her my response.

So what’s the game plan?

Twenty minutes… thirty minutes… an hour flew on by… nothing still! And as the afternoon wore on my chances were shortened further.

Anxious, I mitigated the constant shuffle of clients by directing them back out the door once their sacks had been doled out.

I felt harsh wind. Inside and out. There used to be a comfort in distractions from impending storms, like listening to soft music, or reading a good book. But the cold permeated even with the furnace running so I cranked up the thermostat higher. Sheltering myself from this wintry afternoon. The rumbling furnace had an almost domestic quality to it as I dragged two ice block feet into the kitchen for more shot glasses. Within the hour I was out of the hole again. Pick up after pick up. Yet the constant flow couldn’t suppress the hope welling in my breast at every knock that it could be the girls loudly tromping on the doorstep, layered up in their heavy jackets. But no matter how passionately I sought this outcome it never awaited me on the other side.

I was slowly losing faith. Still, I was resolved. Sticking to what we agreed upon by seeing it through to the bitter end. Always on the hunt for a stronger high. It would take more than early frost or polar wind to spoil this perfectly stormy day for waiting in agony for that which never came.

The house continued heating up. The furnace roaring.

Half a bottle down and I could only shake my head whenever Niko’s gaze met mine. His altered disposition informed me more about the bleak prospects than I was willing to admit. Overwhelming doubt crashed over me in white-crested waves. Passing time with nothing to do, I could see my impending doom already darkening the far horizon.

I downed another shot. Then poured out three more. Distributing them so as to be hands free for a follow up bowl when Lefty, to everyone’s shock and surprise, waved it off.

“I’m abstaining from hard liquor today.” He began, pausing for further inquiry. But no one was listening. “Ahem. Know why, Billy?”

“No, why?”

“That’s what I said. Pass me the bingo bango and I’ll tell you.”

“Bingo bango?” Billy replied, perplexed.

“Bongo.”

Billy merely rolled his eyes and handed him the bong. Letting his usual opposition to Lefty’s antics slide without a rebuff or public scolding. For once they were acting surprisingly agreeable towards one another. Even while one constantly irritated the other. Perhaps some last vestige of change remained possible for this immutable rock we inhabit.

“So I went on a couple day bender earlier this week and accidently let Bob out,” he began. Prone to telling stories as he loaded his bowls, Lefty was known to camp on them until all the way through—and I was caught on the front end of one!

“You know Bob, right guys?”

“Who?” Billy and Niko looked at him over their shots with equal confusion.

“You do. Even if you don’t. He’s your best friend in a pinch. Let’s just say you’ve all partied with him many a times,” Lefty paused to ensure we were equally puzzled before caring to elaborate on details I couldn’t feign the slightest interest in.

“Who the hell is Bob?” I attempted to speed the story up.

“Why, good question. You know, Bob. B.O.B. Black Out Bellows. My alter ego for those rare occasions when I blackout.”

“How do we know we’re not talking to Bob now?”

“Because I’m no more than browned out at the moment. It’s that drunk where base motives are propelled somewhere between pleasure and depravity, which Billy should know about.”

“I can help you black out if you’d like?”

Lefty brought the bong to his lips­. He paused: “But wait—there’s more!”

“Which we’re fine without,” I had to interject. “Want to hit that already?”

But such requests were in vain as he started back up again.

“No wonder I was stuck in bed all yesterday afternoon after binge drinking at a company party—God do those good ol’ boys like to drink. We went through three, no, four cases of beer I think so that’s not bad. But the best part was getting to outdrink my boss under the table on his own dime! When I awoke it was to make a beeline for the bathroom where I puked ungodly amounts of bloody bile. Hmm, I thought­, that doesn’t seem right, so after a visit to the doctor’s it turns out I opened up a fresh ulcer.”

“It’s almost as if you say that with pride.”

“You know what, I kind of do!”

“Are you taking the shot, or not?” Niko asked, growing more impatient, if not hostile.

“I’ll stick to my ginger beer,” he said, hitting the bong at last.

Billy and Niko clinked their shot glasses together then tapped the bottoms on the coffee table before shooting them.

With an exhalation of smoke, Lefty added: “Can I pour my beer out into a glass? There’s nothing more heavenly than a freshly poured brew.”

“Go for it.” I jumped to reclaim the bong.

“Any takers? Billy?”

“I drink real lagers. Not that pussy shit.”

Lefty could be heard trailing off into the kitchen: “Which reminds me to never bring you lot around once I’m in office.”

“If you ever find yourself on the ballot, Lefty, I’ll be president-elect.”

“Remember the president doesn’t always win the popular vote.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the electoral college.” Billy scoffed before leaning over to ask me for a dime sack.

“Sure,” I said. “That’ll be ten dollars.”

Billy’s eyes flashed with the crackle of a snapping fire.

“I’ll get cash back when I hit the gas station for my iced tea.”

“Is that code for some time next week?”

“Or as soon as I got it.”

I lifted my shot glass. Niko downed Lefty’s neglected shot for him.

“Mock me all you want, however, the last I checked I’m the only poli sci major in the room,” Lefty started where he left off as he reentered the room: “But looks only get you so far in life—look at me? I’ve worked with some of the biggest names in the state because I possess a little thing called charm.”

“More like lack thereof,” murmured Billy aside.

“It’s called knowing how to serve people what they want.”

“Yeah,” Billy drawled back, “with nice, steamy piles of bullshit straight from the sycophant’s handbook.”

“Whatever it takes! Like a master sommelier dealing in important details and fine tastes.”

“That sure explains the little brown smudge on your nose.”

“Fuck off. It’s not my fault that it boils down to who you know in life, and I’ve got connections, believe me—whoopsie daisy,” he nearly dropped his beer, then checked to see if I was watching. “Don’t worry, I got it. I must’ve been distracted by the stubble on your chinny chin chin. Where’d that come from?”

“Doc calls it puberty. And its symptoms are chronic.” I humored him. The reality was that I hadn’t shaved in weeks.

“‘Bout time you caught up!”

“Don’t let the age fool you in appearing wiser.”

“How could I? I’ll need another dime, by the way.”

“Of course. Where would I be without all of your daily dimes of support?”

“Wasn’t your little girly friend supposed to be coming over?”

I shut my mouth after that.

Like clockwork, Billy, quick to bait the easily hooked, cycled topics to make some new point for him to argue. But the previous question was enough to make blood boil. For once, Lefty drove a hard point. I’ve made no attempt to correct any of my self-destructing habits or many vexed relationships. Which prompted me to announce another round of shots.

The drunken tirades ensued. I cracked open one of Lefty’s beers while the rest spoke loudly over each other.

At last, Billy cut through the suspended bong smoke. “Ay, let’s smoke a ciggy before the game starts.”

Niko stood at once.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“I’ma need to bum one though.”

“Of course, you do. How am I not surprised?”

“Shut it, Lefty. Or I’m only bumming from your pack.”

“Like it’s been all morning? But no worries. I’ve smoked one pack already and plan to do the same with this second.”

Out on the porch. The dead silence outside was a welcome change in which I was consoled by two faithful companions. Bitter frost and icy cold. My every exhale heavy and black beneath a spiky row of icicles.

Heavy snowfall muffled every sound on the streets. Deafening all sounds of life.

An eerie sense of calm accompanied us as we blew smoke and griped endlessly. Lefty and Billy were back at each other’s throats yet again over something forgettable that happened at the tailgate earlier. Both of them red-faced and snarling, red-faced from their respective corners over one of those ‘you had to be there’ type scenarios which was of little to no import. It never was. Entertaining a couple lines of their banter only further proved their points were opposite regardless of what they argued about and when seemingly all had been settled one added comment brought the whole discussion full circle again. The logical alternative to their nonsense was staying outside it. Otherwise, risk sacrificing time to a dizzying, anti-climactic end. One of several reasons why these endless nights melded into one.

All I could think was that the girls could’ve said they had other plans, or didn’t want to see us again. Which was equally fine. But to leave us hanging, holed in by winter’s offering, was the cruelest punishment imaginable.

As soon as we got blown back inside, I was caving all over again and sent Sophia a follow up message to the one she still hadn’t answered to. Fearing I’d been dragged down into bitter defeat before any battle was fought.

“Let’s switch to the game already,” Billy barked at Lefty.

“On it,” Lefty said, practically pressed up against the TV screen. The TV remote in hand as he switched through the channels. Everyone crowded around for a good spot to watch from. Giving no mind to their blatant disregard of my living space.

“Think about it. We could be cheering there in person right now and supporting our school,” Lefty lamented, turning my direction. “We were gonna invite you to come tailgating this morning until you huffed and puffed and all but blew the house away.”

My eyes widened at the terrible prospects of this notion.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Everyone’s there, by the way. And here we are, alone at your house. Like always.”

“I’m hardly alone,” I tried focusing on the TV as stocky football players in helmets and shoulder pads entered the stadium. Red and blue dots which blew onto the snowy field with referees in black and white stripes running to keep up behind them.

My disdain for college sports was simple. I never rallied behind the home team like a good fan and never would. But it now provided the perfect excuse to put off any of my actual ambitions as gathering winds from opposing directions whipped the shutters and battered the door.

I turned more frigid at Lefty’s discovery of an old chess set. Forgotten on a shelf of junk and buried under dusty layers of sediment. Its glossy squares checkered in shades of light and dark gray. The heavy slab of marble was all dinged up around the edges and one of the chessmen were missing. A sole white pawn which Lefty replaced with a bottle of eye-drops. “Let the games begin!” He spoke with childlike glee as he cleared a spot on the coffee table.

“Feel free to help yourselves to whatever you want,” I said.

“Guests are entitled to such liberties.”

Lefty spoke in his signature blank stare and deadpan delivery. My response was to reach for the whiskey bottle and take another shot at filling a gaping chasm.

There hadn’t been time to play board games in years and this relic was yet another casualty of my past in which every time I moved from one place to another it followed me along. Being raised on such pastimes of leisure, nothing defined the love for reckless risks and calculated abandon more than this battle of wits. The timeless challenge between opposing minds. And what better way to sate our bloodthirst without drawing any weapons or stepping onto the battlefield? Except I no longer played games which ended with the same result. One winner. One loser.

I reclined back, nearly drifting off altogether. But I could only float so far on a tethered line. I wrestled with an overabundance of emotion as alcohol seeped through every crack and pore, contaminating my better judgment by providing delusion any possible reason to excuse past behavior. Despite the broken communication, I held onto the sliver of a chance something miraculous might happen.

Bong in hand. I sparked up anew. Obliterating any remaining brain cells as I entered the abyss. Eyelids glued. Unwilling to flit open until I sat level with my sights: a cursory overview of the room sketched out Niko’s raggedy frame stuck preening in the reflection of his cracked phone screen. Poor bastard. He was still fooled into believing they might show.

We won the coin toss which further electrified the home crowd.

Billy cleared his throat after allowing Lefty time to arrange the chessmen. “What you doing there, dumb-dumb?”

“Setting up the board for the match.”

“You did it wrong.”

What do you mean? Queens on their own color. Kings facing each other. White square in the bottom right corner.” Lefty rubbed his eyes, but could hardly contain his bewilderment.

“Yes, those are the standard rules. What I mean is that the board’s backwards. I’ma go ahead and turn it around like that. Presto!”

“But I’m white.”

Lefty turned the board back with the white pieces facing him.

“Oh no, you aren’t. I’m always first.”

“But- but that’s not fair. I’m the one who challenged you.”

“So what? Life’s not fair. It’s actively the opposite. To go first you gotta win that right.”

“We haven’t even played yet!”

“Are you going to finish setting up or complain all night?” Billy yawned in agitation, nearly pushed to his breaking point already when Lefty subsided his mounting frustrations with a turn of the board, reversing their positions.

He grumbled under his breath as he finished lining up the pawns in front of his other pieces while Billy, already playing the victor, gulped down another one of his ginger beers.

“Ahh, listen up and I’ll teach you something. The opening in chess can help you gain the upper hand by weakening the king’s defenses. Which leaves twenty possible opening moves for controlling the board. For once you run out of book moves, you’ll find the game quickly devolves into chaos.”

“My preferred mode for ensuring a victory in my endgame. And yes, I’ve heard of opening move theory.”

Following some added dialogue by the announcers, the football players stormed the field for kickoff.

Billy squared the glasses on his arched nose and stroked the scruff on his chin as he calculated his opening strategy to control the board, particularly the center, and set up possible opportunities for an early capture. He eventually opened with a move straight from the textbook. His king pawn pushed forward two squares.

The match had officially begun. Eleven players on each side. First possession. The linemen smashed into each other at the whistle, blending in with the snowflakes. First down ended on a short run with little yardage gained.

“When it comes to openers you should be made aware that white holds a slight advantage over its dark counterpart due to fairness,” said Billy, comparing their chessmen.

“All the more reason why black must be cunning.”

“Or be foul. As in your case.”

If Billy’s plotting was needless and excessive, Lefty embellished his opening even further. After a thorough inspection of the 8x8 checkerboard and his sixteen pieces, he haphazardly moved one pawn forward, then back, before moving to another pawn, studiously weighing its fate before the outcome and doing the same with the left knight, then right, returning them each time with a sigh, his elbows resting upon his crossed knees to support the bulk of his head in his hands.

Just when one thought it couldn’t get more riveting, Lefty jolted back to life with lightning-flash animation. His face forked in a peculiar grin as he stood there with both arms akimbo. His fighting stance.

He flicked his wrist for a dramatic flourish as he countered his opponent’s pawn with his own, and let go—only to return to his previous square.

Second down. A second offensive running play with zero yards gained.

“Uh, what you think you’re doing there, big guy?”

“What you mean?”

“You can’t move back once your finger’s off.”

“Says who?”

“Every chess master who’s ever lived. I swear, it’s like playing against a toddler.”

“But I changed my mind and placed it back before your move. That’s legal.”

“Not in my book.”

“Someone was in chess club back in elementary school.

“Damn right.”

“OK. We can play your way for now. But we’ll see how smug your face looks when the advantage flips.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to keep progressive.”

“Progressive in the traditional sense,” Lefty straightened at the whistle for another play which resulted in a dropped pass and another down. He continued: “There’d be far less dispute over what’s considered correct. Take this game, for instance.”

“Let’s not trivialize this further,” Billy waved off his rising boredom. “What’s important is that you play my way.”

“I thought it was about winning fair and square. But I won’t do it again, happy?”

“Sure. Still your move.”

“I’ll move my other pawn, if you’ll allow it.”

Lefty moved his queen’s pawn one space.

“Has it been that long since you’ve played? You can open with two spaces, y’know?

“Everyone knows that. But that’s not how I open.”

Billy arched one of his brows. “You mean to tell me that you chose to move a single space when everyone universally takes two? Unlikely. You fail. I’ll see how quick and painless I can make this.”

“My exact thinking.”

End of third down. The return man received the punt return in our endzone for a touchback. Change of possession.

“Allow me to represent the hope campaign,” said Billy. Every one of his answers being politically charged. “The kind to bring a sweeping sense of order to this class divided world that’s rife with inequity.”

“Don’t be such a moralist. It’s unbecoming of you.”

The stage was set for a debate as both smug-faced candidates smiled and waved from their podiums. It was from here, placed on ahigh, that all creatures of congress, their tanned leather faces and pearly whites veiled behind thin-lipped smirks, as they performed their predatory rites of devouring more than their share. The awful state of our union was the same old critique with a cosmetically enhanced visage. State actors and paid politicians proved to be the sum of their parts. Equaling a fractured whole. Both parties being superficial systems for government actors who indulged themselves on public spectacle to play roles while lobbyists campaigned for the candidate who lined their pockets most. These civil magicians mastered the art of saying one thing while, with a sleight of hand, doing another.

Despite the playful jabs both parties remained civil while an advertisement block broke up the mind-numbing gameplay. Vying for attention until my cellphone unexpectedly buzzed.

No matter how thick the ice grew it could crack.

hi :)

Word at last! I could hardly believe it. Somehow this single word response affected my equilibrium worse than any skull and crossbones available, thrusting me into an even harder head scratching position than Lefty who couldn’t seem to decide how long to take between turns.

When he finally chose which knight he wanted to charge with, he sighed, according to routine, before ultimately settling on a whim to move another piece in the final moment. This time, crossing the board too confidently with his bishop. Perceiving this threat, Billy met him laterally to block him with his queen. Billy returned a laugh quicker than Lefty could retreat.

The TV roared.

Here I’ve waited on the hours in agonizing misery for an answer and I didn’t have a single move. As if facing a chess problem of my own design.

Never had I struggled so much to wrest the words I wanted to say from the crackpot of nonsense stewing in my mind. I completely froze over. As if no longer walled off from the harsh extremes beating upon the walls. The irony was that now I’d been given the opportunity, I couldn’t bear having it on another’s terms.

Amidst every red flag and warning came something in the smoke signals to place me back on that same cloud from when we first met. Leading me to concoct the best of the worst I could muster in response.

Hey, stranger. Long time no talk…

Nothing left for me to do now but pretend to watch the TV. Above which hung a thick, black halo.

“God, I love this sport.”

“What do you know about it, Lefty?” Niko snapped back. But besides the occasional outburst, he remained mostly subdued.

“Show up, pregame your tits off, and get rowdy for the home team—what else is there to know?”

Only a few moves in and it was back to the same differences of opinion.

sorry! we went out to breakfast with Chase’s dad and I forgot my phone so we had to drive back home LOL

I looked up to meet Niko’s measured gaze from across the room. He lifted his arms in the air to which, I shrugged my shoulders in response. All of this communicated silently as a local newsflash recapped the November elections and latest economic crisis. A housing bubble that resulted in thousands of foreclosures and a subsequent recession—all in thirty seconds or less.

Billy, always primed to flex his strong political rhetoric, couldn’t help from adjusting his posture and challenging Lefty to a competition of shameless party devotion with the usual tactics, advancing his knight to lead the charge as he delivered his state of the union address.

“Such an atrocity would never occur if we taxed the wealthy their due. It’s Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. At least hold corrupt banks accountable for their faulty loans. Forget austerity measures. How much longer can we treat greedy corporations like individuals?”

“Likely forever as long as greedy people take handouts.” Lefty set his black rook straightforward.

Being trapped in the same binary coding which painted all serious matters in black and white it was merely a game of role playing for Billy and Lefty. Both of whom had inherited the colors of their party affiliation. But with partisanship promoted home team complacency we’ve become doomed on either side to cultural traditions where the only thing missing in identity politics was the individual.

“I advise you to rethink that position. You’re comparing trifling sums to government stimulus packages for those affected by the housing crisis.” Billy continued. “Besides, this is a 30-year mortgage we’re talking about, not social security. People only expect fair interest rates which won’t hike over the years.”

“If the money isn’t theirs to begin with, you can’t expect fairness.”

“Like the value of a home is pocket change. Observe the conservative playbook at hand for stripping our middle class of their equitable wealth. I can’t wait to hear your rationale for such a pitiable stance.” Billy had successfully baited him with his stratagem of clever tricks, eagerly awaiting the expected repartee.

Lefty’s chest puffed up. Readying himself in the natural position for him to regurgitate his own rehearsed spiel and radical agenda. The one undoubtedly inherited from angry AM radio broadcasters and his upbringing. He quivered and shook. Hot words bubbled in his mouth. Like an oozing magma mounting with pressure on the verge of an eruption that held any spectator in suspense.

Except nothing happened. We all paused to watch the rival team complete a 43-yard field goal on the TV set.

Billy groaned as Lefty met his sparring partner’s feint with a parry, angling an errant pawn to capture his pawn en passant, suggesting simply, “How about that which serves the people?”

The satisfaction of drawing first blood always came at a price, and that small taste of victory soon grew into an insatiable thirst.

Billy was determined to even the score and the sacrificial pawn was merely a gambit to capture one of the black bishops with his knight.

“If by interests you mean their wallets,” Billy returned, punctuating his riposte with a sharp thrust. “Why yes, I most certainly do.”

No more sparring. Casualties were balanced once more.

After spending much too long tempering my response to Sophia I hit send. Really? That sucks. Does that mean you’re in for the night?

Lefty moved another pawn into place. “No shame in that. Which is why we don’t need economic oversight.”

“Unless there’s a government shutdown.”

“What makes you worried about that?”

“Budget clashes… Bureaucrats running amok in office… Manufactured public hysteria… You know, the usual national crises which stoke financial toil and political unrest. All because one party refuses to strike a bipartisan deal.”

“Talk about an oxymoron.”

“Face it. The GOP views public health care, or any publicly funded program for that matter, as leeching the federal budget and akin to cardinal sin. Don’t scoff. Imagine if your house catches fire. You’d call the Fire Department. They respond to the emergency. And rightly so. There’s no bartering for the best option on the consumer market or bundled emergency package while your personal belongings get engulfed by flame. Why? It’s a public service. Same as the police department. Drunk driving citations are a big business for the courts. Even the towing company gets a cut.”

“You do realize the taxpayers pay for it?”

“Is that meant to be a trick question?”

“Hardly. Just gauging what accounts for your severe lack of judgment is all. At any rate, if poor folk are lining up for loans with high interest rates, I say let them. It’s a free country.”

“How can you say that?”

“It’s my inalienable right.”

“You mean, unalienable. What does the first amendment mean to you exactly?”

“Equal opportunity in the public forum.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“Besides, I don’t want to fork over my taxes towards any government stimulus package. If you don’t want to raise an unwanted baby then it’s pretty simple. Abstinence.” Lefty said. “It’s not my fault if you can’t keep your legs shut.”

“This isn’t the 19th century. Avoiding the subject only worsens the problem. You’re no better than parents who don’t want schools to educate their children about safe sex so they go out and experience it on their own without the proper tools.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Contraceptives. Awareness of risks like STIs. It’s our biological imperative to reproduce and whether you’re doing it or not, others will be.”

To this last point, Lefty demurred.

“I’m doing it alright. Although I’m smart enough to wear a condom. I think I’m in the majority with this.”

“Everyone knows a real man pulls out.”

The ad hominem attacks continued. With another straw man argument constructed on the back of Lefty’s next retort.

“Or covers the abortion cost, if that’s the case. It should be your problem to raise otherwise.”

“Apparently in a red state. Check.” Billy, growing bored with the tiresome pace, lunged to the forefront with his knight to capture another black pawn. His checking piece supported by a bishop.

“Meaning what?”

“You’re benighted, plainly. And it’s incumbent that I keep you in check.”

“And I’ve got plenty of ways out,” said Lefty after castling kingside to reinforce his stance behind a broken row of pawns.

“There you go changing the rules again.”

“What’s that?”

“You can’t castle your king to get out of check.”

“I’ve never heard that before.”

“Of course you haven’t. But I’ll allow it. As I’m sure you could use the handicap.”

The match wore on. Except the issue was far from settled.

“How kind,” said Lefty, rolling his eyes. “Need I remind you about the Republican gains in Congress? We’re the voted majority.”

“You seem to forget the checks and balances of administrative policy. Check again.” Billy said, advancing his queen diagonally to the front lines in a brazen attack.

Lefty interposed a pawn between the king and checking piece.

“Too bad elected officials are mere pawns.”

“Are we not all pawns in the match of life?” Niko voiced softly from his corner, glancing aside to avoid our questioning stares. Only I knew the reason for his disheartened tone and blushing cheek.

Having been shot for shot with me it was in his interest to overplay his drunkenness. The sight of him in this state was dismal. Unshaved and disheveled, coarse brown hair fell over his face in a tangled mop. I knew he’d be pretty worked up over Chase. But having been so preoccupied myself I didn’t realize how much he suffered from a loaded heart.

Billy retreated back to avoid premature capture of his queen.

Right when I had nearly given up hope altogether, she reached out. Reigniting my hopes again.

maybe. We’re trying to figure it out now haha

“Besides,” Billy pushed on, “for all your blind Pro-Life advocacy, it’s funny how eager you are to see people fry in the electric chair.”

“Only crooks and defectors. I’m a humanitarian. What’s the problem?” Lefty hit back. On-guard.

“You simply can’t dispute Roe vs Wade’s impact on the declining crime rate in the following decades.” Having drawn Lefty’s attention to these side points, he took an unsuspecting pawn with his charging knight. Ending his turn with an emphatic snort.

“I believe our prison system is to thank for that,” Lefty said, and with another grandiose gesture segued to his next arguing point.

“You subscribe to beliefs like comforts sold by the bottle.” Billy moved his bishop to the front lines with an angular strike.

“What’s comfort other than a state of mind?” Niko groaned aloud. His question left to linger as Lefty hooked his dark horse unheeded to counter Billy’s bold advance.

“Too bad nobody likes a white knight,” he said with an added flick and a flourish to this fatal lunge.

The first quarter closed with an interception. For once Billy appeared visibly shocked. Stricken with disbelief as his most virtuous piece got swept clean off the board. He was incredulous to the egregious affront of having been thwarted. Never had he fathomed such a lowly opponent to have the audacity to take the upper hand. And for that he’d dearly pay.

They squabbled on. But I quickly lost interest. Having no stakes in the action.

Minutes passed like nails through a coffin. My own, of course. Being already too late as what was once light fluff falling from the sky steadily began to pack.

So what’s the decision?

Yet it didn’t matter how loudly I screamed from my end. Nothing returned from the other side.

It wasn’t long before I became consumed by overwhelming despair. Did I honestly expect something different? Dejected already, I dropped the phone as the home team missed a field goal attempt. At least they weren’t missing out on a good game anyway. I tried tuning out the disappointing performance but new tensions flared up in a bout of heated discourse. Fomenting further discontent on both ends of the divide.

“I maintain what I said before, however,” Billy made his move utilizing the remaining white knight, defiant. “The U.S. is an oligarchy. And straight to the highest bidder we’re sold.”

“Like affordable public health care. Thanks, sitting democratic leader.”

“Don’t get me started. Health care is a right. Not a privilege.”

Glazed over with orgiastic zeal and bubbling over with pseudo-religious fervor, Lefty abandoned the right-angles in favor of the cunning maneuvers of his remaining bishop. Moving diagonally with his line of attack.

“That’s where you’re sadly mistaken, my fellow compatriot. Nothing comes for free or without the blood and sweat of hard work.”

“Consider if you will the nineties and the Dot.com boom—all of which led to the Silicon Valley. Opportunity abounds for all.”

“Does that account for panhandlers on the street corner? Meanwhile, national debt is on the rise as grifters continue to wheel and deal the US Treasury.”

“Spoken like a true pundit’s puppet. Those trapped at the bottom of the pyramid are affected by crony capitalism like a mass-marketed byproduct. But you’re shaking your head now, what do you suppose?”

“Simple. Most people are lazy.” Lefty moved straight-ahead. Displacing one of Billy’s key defensive pieces with his rook.

“I sense a logical fallacy there.”

“Yet you’re the laziest person I know.”

Lefty picked up the bong to load a bowl.

“Which only proves,” Billy explained further, bringing his polished knight back to the rescue, “there’s an additional need for funded programs. Ones which provide equal share.”

“Funded by the state?”

“Federal.”

“No thanks. I’d say that’s the real fallacy.”

“To which of my concise points?”

“All of the above. It goes against everything the Constitution stands for. This isn’t the United States of Communism!”

“Then explain this, you claim to want a smaller government but take no issue with our exorbitant military budget.”

“Freedom isn’t free.”

“Certainly not for a bombastic blowhard who doesn’t understand economic multiplying effects of infrastructure projects in which you spend during crises by ramping up state funding. Like China, for example.”

“Such talk explains the Republican wave from the midterm elections.”

Possession of the football traded after four plays. The game quickly going nowhere with back-and-forth scoreless drives so I took it upon myself to hasten things along.

Still tryna drop by?

While I waited for to respond, I couldn’t help from looking around the room and pondering over how a crossed threshold invited your guest to play host until I felt a familiar buzz. Sophia.

we’re trying to! :) weather permitting, of course

More than taken back by her playfulness, I began constructing my response when the camera panned across a section of cheering fans which caused Lefty to jump from his seat. Nearly knocking over the pieces on the board.

“What are you spazzing out for? Stop it.” Billy censured him with a fixed look.

“It’s Thresher! And his old roommate Silky. And the Remoras. We saw them at the trailer with the loud speakers and those mini corndogs you liked.”

“I’m well aware. We went to the same private school, dummy. And I never mentioned anything about no corndogs. The rest sounds familiar, though. It all start to get fuzzy after my third or fourth Bloody Mary.”

“I recall it perfectly. Sandwiched between the red truck with the Jagerbombs and the tent with hot dogs and jalapeño poppers where we saw that Chase girl at.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy hissed back. But it came too late.

I pounced upon Lefty at once. “Who was there?”

“You know, the usual. Thresher. Silky.”

“After that. Next to the truck with the Jagerbombs and jalapeño poppers.”

“The jalapeño poppers were on the other side. But yeah, that Sophia chick was there with her friend. Mason Remora too.”

Out at last. And caught in the act. It seemed like I should’ve known better than to trust her show of truth and beauty. Turns out there was more artifice in her intentions than her painted face. Infected with desire I became caught by the snares of love. Or was it lust? Who knew my obligation to faithfully see things through would be rewarded with sweet lies. Mason surely would’ve known about us. Always the crafty opportunist he would’ve loved nothing more than to rob me of a good thing.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. Are you dating her or something?”

“No.” I admitted, unable to conceal my pained expression.

“That’s good. She didn’t seem to be particularly tied down.”

Billy shot him down with another look. I wanted nothing more than to tune everything out entirely. Lefty worsened the situation further.

“But why should you care? Plenty more where she came from, am I right?”

I wasted no time in sending out my following text.

Why bother when you haven’t even tried?

I couldn’t believe it. Not only had she already come to town but she expected to get catered to—so typical—and it soon became increasingly clear that she never planned to come at all.

The hostilities continued.

“When we’re talking progressive policies,” Billy risked more, his methods plagued by repetitious virtue signaling, for which he called upon his queen to attack with another turn of the thumbscrew, “Don’t be bamboozled by the color of my collar. There must be a tight system in place to ensure the wheels turn. Protocols. Red tape.”

“Exactly why I don’t pay for someone’s free ride with my hard-earned cash.”

“You nor the 1-percent.”

“Pitch a tent on Wall Street if you’d like. This country is falling apart with that kind of thinking.”

“Which says a lot about your right-wing constituents.” Billy swiped another pawn off the board. Going for a mating combo with his rook.

“Don’t tread on me. What you’re talking about is socialism.”

“Except socialism is fascism.”

“No. Fascism is right. Socialism is left.” Lefty was back on the offensive. Interposing his queen between his king. His disdain made palpable by his constant need to overexplain things. “Next you’ll try selling me on climate change like a true swindler.”

“I can do that free of charge, thank you. Some basic research can teach you all about man’s impact on the delicate global ecosystem from holes in the ozone to the receding polar ice caps.”

“No thanks. I already know it’s a marketing scheme. What they don’t want you to know is the ice is shifting to the other side of the planet.”

Another down. No yardage lost or gained.

“Says who? Maybe your garden variety doomsday prepper, but not any reputable scientist.”

“Someone I know. He’s one of my dad’s old buddies and a close family friend.”

“An anonymous source. How convenient.”

“No, you just wouldn’t know him so there’s no point in disclosing his name.”

“Sorry, but you’ll need to cite sources for such an outlandish claim.”

“He teaches at a high school so I’d say a fairly reliable source.” Lefty lay sideways on the couch, drowning his eyes with smoke, as he captured Billy’s attacking rook.

wait…what do u mean? we’re just waiting for the roads to get plowed

They continued trading barbs.

“Listen to this rabble-rouser!” Billy slapped his knee. “Spouting off any trite nonsense or outright lying to get ahead.”

To which, Lefty responded with full-throated bravado.

“Always, and with glee,” he nodded in affirmation. Still on the offensive. “The trick to a long healthy life isn’t nearly as difficult as it seems, you see. No. Sometimes you’re playing with a strong suit, but more often than not, you end up with a bust. I learned a long time ago it’s not the cards you’re dealt but how well you play them.”

By now, the pitch of their voices gradually sounded more or less the same.

“Is that not part of being an adult? What about personal accountability?” Said one voice.

“Or self-control for that matter.” Said the other.

“Sorry, I’m not sorry. I don’t apologize for shit.” To which, Lefty added. “We live in a world shaped by tyrants. Which is why I oppose amnesty for illegal immigrants.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with some healthy isolationism, am I right?” Billy made no attempt to conceal his sarcasm.

“That’s what I’m saying!”

“Except for a little thing called the global economy. You never cease to amaze me with your hair-brained ideology. It smacks of inexperience and if not for that congenital defect, you’d be like any other long-haired hipster smoking pot on campus. Which isn’t too surprising coming from a cop’s son.”

“Quid pro quo. You never seem to mind having a guardian angel with a badge watching over us. He tipped us off when the call came to bust more than one party. It’s not dumb luck that you’ve never got a drinking ticket.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far enough from the tree indeed. Is being the NRA’s poster boy worth the gun violence constantly reported in the news. You do watch the news, don’t you? Or scroll through your social media feed, at least.”

“I’m likely the only one smart enough to avoid it. In fact, this day and age the best thing to do is hunker down with an arsenal of guns before shit really hits the fan. You’ll see how quickly your precious social niceties fall to the wayside.”

“Accidental deaths, active shooters, inner city gang warfare: and your answer to all these problems is more guns? Don’t get me started.”

“What’s the matter? Guns never killed no one. It’s who pulls the trigger.”

“And you think it’s safer if we all open carry?”

“Living in a predatory world… uh, yeah.”

“Good grief. You almost make me want to get a gun. It would appear we still live in the Wild West.”

“Now you’re getting it. The new American frontier.”

Billy examined the board. His bushy brows furrowed behind his spectacles.

“It’s a broken system.” He muttered at last.

“There’s no denying that,” said Lefty. “All I can say is God bless, America. Land of the free.”

“Belligerent. You’re only saying that because you value free market systems over democracy. All considered, how do you answer for Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib, or the Mai Lai massacre?”

“War spoils.”

Of all the inane things Lefty took umbrage to or which caused him be up in arms he couldn’t be bothered by any real-life atrocities.

The opposing blue team successfully kicked a second field goal.

The referee blew his whistle. Halftime. 6-0. It was a game with little to no action in which we hadn’t put a single point on the board.

Billy and Lefty were still engaged with their feud. Niko dangled by the last fraying thread, silently watching. His watery eyes; red, swollen, and enflamed, hung heavily in their baggy sockets. Wherein a minute’s hope reflected back a whole world of grief. Forsworn by broken vows and drunker and more vulnerable than ever before.

Too cold for comfort, my drunken laziness got the better of me and I lit up a cigarette inside the house. Thus, sparking the revolution everyone else was dying for as we sat encircled within our curling smoky tendrils.

I sat there silently fuming. Something had to give.

The build-up of sorrow stung at their throbbing source. An endless expression of hot, burning pain upon having received such harsh cruelty. If they never planned to come then so be it. But why insist on dangling us along one moment to the next where once again, I remained faithful to prior engagements that were broken from the start. So in a final, desperate act I gripped the cold metallic phone in my trembling, sweaty palms. Pointer finger enflamed. Already bracing for the worst. I knew there’d be no harm in calling her out now: So you say…yet we’ve been here waiting for you all day because of plans we made.

The second half began. But for me the game was already over. With any victory forever eluding my grasp.

It didn’t take long for her to compose a mini-paragraph in response explaining in full detail all the trouble they had to go through with her (or was it Chase’s?) family. How after every effort they were still stuck out and unable to make the drive out north. My ballooning expectations had all but deflated yet, she still dangled the possibility of making it over if the inclement weather somehow subsided.

I don’t believe it. Also, how was tailgating this morning?

I withdrew from mindless spectating altogether and lit up another cigarette. Filling my already burning chest and wondering what she was really up to given what I currently knew. Accosted by imaginings of her past conquests of other beds as the match wore on.

Both teams traded possession back and forth. In a deadlock of hard tackles with the seconds whittling down on the play clock.

Interception. Turnover on downs.

The chess match, having already approached the middle game, made the switch from conservative play to mass casualties due to liberal carelessness. Sacrificial chess pieces lay scattered all around the checkered board. Including both queens. Any potential breakthrough resulting in a subsequent lapse of judgment that cost them sorely. Like poor defense from the home team leading to another touchdown. Bringing the score to 13-0.

The living room was hot and muggy. The collective haze swirling around our heads. Most of the company who came to pick up had left by now and Niko, looking paler than ever, fell into a deep snooze. Curled up on the ground like it was a king-sized mattress and rocking with each heavy breath. A bit of spittle on his chin. The bottle clutched in his fleshy pink grip. Empty save for its final drops. Billy and Lefty were almost through with their Old Testament chess match where each piece taken got counterbalanced by the other until the only pieces left were their kings and a single pawn. Save Lefty who held onto a trusty rook which gave him the upper hand.

It wasn’t until the first minute of the fourth quarter that the home team successfully completed a field goal. Putting three points on the scoreboard, 13-3.

We were back in the running. But it was too little too late.

The chessboard remained the same for over fifteen minutes, and it had been twice as long since someone uttered a single word. Such quietude wasn’t bound to last.

“When will this ever end!” Lefty said, balling up his fists. “Let’s start over.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Billy coolly extinguished his cigarette. Recalcitrant to a fault. “Don’t be so glib. I nearly mated you and ended this multiple times already. I’ll do so again. Don’t you fret. That and it sounds like too much of chore.”

“If you say so. Is not the morale of David and Goliath that it takes an underdog to win?” said Lefty. Spoken like a true religious panderer.

“Lefty, you’re no more David than the Son of Sam. Besides, how’d that underdog mentality fare for the rebels in the south?”

Lean forward. Pack a bowl. Strike the dome. Repeat. With enough solvents I could dissolve any problem. My solution. Eventually I felt grateful to weather the storm with a little company. Such reasoning withstood the test of bad company and the harshness of time.

It was the next unexpected jolt which crushed my schoolboy hopes for good.

we went for an hourish but we had no clue u were waiting! promise

“Check,” said Lefty. Black king had white king hemmed on the back-rank with black rook giving check. Pinning Billy’s pawn to his king. All Lefty needed to do was get his final pawn across the board to be promoted to another piece. Presumably bringing his queen back to the equation before hunting down white’s king like wild game. A painstaking, yet fruitful endeavor if the match were to ever end.

Except Billy thought otherwise.

He bit the tip of his thumb and weighed the consequences. On the brink of a smothered mate in which his own piece prevented his king from fleeing. He was clearly too stubborn to know when to admit defeat and moved one thought at a time, and after what felt like hours of painstaking deliberation, he moved his king one square. But instead of utilizing the plethora of available squares to flee to he moved back to the square he was just on which brought him out of check again.

Lefty pursued with his black rook, thus blocking Billy’s pawn from advancement. “Check.”

And then you left? Why waste our time like this?

Under attack, Billy frowned at the obstacle before him. Puzzled. After he carefully reviewed all the angles again, his king escaped attack by retreating to another flight square. The same one it was previously on.

Again, black rook checked white king.

There were no legal moves left for the white king to evade capture. Billy moved in front of Lefty’s pawn for the second time.

“Check again,” said Lefty. Triumphant already.

“So you know, one usually asks for a draw after making the same move three times in a row,” said Billy matter-of-factly.

“No chance in hell. I want to see my end game through.”

According to his logic, Billy theorized he could move back and forth between the same two spots. Ad infinitum. Which he did.

im cold. i guess

Like a defective sprinkler head Lefty broke off from his latest rant. His talk broken, sputtering out in uneven blocks of expletives.

“The fuck is this shit!” He spit venom. Yellow spittle splattering the board. “Every other square’s available but you’re stuck in zugzwang.”

“Very cute of you to make up words but I don’t have to make a move that worsens my position. Besides, if I move somewhere else, I’m at a disadvantage to lose.” He explained in a sarcastic tone which failed to legitimize his stance.

“Isn’t the whole point to determine a winner? A good sport would pick another square already.”

So that’s it? I replied in exhaustion.

Billy surveyed the board with finality.

“But it’s a stalemate,” he said.

“That’s no goddamn stalemate! You’ve gotta make another move. Right?” Lefty tried appealing to a still slumbering Niko and myself before blowing up over how big of a sore loser Billy was for not even having the dignity to lose the match with honor and respect. Apparently, that didn’t matter much to either of them. Eventually I gave up on waiting for any agreement to be had with the black and white checkered board looking more like gradations of gray.

“But I don’t want to move to another square.”

i’m not sure what to say…

“But you have to.”

A liar, thief, murderer, tyrant, traitor, rebel, cheat, stony-hearted and wicked spirit. These were among some of the other words I wanted to suggest in regards to such art. For nothing could prevent this ugly, poisonous thing from welling up inside.

“Says who?”

That you simply had a change of heart. Should we even keep talking?

“Anybody who’s played chess, for starters. Checkmate!”

“Checkmate my ass.”

The fight continued. But I could no longer deny the logical conclusion that an early climax led to. I had only tricked myself into believing there to be an ace up the sleeve, and having no escape from showing the losing hand after pushing all-in, I laid it all out.

And since things were done, I decided to make it even worse for myself.

Judging from this painful silence, there’s something I must confess—choked up with emotion, it was impossible to exhale the trapped breaths welling up in my throat—about not being fully truthful in the past. I’ve never raced before. Not for the Academy. Not ever. Wherever we end up from here I just needed you to know I’m not all that you thought I was

There it was. How else did one go about owning their inexperience?

Her response was just as sad.

sorry

I had no idea :(

All communication ceased after that.

The football fumbled. Having cast my burden, I at once became trapped under a rising swell. A cloud with enough grains of salt to vex and rub the eyes raw like sandpaper. Resulting in droplets which made oceans out of each desert. Their salt-shaken dunes dematerializing as our second-string quarterback completed a touchdown pass.

It turned into a one-possession game for a winning comeback.

“Got another cig for me?” Billy broke the silence at last. Tapping Lefty’s leg as he gawked at the replay onscreen.

They paused to watch the 42-yard field goal attempt. The football curved ever so slightly and passed within inches of the goal post.

“Shit. That makes it 10-16. There’s only four left in my pack,” said Lefty.

“Perfect. Two each.”

I wiped away the wetness with shaky palms, already anticipating the loss as I searched for potential candidates to latch my fury onto, and the flick of a lighter was the perfect spark.

“Another one. Really?” I said.

“That’s what we were just discussing,” they chuckled. “This game is never ending.”

“I’m talking about the cigs.” I accosted them while they lit their cigarettes end-to-end.

The crushed butts in the ashtray began to create a series of miniature fires. Like a bouquet of filters in full bloom with bright, hazardous for your health colors.

“What?” They were equally stunned with confusion.

“It’s like a goddamn casino in here,” I said.

“I love that smell. You started it. Remember?”

“I know, Lefty. And as usual, paying dearly for it. But you know what they say, give an inch,” while still mid-gripe, I yanked the chain to the ceiling fan to turn it on when the entire unit detached from the ceiling and came crashing down onto the unsuspecting parties below. Landing squarely between Lefty and Billy on the coffee table.

The living room went black. All except for the TV’s glow which illuminated the scattered pieces from the chessboard along with a startled Niko who, bolting upright from the sudden crash, began feeling for the plastic pill bottle to pop an Addy into his yawning mouth.

Billy’s voice broke the silence.

“A draw by agreement!”

“Such bullshit. I was so about to win.”

Lefty looked down at the scattered pieces of the board. Resigned to disbelief.

“It’s best in cases like this that the losing party acquiesces to the superior campaign.”

“Fear not. We’ll rebalance the scales once more. If not this cycle, then next.”

They remained divided. No pieces remained on the board, and no winner on either side.

The night officially soured after that stunt. Despite having only watched from the sideline, I felt exhausted and spent while the rest remained glued to the events unfolding as our running back rushed the ball three yards into the endzone for another touchdown.

Following an equally successful extra-point conversion, the home team now led for the first time with a whopping one-point spread.

Lefty breathed out a loud sigh. Rubbing his grubby little hands together.

“What a game. I’m almost proud of the school I attend.”

“Thanks to Buzz wearing the number one jersey,” Billy answered him. “He’s going to take us all the way to a bowl game if you haven’t heard.”

“Who hasn’t heard of Buzz? Everybody knows Buzz. We’ve partied together on more than one occasion. Who do you think he’ll play for in the pros?”

“You mean the star running back of our conference? Who knows. The draft order will establish that.”

“What happened to Ramrod, the old running back? I used to always see him at your house on campus.”

“Not sure,” said Billy, his head cocked ever so slightly. “I haven’t seen him since he graduated. Last I heard he was playing a division below the big leagues.”

“I’ll never forget smoking spliff bowls with him in the morning between classes. I love telling people I’ve done drugs with college athletes.”

“Some people’s children,” said Billy, shaking his bristled head before stretching slowly from side to side. “Man, my neck is killing me. Chess takes a toll on the mightiest of minds.”

“I wouldn’t have let it go on so long if I hadn’t mistaken my queen for a bishop.”

“If only the pieces were hand carved by a blind carpenter. It was inevitable.”

“Tell me I didn’t have that in the bag.”

“If not for your oversights, maybe. Maybe not.”

No matter how bad the jeers and insults got they could agree to disagree. Most of the time.

4th & 11 yards to go. In the final seconds of the fourth quarter. The rival team had one last attempt to reclaim their victory with a 42-yard field goal attempt—blocked!

We were the winners. Except I had lost. Twisted out of my frigid state, and boiled over with hate. I thirsted for bloodshed well after any ceasefire had been made.

“So that’s it?” I cut through my anger at last, picking up the scattered bits of my living room so that I could put it back together again, piece by piece.

They both looked over. Equally shocked.

“All that huffing and puffing for hours on end and all for naught? What a waste.”

“It’s only a game. One wins.”

To which, Lefty finished for him.

“One loses.”

“Shut up. But yes. One loses.”

“Excepting stalemates.”

“Then you’ve got two losers. It’s all the same. Don’t you partake in organized sports?”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“It’s likely the biggest reasons why I’m transferring out of state soon,” Lefty said.

“Yeah, you think. Where to?”

“I’m thinking about Eugene, Oregon. They’ve got a real program there.”

“You’re moving because of a college football team?”

“That and a new job opportunity. A new life. A new everything. Wanna come?”

The notion alone conjured up images of them living together. Constantly bickering and arguing about whose turn it was to take out the garbage. Like reruns of a sitcom that you’ve seen one too many times.

“Are you seriously inviting me to bum on your couch? Or should I say you’re currently hypothetical couch?”

“Yes. Why the hell not?”

“Please, I’ve got a warm bed now and I’m back on good terms with my folks after crashing my car beyond blackout drunk. It will take a better arrangement than that to accept free board. I’ve got respect for myself.”

“Like sexual payment for rent,” I connected the dots for him.

“See? Someone gets it. Besides, some of us nearly traded blows after living under the same roof together. Isn’t that right?” He elbowed me hard. “One such instance ended with me putting this guy in a chokehold for acting like an unruly drunken baboon and breaking my personal things.”

No matter how much you try to add meaning to your life it only got reduced to embarrassing moments with friends they made impossible to forget. These were the people who stayed with you for life. And Billy’s favorite line, “I’ll always feel bad for almost killing you,” translated to his love for going through extreme lengths to casually bring up how I nearly began to convulse until he let go. No mind that time he drunkenly punched a mirror at a college party then had to be rushed to the hospital after losing too much blood.

But I kept my rising anger in check. “That was at the green house on campus. We lived in the Avenues together.”

“Where I lasted one month.”

“I’ll always think fondly of your place on H Street.” The always sentimental Lefty began to get teary-eyed.

“Girls would leave after twenty minutes at that shit hole,” said Niko, not fully awake and sounding despondent and far out. “I’d have done the same.”

The classic scapegoat argument. Where I was somehow responsible for the collective failures of their unrealized youth. How ironic the disaster experience which was my first college house was equally bad for those who didn’t pay rent.

“Somebody also got their car keyed there.” Lefty began to laugh while wiping the wet from his eyes.

“Enough. It’s a quarter past five,” I said, turning the TV off.

They simply stared back in the dark as if broken from deep concentration until I helped them grasp what I meant.

“The big storm should hit soon. We should head before the snow flies,” said Lefty.

Billy scratched his head.

“Already? Where does the time go?”

“I’m stuck on the same quandary. I’ll come sometime tomorrow to fix your ceiling fan.”

They continued talking while I sat there gripping the cold bong in the dark. Smoke still streaming from my mouth.

Cut off from one, I remained too available for the rest.

It would be nearly another half an hour before they got around to loading their last bowls by candlelight. Niko’s speed pills had officially kicked in and he soon zoomed in and out the light of the flickering flame.

After every bowl I torched it felt as if a tectonic plate had shifted. Head leaned back, with both eyes snapped shut, my swirling thoughts spun like vacuous whirlpools as I spiraled down into nothingness. I imagined being anywhere else, away from home, away from everyone altogether.

“Last ciggy?” Billy fielded the crowd.

Such bliss couldn’t be found. Whenever I began to sink deeper into sweet oblivion I was pulled back. My mind being like a broken record. Stuck on Sophia.

Devoid of any visible emotion, I didn’t bother reaching for my pack. Niko repeatedly flipped the top of his empty pack open having smoked his last cigarette hours ago until Lefty jumped to his aid.

“You’re bumming me out. There should be a brand-new pack in the car.”

“That was quite a row we had back there.”

“Or two. Sorry about that.”

“No, the fault was mine. We must’ve gotten carried away.”

“Not half-bad while it lasted.”

“Wait until we play again.”

They got sucked out the open door with the rest of the stale smoke. I was more than relieved to see them out. Their voices trailing out onto the porch where they hung around longer for a smoky nightcap.

Cold moonlight flooded the living room until the door slammed shut.

Alone at last—save for the company of the screaming wind. Like a wolf pup’s first howl.

Outside their voices eventually dwindled. Burned out: I relit the dying embers within my chest. Bent forward and doubled over with my double-vision, I was sick of being comfortably tired, with bong in hand, unable to cast aside the burden of my desires.

The candle’s flame licked up. An orange tongue that sent long shadows onto the opposing wall. Their menacing, dancing shapes a result of their distorted proportions.

The still night got broken by an eerily high-pitched call followed by a frantic scratching at the door.

Fearing one of the boys had forgot their cellphone or wallet I froze. Somehow knowing it was entirely different. I grew rigid. Goosebumps forming upon my skin as the hideous noise picked up, sounding more dire, more desperate, than ever before. Accompanied with a pained yowl, the ominous portent which emanated from the porch was no friend returning for their wallet or phone. It had come to stay.

Within its wretched call I discerned a plea. One that translated crudely to an unrelenting rapping in my head. Its resinous contents bubbled up with the paranoia of who or what awaited me on the other side until I could stand the suspense no longer and sprang upwards onto my quaking feet. My heart fluttering against the ribcage.

Opening up a tiny crack, I stared into blackest winter night before I gradually unhinged even more.

Silence…. all sound buried beneath cushioned heaps of snow that continually kept falling. All the rest carried upon a familiar wind. It would take a hellish blizzard such as this to bring the worst of it to my doorstep.

But right when I opened up wide, ready to face whatever my ills had brought to my door, the jagged outline of a wretched form pieced itself together. Starting with two piercing black eyes.

The black dog’s shadowy form spilled across the threshold. It sat there. Huddled, and shivering on the porch as if daring not to enter without my express permission. Its fiery stare deadened to burnt cinders. My heart pained for the foreboding shape lumbering inside for warmth and whatever scraps could be freely given. Which filled me with dread knowing it had been left out in the cold, and for how long.

I reached out to receive my forgotten companion. Using a hand on either side to lead the poor thing inside where it could be protected from winter’s elements. Laying on the couch, I coaxed its’ shaggy, coarse fur. Consumed over all that transpired with Sophia until falling into a deep slumber. Chest heaving, I held on for dear life knowing I’d never forsake true love again.

Beneath my coverture of gloom her image got polluted. Inversions of thought which muddled heavenly hells until pleasant to abhor. Confined by duties and devotion she readily awarded with pain and confusion. As if held in bondage of an unsavory transaction which forfeited the debtor’s pay for use.

Come to think of it, I always enjoyed staring into the smoldering flame. Forever bound to burning ash and cinders. The restless rustle fanned my smoky embers as we got buried deeper by night.

                                                                     *     *     *

The city came to an abrupt standstill—upright and clenched, bracing for the inevitable impact. A flurry of newscasts stormed the airwaves with frightful premonitions. Babbling meteorologists who had the nervous excitement of an unpaid intern. Already knowing the dreadful news, I planned to never leave home. This time I wouldn’t shovel myself out. Happily allowing myself to get holed up inside. Uncorked snowfall persisted for days and was heaviest along the eastern benches. Streets froze over as temperatures dropped. The nonstop snowfall rendered driving impossible without having four-wheel drive while the snowplows struggled to clear the roads long enough to make their efforts worthwhile, let alone minimize the impact of twelve to sixteen inches of snowfall overnight. Snowdrifts piled up on every corner. Formidable snow banks mounded on the curbs and medians of intersections to cast roadside shadows. Walling off each side with packed snow from each passing plow which salted the streets until they were cleared enough for traffic. Allowing the hubbub of daily life to persist next day as everyone dug out their cars using plastic ice scrapers and fell back into their regular channels. Everyone but me. I spent the remaining weekend upon the living room couch. My view through a cracked curtain revealed the destruction and waste laid to all through a cracked sliver. Hunkered down; the thermostat cranked up and furnace blazing, I was more than content with curling up with my thoughts. Subsisting on old soup cans, stale crackers, and spliff bowls while holding minimal communication with the outside world save for the occasional business sale amongst other matters of personal interest. Involving Billy and Lefty. Niko and Billy. Lefty and Niko. Any combination of the three with Niko’s arrival invariably absolving any need for booze. Basically anyone determined or crazy enough to make the trek over were welcome to visit. For each sleepless night the repeated fluffy downpours spared no inch of the valley. Leaving a fresh sheet on all which had been cleared. Fresh heaps of unrelenting white summed up my mounting frustrations. The mountains, the trees, the rooftops—all of it dumped on with enough snowfall to begin anew.

The unrelenting harvest eventually relented, hostile winds abated, and by Tuesday the clear sky shone brilliant and bold for practice.

I was all set to alarm at a clock’s hollow ring. My brain pitted and steamed like over-cooked oatmeal.

I fed the black dog and made sure there was enough water in its bowl before neglecting personal hygiene altogether in favor of a good morning bowl. What difference did cleanliness make when I planned to see nobody? Nobody special anyway.

Despite leaving the house on time my morning commute nearly doubled. The once peaceful drive up the canyon becoming bumper-to-bumper traffic to signal the start of the public ski season.

Carbonado Ski Resort was officially open, over-priced, and overrun with tourists and locals alike who poured in by the droves to pack the fresh powder and leave it completely iced over. The quad lift alone loaded resort guests four-people abreast to usher them across a white canvas scene bedecked with multicolored dots making S-shapes down the mountainside. Racing to the main lodge to warm up with a hot chocolate or order a twenty-dollar cheeseburger for lunch.

On-snow training was in full effect. Coach Price’s regimen only intensified what had been introduced to me at ski camp­. Adhering to his training ratio of 1:3, racing to training. Six days a week.

That dark first morning back didn’t begin until the unexpected boom of avalanche control blasted the mountainside. Hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the gray firmament cracked in a rippling strike of splintered glass. The echoing silence broken by a rush of loosened snow which made the ground tremble.

I stood there dead in my tracks while the team trudged forward. Unfazed by the unannounced quake. The first volley got answered by a second that struck the cleavage of the twin ridges on the opposing side. Shrugging it off as another daily reminder I had to adjust to, I followed as Coach Price led the train full steam towards the chairlift ahead.

Low temperatures robbed me of the feeling in my feet. The numbness spreading like wildfire to my toes. Each frigid breath frozen in mid-air. Floating like a silvery apparition against a chalkboard of black. Squinting ahead, the early traffic of snowcats could be seen flattening vast tracts of powder to groom runs in a steady mechanical crawl. The beams of their nocturnal eyes cutting through the raggedy dark. Coach Price could hardly be seen as he addressed the team up the hillside, patiently waiting for us stragglers to mount the catwalk before bothering to speak. From the darkness, I tried to follow his words blindly in the cavernous black: “… and as I’ve often said, perhaps one or two times too many, our first meet is only a couple weeks away. If this were the National Team your training would’ve been doubled.”

Somehow every one of his we need to get our shit together type talks became an impassioned speech to fuel our fire. His sharp delivery cutting you down only to build you back up again, little by little; using an authoritative tone so convincing it puffed me up with enough drive to make union with what had become the most complicated relationship of my life.

The bitter remnants of last weekend’s storm carried over in snow flurries to mar the one enjoyable activity of riding the ski lift in solace. Fierce gusts blew me every which direction as I focused on my many faults. The slopes below twisted and turned beneath my skis.

Chairs jostled along the line. Bouncing at every swell and nearly touching the piney treetops while I hovered twenty to thirty feet above the ground with my mind entirely on somebody else.

Three days since my low-burning love grew enflamed and the worst of these inclement conditions were yet to pass. Never had I been so distant. Exiled. Estranged. Like being cut off at the bar before having a drink. What was once cherished had been forgotten and cast aside. The heart’s error no more than a filthy pleasure for an unnamed beggar.

And the longer I dwelled in the murky depths of despair the clearer her cunning deceit became. I knew what I’d have to do, swear off this raven-haired vixen and cease communication with her entirely. Such shows of resilience hardly mattered since she was the one who ghosted me to begin with. But if I was tormented by the circumstances—the compound effect was magnified one-hundred-fold on Niko.

He was still coping from being blown off for the game and developed a strange liking to his own self-destruction. His drinking developed into besotted frenzies far worse than his typical belligerence. We all worried about his reckless behavior to varying degrees but none could offer him any solace. Late each night he would arrive ready to drink. Loaded already with bottle in hand he’d pace madly about, stamping and storming in the ritual of one besmirched and his brooding demeanor only worsened with time. His emotions hijacked. He soon wore the agony of the haggard lover. Like a penitent hermit and his sackcloth. Languishing over being rejected in return. His advances denied. Newfound cynicism cultivated upon his brow which betrayed his boyish disposition. Heavy bags hung under his wrinkled-up eyes wherein crow’s feet had perched in the corners. All the hallmarks of one scorned.

Drowning, having drunk too deep. After a lifetime of closely guarding my feelings they were nothing more than a playground for others to climb and swing on before abandoning at will. Simply put, I had blindly followed them one too many times to keep subjecting myself to further heartbreak. The whole charade was reminiscent of many other countless failures to meaningfully connect with another. And glossing over the countless grievances, it would be one thing to be smote by her cruel eye, but her cool love broke all the romantic conventions. How could I excuse her behavior? After a thousand groans, to have had something would be enough. But to lead somebody on without even the opportunity to let them down was most unjust. Except I didn’t blame her. I couldn’t. I impressed onto her who I wanted her to be and ended up falling in love with someone else. Someone wholly unattainable. Someone who didn’t exist. Such a harsh sentence was worthy of any despicable and horny toad. Having once condemned her libertine behavior with the passing flurries I soon played devil’s advocate against myself. If such ungraceful wantonness should be given the benefit of the doubt, having every right to do what we all would with the same capacity to roam, who would make a better choice? Or, on second thought, was this really as vile and unforgivable of a deed that warrants fair censure? Yet, if I had the good sense to chastise my dumb speech and scorn these wicked words, I’d forgive her every misdeed on sole condition she cared to reach out. All I requested on her part was pity and all that it granted. In the interim, I retired single-hearted into a pure ascetic lifestyle to befit my circumstances. Obsessing over the waking hours like that of a hermit or modern-day anchorite. Living in essence on the mountain. Skiing all day. Everyday.

Only then, and after much, much personal reflection could I begin to contemplate how to transcend this boundary, and beyond.

Practice days always began with freeskiing to compose ourselves.

Once I had badged onto the chairlift these were the only moments which belonged to me. My alone time with a higher power before skiing across the moguls to meet in the racing area where Coach Price deployed trade-off drills until wrapping up with parallels to the backdrop of the setting sun. He even had a few exercises in his vast repertoire which covered both speed and technical disciplines. Courses designed to challenge high speeds and test turns with shallow dips and flats thrown in. Sometimes they had extra gates or were composed of two aggregate runs. Coach Price favored combined courses that offered downhill and slalom portions and where, dated one too many years too late, I was set up to fail with my faithful old Elan SCXs.

But my return to the slopes was terminal from the start. I became a cognitive clusterfuck without any semblance of progress whenever I found myself in the starting position for another run.

I stabbed both ski poles into the crust-covered snow. Eyes closed as light flakes patted my face. Adrenaline building. Heart racing. Leading up to the count.

A blunder from the outset—I nearly face-planted out the gates in attempt to pick up for lost time. All conscious thought funneled into impulse while flying through the gates at top speed. The finish line loomed closer each drop down the course until I ended my run more frustrated than all the days put together. I kicked off my skis. Downtrodden, defeated.

Even though I took Coach Price’s expertise to heart, his teachings were promptly lost upon execution. Even worse than my overcritical self-judgement were the tiny details he observed through his trusty pair of binoculars. Viewed harmless from afar, his hooded figure rapidly approached with his executioner’s axe gleaming well before it fell.

Bearing my poor performance in mind already, I dreaded the fatal words fit for only my ears and soon to be delivered without scruples. Often catching me in a scramble at the finish area where he never failed to place me in the crosshairs before any attempt to escape could be made. Screaming at me like an oncoming train while he berated me in over-critical tirades:

“This can’t be right—second gate and already errors.”

“Pressure the downhill ski. Flex ankles and use your feet to initiate movement on turns, not your quads.”

“Cross-blocking is key when running slalom. Straighten those tips, and take a direct line down. Even if that means knocking out poles as you pass.”

Sometimes it would be one of his more elegant quips— “And tuck those goddamn poles in!” All delivered without a vestige of his former mirth at ski camp.

Upon harkening back to my rematch with Drake on that first day I knew when it wasn’t my best performance and tried to remain confident in my abilities. But this was borderline masochistic. Having my every move deconstructed in a scathing, expletive-laden nitpicking of my every fault. It was hard to conceive I willingly sought the harshest truths I never wanted to hear. Harder still not to take it as a personal affront. Like being singled out unfairly. Cheated. Yet, once my turn passed the others invariably got the same treatment. Even Drake wasn’t exempt from a lengthy detailing of what radius his tips should point and to the exact degree. In fact, Coach Price pushed him even harder after Park City. He also gave his signature sprawling, yet pithy, lectures detailing the ins and outs of the two disciplines for this upcoming competition­: two runs of slalom and giant slalom. Always ending with a heavy emphasis on the limited number of practices we had left.

Being off-piste also offered a valuable learning lesson as Coach Price seized model opportunities to pull someone aside, rotating in individual turns, or sometimes paired, to scout runs with him at the bottom. To watch the action from the sideline with a trained eye, he helped deconstruct the runs, turn by turn, with an emphasis on the ski racer’s greatest foe. Time.

Whenever chosen, I paid close attention like never before while Coach Price yelled feedback into his binoculars during each individual pass. He then gave a rundown of their graded performance at the finish, focusing explicitly on the flaws, before imparting tidbits of wisdom ranging anywhere from complimentary to soul-crushing testimonies.

Practice never ended without Coach Price gathering us close together for a blunt, no-holds-barred critique of our overall performance. The mountainside boomed in the wake of every hit volleyed from his direction.

Later on, back at the house and following some bowls and a nighttime walk with my restless pent-up companion, what he said would usually connect and I’d realize he was correct about every admonishment. Especially about things I didn’t want to hear, but so desperately needed my attention drawn to them. The validity of his claims far surpassed my limited insight. Forcing me to recognize how little I even knew about the fundamentals of skiing. A humbling experience which commanded a deeper respect of his expertise and ability to translate that over in plain-spoken language, however painfully clear it might be. Especially if his advice never stuck before the next run. Which it rarely did.

And the better I listened, the more I discovered how little I knew about skiing, once my greatest adoration. A realization that left me at a complete loss, if not at odds with my ambition altogether. I conceded that I was merely a student. In likelihood enrolled for life, and I was fully committed to learning a trade I’ll never fully come to master. A strangely intriguing notion amidst the redundancy found in regular life.

Each night I ended my circuitous progress at the liquor store for a fifth of whiskey. Then following a long, hot shower, where I took care to soak my hobbled feet, I stepped out clean and refreshed with a passing warning to the boys it felt like an early night. Somehow, I always reneged after settling in to stay up with the group just as late as the night before. Smoking bowls and pounding bourbon shots while we reminisced over glory years that never were.

Appearance-wise no dramatic change occurred during my absence. Planted on the couch between smoke sessions while the usual incessant bickering coaxed my unwilling eardrums into tinnitus induced bliss. Every effort to transmute myself into a better skier on my Park City retreat was marked by a series of collective failures. What future was in store for a traveler whose pilgrimage led only to squandering its dazzling insights? A degenerative creature forever dwelling in the shadowy recesses of experience, the arbiter of what was true or not. Noticeable shifts in motivation propelled me closer to what I yearned for as I began each morning; hung-over, haggard, if not still stumbling out from a residual drunk. Morning snaps no longer kept the hounds at bay as my already lackluster performance further deteriorated. I feared this was a mistake to dedicate my greater energy towards a childhood passion I should’ve outgrown. Having already spent my wasted youth too stubborn to train, too late to compete, and too afraid of rejection.

I was dealing in nothing more than your average all-American pipe dream. With a curtain of smoke partly lifted to reveal the sad reality that this stage had to offer. Despite having no art in my craft, practices with the Academy pulled together all the interstitial threads needed to garner an appreciation for this sacred sport. Even if only in mimicry of a greater skier than myself. I accepted like any self-conscious simulacrum that originality was the greatest form of imitation.

Nonethless, I stayed committed to the process. However unpromising that might be. Like automated machinery. Even without knowing how to fix what didn’t work. Running gates six days a week, and going through the motions. I pushed so hard I worked the toes on both feet into giant blisters that calloused with repetitious wear. Yet—any stability got undercut with talk about the coming season from December to April. Like a prickly thorn. And the dreadful routine of dragging myself up the mountain in a race to the next string of Coach Price’s red-lettered invectives outlined every shortcoming to date, and in excruciating detail.

Doubly defeated. I was always ready for the mountain whenever off of it and incapable of performing on it. Once back at home, to my continued chagrin, fancies of conquering every turn and every sharp incline consumed my mind. I could tailor every alteration needed for each discipline by memory. But once snatched from the vapors, this newfound adversity solidified the fact that true mastery favored the fortunate, and only by occasion took into account talent or one’s undying devotion. I was far too aloof to meaningfully convert this experience into anything worthy of merit. A worm without silk. But I remained steadfast. Prepared and fully equipped to meet the worst.

Like a dried-up wishing well of confidence, I knew better than to entrust in myself a good result. The modern man’s paradox. While successful for some, proved to be a never-ending source of frustration for many of the rest.

Forever racing against the clock. Days began to grow tedious. Repeatedly following the same grueling routine: wake up begrudgingly woken from a quicksand sleep, hung over and apathetic, with eyes crusted over from a bong hit before scrambling out the door. Skipping breakfast in favor of scalding hot coffee to soothe my throat between bouts of dry heaving from drags of my cigarette. Sometimes pulling over on the drive to puke in the street gutter to show up early, or what Coach Price deemed “on time”, still stuck between half-stoned and half-asleep to begin the day as high as possible until grounded again.

Every chance to prove myself came and went until the Regional Open was only a staggering couple days away. Still in the predawn of my decision to compete and place myself on a performance scale, I was resigned to the inevitable. Even if relegated to a class well below that of my seasoned peers.

That was the vision of the world I so desperately clung onto. Where a provocateur’s hard work finally paid off. Where ugly outcompeted the beautiful. Forever estranged from the commonplace, I furiously inked up the margins in refutation of every aspect of showmanship. Favoring personal growth, proficiency for me lay in nondescript distinctions between slightly better, still the same, or not worse. Only this awkward transition did little for my strained relationship with Coach Price. Bound to convention, he hammered out my unique carving on the slopes with a style-guide of what not to do.

The little hope in me all but deteriorated. In action: being a lit dud. Nearly always blown up with despair.

Between Coach Price’s uncompromising expectations, continual disinterest, short answers and blunt feedback, we seemingly shared this sentiment. Nothing remained for me to say. What was lacking came solely from me and there was little use channeling faith into something so hopeless. Even despite sanctioning my unorthodox inception in the wake of a freak win, he had cast his roll on the worst bet.

Anxiety gnawed upon my spinal cord each passing day. The dreaded unknown from having finally competed was nerve wracking enough despite the sum total of my blood, sweat, and tears, packed into countless training hours. I represented the program now. Somehow defined by every fleeting whim and desire which subjected me to realize this dream. A fresh fallen sheet had been laid bare to where my chance for a rewrite was held in the balance of a tenuous moment. Likewise, my performance devolved in anticipation of the upcoming event. Nothing could displace the sour pit in my stomach. A sickly, bleeding ulcer which flared up throughout Coach Price’s rambling talks or whenever it came to my run. Sticking around as comfortably as a rock inside my boot. This unrelenting sensation persisted. Being unable to slip a finger in and relieve it so I turned to meditative means, like chain-smoking cigarettes off-piste to feed the growing canker sore inside my mouth.

One trade off to our hectic schedules was a boost in team morale that lifted even the most downtrodden of spirits as we shrugged off the slopes for another day, and there was no longer a single insult or grimace aimed my direction. Ever since our return there was a new dynamic amongst the team. Instead of the snide comments and jeers I would typically receive they acknowledged my presence as something other than a scourge upon their very existence. With some even treating me with what could be considered kindness. By and by, as preconceptions were set aside, we garnered a basic appreciation of each other and I gradually gained their acceptance. With or without knowing what I did for Drake, they now regarded me with an unspoken respect and even treated me as their familiar, if not leave me alone altogether. Which was equally fine by me. There would always be that glaring disconnect between their shared uniformity and my tendency to deviate. But the most welcoming improvement turned out to be my budding bond with Drake. To my surprise, our alliance carried over despite our past grievances. All the former bitterness turned out to be nothing more than well-intended jabs and good-natured ribbing. For how much I couldn’t stand many people with each passing relationship in life, I’ve come to realize how little I knew about me. I’ve often learned the most from these unassuming encounters. That, and Drake no longer felt like an opponent as I was competing with my biggest opponent. Myself.

Winnowing whatever I could from the gradual failures and defeat, my runs may have slightly improved. But never fast enough. Cold and flamed out, my only desire was a return to my linen-covered resting spot each subsequent night for some rest.

Having survived every come down in the past, I was bound to fall yet again. And from far greater heights.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

“Now it’s safe to say we faced the impossible up there. The odds couldn’t have been more stacked against us. And the standings once finalized were hardly in our favor. Yet, we fought and we fought for our place and what did our painstaking efforts amount to? Nothing less of a historic victory for the Academy’s esteemed legacy with a podium finish. Not to mention denying Park City a podium sweep is a victory unto itself. I’ll never forget the forlorn looks on their faces. An image I’ll hold dear like a photograph for life. Along with Drake’s stivot turn on the pitch.”

“Dirty.” Round answered to a resounding show of approval.

Coach Price continued on.

“Do applaud yourselves. Please. Each and every one of you. You are responsible for making this momentous event come to pass!”

His words got met by a deafening roar. But I could hardly hear over the loud ringing which never left my ear since the races ended.

Such an applause was warranted considering this afternoon’s late turn of events.

Well before the beam of the photoelectric-eye system got broken by Drake’s passage across the finish line to record his time and print it on a paper tape with his bib number, there was little doubt he would be in the running.

According to the Timekeeper, however, the electronic timing system failed and a replacement time had to be calculated manually for the race result.

1:38.58, 1:21.21, 2:59.79

Drake clinched first-place by virtue of sheer determination with the runner up finishing +.25 behind him. Making him the unfavorable winner by a thousandth of a second. A tiny sliver of a margin in which everyone who followed remained off the pace. The leader from Park City wiped out after a skidded turn that ended with a tumble into the safety net on the side of the course, causing a slight delay for snow patrol to bring out the stretcher. Even the talk of the town, the Austrian from Alta, got disqualified for straddling the penultimate gate.

Once the official results came in, the standings for the Ladies and Gents were finalized.

There followed a sustained rumbling like a volcano in mid-eruption. A peculiar mix of celebration along with the collective grumbles and groans of rival ski programs. I found myself caught in the uproar. Whooping and hollering with the rest of them until my voice turned raspy and hoarse. Happier than ever being able to share in that moment. Even without having contributed to it.

At the awards ceremony the 1st-3rd place skiers were recognized for each age group. Topping the podium for Srs/U21 was Drake. Another feather in his cap. All signs pointed to this being his breakthrough year as he beamed far above his peers. Except for now he represented every one of us. Which meant the Academy had won. The ultimate accolade for his club.

On top of earning the first spot, he also received Hard Charger. A title awarded to both genders. For which, I could’ve sworn the winners from the Ladies group smiled at me when passing by to receive her medal of achievement. It wasn’t until I put the pieces together that I recognized her from yesterday at the hotel lobby bar.

I continued to stare while her name was announced as she took center stage: Tati Montserrat.

The return to our hotel remains my fondest memory of the experience. We laughed and sang songs with arms around one another like brothers, and a family it was. Never had spirits flown so high between us. For a fleeting moment I felt what it was like to be amongst their ranks. Up until Chuck pointed out my presence along with my lack of contribution to the matter, which hardly went unnoticed.

“Still can’t believe we won. Considering that DQ from the start.”

“Before we even began,” added Skirt. “What gives?”

I averted my eyes to avoid their scrutiny. Little did they know I shared a similar sentiment.

Then, the unexpected happened. Even I had to check out the window for flying pigs as Drake defended me to everyone’s utter disbelief.

“Enough already. We’re all coming off a win, right? And he’s one of us.”

My stunned gaze met his as he returned an equally unexpected nod.

“If anything,” Drake continued, “today’s minor setback only held us to a higher standard than we knew possible. We can’t control the circumstances, only overcome them. And today’s result is enough cause to for us celebrate!”

These words seemed to placate them. Allowing Coach Price to easily pick right up where Drake left off.

Except what came out of his mouth was a jumbled mash compared to what occurred. I never expected my relationship with the team to change overnight. But I was officially accepted now by the grace of Drake’s blessing.

Thankful as I was, it was more than dumb luck which aided in our success. Although something deep within suggested it could’ve been me up there instead.

Once we pulled into the hotel drive Coach Price had to shout over the cheers and hoorahs our instructions to rise early for our return home in the morning.

Contrary to the readiness of others, I hesitantly entered the building where we were hit with a cacophonous wave of applause from the impenetrable wall of people formed on either side. Their congratulatory merriment ran over us with centipede hands to pat our backs. Even I wasn’t exempt from a wayward slap or hand clapped on the shoulder.

Moving through that tangled mess was a sluggish, slow-going process to pass through many rows of white teeth and reddened cheeks belonging mostly to vegetable-shaped mothers dying to press their precious children close to their heaving bosoms.

All I sought was the embrace of a soft bed. Something which cared not whether I earned the right to be exhausted or not. But such relief couldn’t be found.

Somber, sullen, the silence of the hotel room was far more deafening. I was about to leave for a cigarette when the door opened up.

“Sorry,” I sidestepped out of the doorway for Drake, the only other Carbonado skier to seek solace from the clamor of the people’s praise.

“What for? A fine result indeed,” he said.

His friendliness persisted. But I was much too bogged down in the mires of pity and self-doubt to meaningfully respond. Something which he was too preoccupied to notice as he began to clean his skis with the ritualistic fervor of a swordsman cleaning his blade after battle.

I laid out on the bed. Fully clothed. With shoes on and hands behind my head. Both eyes closed to avoid the glare of my unused skis resting against the fireplace mantle.

“I must say,” I spoke at last. “That was some mighty fine skiing today.”

“Oh, that. It was merely expected from me. The best still hasn’t come to pass.”

“Doubly impressive after a night of partying,” I muttered half in jest.

He paused wiping his ski goggles and cleared his throat.

“About that, there’s something I have to tell you and I’m not used to doing this so don’t expect it to happen again, but thank you.”

“For what?”

“For bailing me out earlier. That’s what.”

“Don’t worry about it. We needed a hero out there and you were the most likely candidate.”

“I should’ve ditched that shit when I got crunched for time and panicked. But it wasn’t cool for me to keep contraband in your bag. Even though a dirty piss test would’ve ruined me. It’s not like my record is squeaky-clean. Question is, why did you do it? I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you,” I said. “I just thought you were a fucking asshole. That’s all.”

“Your candor is much appreciated. This is going a lot smoother than I thought it would.”

“I’m sure we’ll always compete against each other, but that doesn’t mean we can’t settle our differences over a drink after all is said and done.”

“Cheers to that. Needless to say, I’ve been a pretty huge dick to you. But that changes from here on out.”

Now sitting up, we faced each other from opposing sides as if on equal levels for the first time. Who knew beyond this playground rivalry there was an opportunity for us to be friends? And like that a whole new expanse opened up before us. One that was wider than the curl of Drake’s thin-lipped smile.

“That settles it. You did a solid for me and I intend to repay the favor. There’s an informal get-together with the Club tonight, a cocktail party if you will, for kindred folk.”

I had never foreseen this in my wildest dreams. Of all the intense training, drilling, and preparation for my debut, nothing terrified me more than having to socialize with peers. Let alone tagging along with the living ideal of the American champion.

I felt hung up by the prospects. Unable to feign much interest while I deconstructed what this meant.

“I don’t know, I’m not a big fan of social functions. Which club is that?”

“The Cannon Club, of course. We really do have a lot to learn.” Drake said. Opening up the accordion closet to fold out the ironing board. On it he began to lay out his outfit for the night. A crewneck sweater. A pair of khaki chinos.

Back on my feet. I began pacing about the room.

“I thought you’d want to be with your adoring fans.”

“My business is on the mountain. Meaning, skiing is all I care about. And that multi-headed monstrosity waiting downstairs is inconsequential. I aim beyond. For that reason alone, I must get out.”

“I can see why,” I said.

We were able to agree on that at least. Even if there was nobody to cheer my name.

Drake pulled out the clothes iron and plugged it in.

“Allow me to double-down on the offer—I’m not talking saunas and hot chocolate here. But the kind of après-ski festivities not available to tourists. Invitation only. If you catch my drift. How can you decline? It will be once in a lifetime, I promise you that!”

“I appreciate the offer, really, and as taken aback as I am by our fresh budding friendship, I’ll have to pass.”

“That’s because you haven’t been smoked out yet. Which is also part of the deal. Is that copacetic?”

Drake’s amicability made it that much easier to concede in the end.

Enough words already. Take me wherever you damn well please. Nothing was better than scoring on a trip, especially without even looking for it! A little last fun could do no harm now.

“Too bad about the blow. That would’ve been the cherry on top.”

“If I can get it once, I can surely get it again.” He flashed a banded wad of hundred-dollar bills.

“How much do you expect us to put up our noses?”

“Just enough to fill a small plane. Perhaps I’ll get my first nosebleed.”

“Why are you carrying so much cash around? Don’t you have a bank account?”

“I nearly forgot, here’s six hundo to cover that silly sanction.”

“It was only five!”

“Right. Better make it seven for good measure.”

“Thanks?” My response came out both confused and sincere. “How are we getting there? I’m done with cabs.”

“Sal’s going to pick us up. He’s been staying at the Waldorf Astoria.”

Without even knowing who this person Sal was I opted out of asking twenty-one questions and grabbed for my jacket when I stopped. “What about Coach? Won’t this sideline me indefinitely for future races?”

“Don’t worry about him. He only cares if we break the cardinal rule. Don’t get caught. That council business was merely a formality.”

“And you’re not worried about getting spotted in the lobby?”

“Not if we cross over on the second floor and access a side exit to bypass the fanfare.”

“Genius or madman? I can’t tell.”

“Take your pick. I’ve learned it’s best to keep a low profile.”

“That explains you well. And the others? You know, from the team.”

“They’re not coming,” he turned aside with a dry chuckle. “It’s just you and me.”

Strange to consider that not so long ago I wanted to bash his face in with a ski boot. This was proving to be an interesting night already.

Drake’s privilege regarding important matters may be grating, but covering my fine was a kind gesture. Even if he was being a gloating showboat about it. And as result of his energetic charm I had no choice but to indulge him for whatever else was in store.

Maybe it was boredom.

“Ready to go?”

“God no,” he shuddered. “I still need to shower and put myself together.”

Nearly an hour later we stole across the empty hotel corridor in long footsteps. My head cocked and ears pointed like satellites tuned to the highest frequencies. Tiptoeing as carefully as walking barefoot over broken glass.

My skin tingled all over with heightened sensitivity. Prickling up around every corner while I anticipated doors on either side to spring open and foil our plans before they ever began. We were almost to the elevator when it dinged loud enough to echo down the empty walls.

Voices could be heard inside and we barely retreated before the elevator doors shot open. What sounded like most of the team came gushing forth into the corridor. We turned heel. Brisk walking turned into full-on sprinting as we double backed around each corner to the end of the corridor where we broke through the stairwell.

I took each flight as fast as my rubber legs allowed until the stairs bottomed out at a door leading to the faded light of a setting sun.

“Care for some cancer?” Drake flipped open an oversized crème-colored pack with a crown encircled by gold filigree housing twenty luxury cigarettes with gold filters.

“Why not?” I said, my chest still heaving.

“Good answer. Tonight’s a proper celebration!”

We rounded the back-end of the building. In the dimming sunlight I surveyed endless swaths of gray and white cloud.

“What are we looking for?”

“You’ll know when you see him. He’s a rare bird amongst your average law-abiding civilian.” Drake said. He should know. His magnetism making him a hotrod of eccentric personage.

At once he pointed to a modest sedan parked across the lot.

“Aah, there he is. Mr. Paradise himself. You’ll find plenty of studs like him where we’re headed. You’d never know how much he’s worth at first glance.”

I checked over both of my shoulders before slumping into the backseat. It was definitely a gamble entering a running car you weren’t familiar with. But like any degenerate, I was willing to roll the dice. Again and again and again.

Sal studied us with clear blue eyes. Thick tufts of chestnut hair played lightly upon a face touched by pure whimsy. His athletic frame filling most of his tilted back driver seat.

“You finished primping or what, D?” he said.

“A small price for looking so good.”

“This is your night after all. Nice stogie.”

Drake tossed his half-finished cigarette out of the window.

“Did you take care of that business?”

“I placed a call on your behalf. Duke will make an appearance at the condo.”

“You’re always on the beat. Allow me to introduce our new friend. My race record remains clear as my conscience thanks to this guy so we’re giving him the full treatment.”

“Standard order of business,” Sal adjusted the rearview mirror as if to look at me for the first time.

“So what’s the dirt?”

Drake jumped in before I could divulge any more.

“It’s nothing like that. More like a mutual understanding. I vouch for him if anyone asks.”

“Same. You’ll find this party to be in extremely high taste, as many club members wound up in PC for a regional event project.” Sal said before asking me directly, “Before I forget, do you smoke pot?”

“Recreationally. Yourself?”

“I do it for sport.”

He popped open the center console to reveal no less than an ounce of leafy stardust which filled the car with its sharp, piney aroma.

“He might not look it, but Sal here is about as dangerous as a spruce trap.”

“I hope no one’s in a rush to get there,” he began, and in five not so smooth maneuvers, reversed the car in the middle of the road before speeding off with no regard for pedestrians, other drivers, or his tires as they bounced up and over the curb. Twice. I wasn’t sure what to make of this character who drove to the irregular rhythm of a bebop fanatic. Quiet, yet brimming with reckless abandon. A casual, Zen-like observer who loaded the bowl while steering with his knees. Nearly crossing over the dashed centerline to which he’d overcorrect in a veering jerk of the steering wheel.

On the road. Heading towards the unknown without a second look back. Only faint echoes of celebration continued to haunt me.

Sal steadily eyed me from up front.

“And you back there. How are you enjoying PC?”

“So far so good,” I said, but judging from his pause I assumed he wanted me to go on. “I had a rough start my first night and almost got arrested leaving some old pub-like saloon.”

“Sounds like a great time to me. Which one?”

“I’m not totally sure. All I remember was red brick. No name.”

“Ah—I love that place. I’ve been carried out of there many a times and left to stagger down historic Main Street,” Sal gasped as if stricken with a beam of insight. “Good memories.”

He sparked the lighter until a flame caught the contents of his pipe. Then he passed it onto me in the backseat.

Space cruising along. We drove into the setting sun, before cutting along a frontage road which skirted more hotels. The surrounding evergreens gradually thinned out into vast tracts of white aspen. Here and there, a winter cabin broke through the all-natural facade.

I wanted to talk more. But my tolerance was shot. The foul weed’s potency striking me head on.

No matter how much I’ve smoked there remained the potential to be checked on my ass and after nearly a weeklong break I’d already become a light-weight. Thoughts dropped from out of my hollow skull. Heavier than their content. My ribcage constricting tightly. Ugly paranoia sunk its rotted yellow teeth in. Gnawing closer to the bone as the dread of unease gripped me by the windpipe. Forcing me to seriously question whether I might survive as I went from seeing red and blue lights behind us to taking a deep dive cliff side after breaking the guardrail which quickly curved and bent. All this to put my nerves at ease and get stoned.

Following twenty minutes of in the red intensity, bracing for impact and suffering silent panic attacks in the backseat, my senses reeled at each swerve while Sal merged side to side without use of his turn signal. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said to Drake, flashing his smile again in the rearview mirror. “I’ll load us another.”

He reached out the window and tapped the cashed bowl of the pipe on top of the side mirror until clearing the charred ashes.

Talk ceased altogether as thick smoke filled the entire cab. Our path sunk deeper into the neighboring wood. The low fog roads empty against the surrounding backdrop of aspen with condo complexes appearing hazily out of the dense, black thicket. A stationary chairlift at the resort climbed up the backbone to meet the skyline behind us. Along with the day’s last rays of sun which gilded the site graced by many a great skier who carved a name for themselves on these venerated slopes and shared the podium with the world’s best.

And for one night only I’d get to access this community.

We continued westward. Which wound through more aspen and conifer trees with off shoots leading to more hidden lodging nestled in its tangled bramble. All of them had ridiculous street names. Boulder Den. Piney Point. Elk Horn. Whispering Hollow. Natural images juxtaposed on brightly illuminated street signs.

“You said this is a condo party?” I asked them. Having been so long since last hearing my voice it now offended the ear when spoken aloud.

Drake answered back. “Yessir. The owner of which patented those little heating pads for your ski gloves. Shouldn’t we be there already?”

Sal hit the pipe before responding.

“Forgive me. I took the scenic byway,” he said. “We should be there soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Breath. It should also be mentioned ladies from the international circuit will be there.”

“Do I keep my promises or what?” Drake looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Don’t tell me you’re a taken man.”

“I’ve been spending time with a girl from the resort. But nothing serious.”

“Just as I suspected.” Drake said. To which, Sal smiled.

I happily stayed silent. They had touched upon my least familiar subject and carried on while I lost myself in the seemingly endless series of left and right turns which eventually led to another condo subdivision modeled as Swiss chalets. The entrance marked by an ancient bristlecone pine with a hefty, gnarled trunk. Its gray bowers drooping like wooly mammoth bristles.

The street veered sharply until Sal killed the motor curbside. He then dug into his backseat for margarita mix and two handles of tequila.

We left fresh trails through a thin layer of newly fallen snow. Three squiggly lines weaving towards a comely two-story condo lined with a stately juniper amongst other cold-hardy evergreens.

The condo appeared vacant from the outside. The unlit upper deck cast shadows on the ski chair on the porch which had been repurposed into a bench. Its front door cracked ajar.

A soft glowing light called us from within to cross the threshold.

The winter harshness got instantly swapped for the comfort of a toasty wood fire. Its silence broken by the hum of overlapping chatter. I began to feel that familiar creep of entering a new place with unknown people. Causing my emotions to vacillate wildly from heart-pounding excitement to sweat-dripping anxiety.

I entered the condo in the same manner I started this trip. A houseless wanderer who stole along like a fugitive where they didn’t belong.

“Be a gent, will you? Much obliged.” Sal handed me the tequila so he could remove his jacket.

The entryway tapered into a long, narrow hallway. The high walls showcased black and white photographs which dated back to the late 1800’s and spanned the Swiss Alps down to the Pyrenees and across the Atlantic Ocean to the Andes. On display were elite athletes captured competing around the world at luxury resorts or European alpine villages during historic milestones for the sport. Every moment memorialized in the glassy reflection occupying a dusty golden frame. Beneath which a placard bore their subject’s names in miniscule font. The founders of the Cannon Club during an outing to the Wasatch Mountains the same year it was established in 1927. The first organized slalom race, the Aldberg-Kandahar in St Anton, Austria for their one-year anniversary. The Third Winter Games of 1936 and the first inclusion of alpine events. Races in the Catskills, leading to Aspen, Colorado, 1950, the first FIS World Championship. Also on full display was the handful of renown American skiers whose influence laid the groundwork for the USAA, the governing body of alpine skiing in the United States. Locked inside adjoining display cases were old wooden skis with leather straps, the remnants of a worn ski boot, and handmade snowshoes amongst other ancient relics and artifacts from the bygone era before the Club’s inception. Decades of signed memorabilia documenting the legacy of its world class pedigree. Hallowed halls which gave off the eerie reverence of a holy temple until the placards abruptly ended.

“Why so quiet back there?” Drake sounded off in the crawling darkness, as if nudging Sal at his side.

“Taking note of all the rich history is all,” I said, partly annoyed with his knack for constantly dragging me into conversation, and partly surprised by the yearning in my voice. Rootless and nostalgic, I found myself increasingly drawn in like any good guest towards an almost fantastical, dream-like reverie.

“I call it the Hall of the Dead.”

“Why, Sal? Many of these skiers haven’t died yet.”

“Makes no difference in retirement. Who wants to live to the sweet comforts of old age?”

They both rounded the corner at the end.

I followed behind when from out of the shadows I got confronted by the menacing yellow-eyed stare of a mountain lion. Poised for attack. Ready to rip the unworthy to shreds in an instant, tearing them limb from limb. Except upon closer examination its polished claws and tawdry yellowish coat were a dead giveaway this fierce feline wasn’t just held captive outside their natural habitat, but skinned and stuffed on a mounted frame. Her golden eyes dimmed-out having long lost their luster. With the same lifeless sheen as my own.

“Didn’t see that coming,” I said, knowing they had stopped to watch my reaction.

When finished laughing, Drake said, “I remember my initiation.”

“Welcome,” said Sal. “This is what to expect upon earning your laurels.”

Guided by growing laughter and lively chatter we stepped into a living area with tall ceilings split by two tiers. A bar and dance floor on the main level. A cozy loft on the upper level connected by a beer bong. Its length of pipe extended to the bottom where beer cans got poured directly into a plastic red funnel. There were also two beer pong tables with games always at play. Each side being represented by its trophy wall mount: a silver-haired stag on one side; a moose with a shaggy muzzle on the other. Each of them crowned with a thirty-rack of PBR. The back wall itself was a single pane of glass. A serene snowscape that showcased snow-covered boulders and a wooden patio embowered by towering pines with bundled needles. There must’ve been as many girls there as guys and there was still more empty space than guests. Usually, parties grew stagnant at high capacity but there wasn’t enough volume to fill such a spacious chamber.

The Cannon Club. An elite class who received nominations to compete with the best ranked skiers in the world. Every generation was there including a handful of old vets who hung around long after retiring their skis to relive the glory of bringing home the gold. Instead of playing out rivalries like they would on the ski slopes, their casual talk competed in every manner of sport.

Albeit, far from what I expected, I was curious enough to stick around and mix it up with those of my supposed ilk.

“This is quite the cocktail party,” I said at last.

“We have places like this all over,” Drake stifled a coming yawn. “If you think this is impressive? Wait until you see the trophy room.”

“Let’s not spoil any surprises now,” said Sal, directing our attention back to the living area. “Look, there’s fellow comrades at the bar. Come.”

I followed coolly in the wake of every conversation Drake made along the way. A flowing stream of dialogue linked by many handshakes and the occasional hug. All of which he finished off with a witty flourish before propelling onto the next one.

I hung back, silent and withdrawn, before being dragged off again. In this way we made for a dark slab of marble off to the side. Above which, a mounted buffalo head on the hewn mantelpiece watched with black marble eyes.

Sal still smiled from ear-to-ear. “I’ll fix us something proper.”

“Look at this hot dog.” Someone said to Drake amidst a group of people at the bar. He leaned back with his elbows resting on the bar top. Wearing a dress shirt with a floral print and neglected buttons.

He held a tumbler in his hand. Half-empty.

“Charming. Already found the bar, have you, Holden?” Drake responded.

“Who said I lost it?” He lifted his tall highball glass before he drained it. “I’ve been here carousing with the Club’s finest. Can I interest you in a shotski with these lovely ladies to my right?”

In a smooth, sweeping gesture Holden motioned towards a Neapolitan trio in three differently colored dresses.

Everyone paused to look my direction as if it hinged on my reply.

“How could we refuse?” Drake said, pulling me in.

Holden grabbed a long wooden ski from off the wall and slapped it down onto the bar. Loud. Five double shot glasses were affixed equidistantly along the length of hickory. He filled them with a bell-shaped bottle of schnapps with tiny gold flakes floating in it.

“A taste of the gold to start another season,” he began, “and for all of us gathered here to engage in dissolute behavior, the only question is: why do we do it to ourselves?”

“Not everybody can do what we do.”

“Or should.” Drake added after Sal.

“Cheers, you phonies!”

The gold flakes swirled as shot glasses lifted. Each of our heads tilted back in unison.

Right away I received a cold greeting from the burn of cinnamon. Its syrupy aftertaste coating my tongue.

“Ah­h, great to be reacquainted, old friend.” Drake said.

“I had the youngest debut on the international circuit here. 16-years-old. Or do you forget?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Holden. That was meant for the shotski.”

“There’s the banter I’ve been missing. How long’s it been?”

“Not long enough. Since Whistler, I’d have to say.”

They embraced each other laughing. But there remained an underlying tension to their friendly exchange.

“Great performance, by the way,” said Holden. “Just don’t forget selections are based on the ranking of an FIS point profile.”

“Later you’re going to tell me about shaped skis. Mark my words. This is my year.”

“It has to be now, doesn’t it? Others may be fooled by your origin story. Only I know better. What was it I heard about last season? Something about a scandal?”

“It was an injury according to official records,” Sal yelled over the blender he had filled to the top with tequila, margarita mix, and lots of ice.

“That killed me. What was it again? A torn knee ligament?”

“It was the meniscus,” said Drake. “Keep acting as if you weren’t expelled from prep school. Granted, I didn’t wind up taking this long by choice, but I’ve put it in the hard work and deserve to be here with the rest.”

“Enough dick measuring already. I don’t know about you, but all of this talk about training isn’t healthy after a race day.”

“Neither is excessive drinking. But we all play to our strengths. Do we not, Holden? Mine? Knowing when another round is needed.” Sal said in a sportive tone.

He righted one of the red plastic cups to fill with margarita mix from the blender.

“And you?”

“Yes?” I coughed into my hand as Holden set his sights on me.

“I know a fresh face when I see it. One of ours?”

“A friend of mine,” Drake stepped aside to let me in.

“I’m along for the ride.”

“Any friend of yours is fine by me. How long have you been with the Academy?”

“It will be my first season.” I kept my answer brief. No need mentioning it was my first season. Ever.

“How rich! I’ll always remember the first season of my club days­. I’m almost jealous. Has he gotten the house tour yet?”

“We’ve hardly made it through introductions,” said Sal.

“Allow me to take over from here,” Holden turned me around with his arm over my shoulder. “Here you’ll find most of the selection for Western Region Projects, mostly the WEST Team and RTG athletes who are all-event winners. Some, like yours truly, are here for a national project. The best skiers ranked from a 4-event selection board to compete in international-level races, including NorAms. The newest recruits are those junior athletes in the back—you’ll find age is a crucial factor for the National Team which produces many world champions. Now, see those jackets over yonder with the U.S. Ski Team decals on each arm and the sponsors in front? In the center of their circle are those paying homage to a timeless tradition, the A Team. Including the U.S. Championships combined champion amongst other major figures in American skiing who earned acclaim in their respective disciplines. Others with multiple career podiums are further scattered along the line. There’s Clay. The indifferent California yuppy at the keg who looks to be drinking from the fountain of youth, he had his World Cup debut at eighteen and made his career off his signature stripped-back minimalism whereas many of the up-and-coming new schoolers experiment on style. The controversial William Lee is a ski junky best known for his almost anti-academic approach with the most record wins in the U.S. Championships while Hal in the white bandana holds the most race wins in a single season with ten World Cup wins. All of them legendary skiers who are nothing short of masters of their sport. Yet, even they degenerated from former giants. World-class skiers with near mystical origins. Often the most unassuming are those with the right stuff. Take that macho-looking alum with the rugged features leaning against the brick wall for example. He lives in a shack without running water. Rooted in skepticism. If you ask him, he doesn’t even like skiing yet he holds five top-15 World Cup finishes and boasts the best super ranking in the room.”

And there was no better access to this community.

“Super ranking?”

“Points calculated from the following three categories: Olympic Games, World Championship, and World Cup. Taking into consideration discipline titles, overall titles, and individual top ten results.”

“So that’s the Club.” I said once he had finished.

“Worthy of mention? You bet. Then there’s those misfortunate ones who flamed out or suffered an injury at the acme of their athletic prowess. Only the rare, chosen few have lasting influence after induction.”

A gruff voice cut in next. “They’re also the sorriest sacks here.”

All heads turned towards a previously unnoticed figure seated at the far end of the bar.

“Ah, how could I forget? The unceremonious guest not socializing with another soul is Hank. The dirty old man himself. Having achieved podium finishes late in his embittered, drunken career, he’s the meanest, most miserable bum of the batch. And the only member who, despite how late you call it quits, will still be here sucking down another long neck with nothing but the moonlight for company.”

“The best kind. You oughta try.” Hank said. His lip forming a horrible crooked line.

“It’s the only recourse we have,” Sal said. “Not that I expect Holden to understand something so nuanced as alumni relations. That could very well be you one day.”

They got interrupted by a group of girls who flocked past in a flying V formation.

Holden was stuck staring their direction. A roguish smile on his face.

“What about honorary members? Are you prepared to give that up?” Sal asked.

“That’s too great a sacrifice for any man, I admit. Fear not, however. The night’s still young.” Holden refilled the shotski and brought everyone’s glasses together, including Hank.

This straightforward manner of delivery was how business should be conducted. As if it were prerequisite to imbibe for the sake of social tact. Like taking holy communion on Sunday morning. In one not so smooth movement half the shot made it into my mouth with the rest spilling down onto my shirt.

I hurried to wipe my chin but everybody else was far too busy to notice.

Back-to-back shots from the shotski worsened my uneasy stomach as they excitedly discussed an upcoming speed project overseas. All around could be seen the golden flash of the Cannon Club emblem upon the jacket lapel or pinned to a collar. I even discovered the Austrian and the team captain of the Park City Ski Team were also invited. Here, even sworn enemies were united by the Club. Where they could talk the day over from the same side.

The elect partied no different than your average get-together. Except they showed wealth by their utter disregard for it. Crumpled up beer cans amongst mostly unfinished drinks covered every dresser and stand. Discarded for the poor cleaners who’d show up next day like housekeeping.

Every so often someone came to plunder liquor from the cabinets. Initially this concerned me as if feeling a sense of duty to watch over these shelves until I heard the condo’s owner didn’t care.

The others soon disappeared from the bar. Sal even took the blender with him.

Behind the counter was a mini fridge jam-packed with beer, a couple wine racks, and cabinets full of every type of liquor imaginable. I found a fifth of bourbon and poured myself a 7&7 before pushing into the crowd. The drink held up to my chest so I needn’t feel empty.

I walked about like an antenna. Trying to receive transmissions on an empty channel while pausing every so often to bring the cup to my mouth. Feeling the cold ice press upon my lips, and sustaining the sensation before moving on.

My free arm outstretched.

There remained that familiar uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. A persistent discomfort in my abdomen. Rumbling. Growing. Further exacerbated by the mixture of whiskey and schnapps.

Without a single clock to be seen the party showed no signs of slowing. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of being dragged along. Growing bored with the current landscape I started to realize social events had to be suffered through on every rung of the ladder.

Midway through rounding the corner I encountered a short girl with dirty-blond hair who wore a gold sequined dress and dangly fish lure earrings. She stepped aside within earshot and waited by the fireplace as I acted like I didn’t see her in the hopes to get her attention. Opening up the floodgates: Did she smile? Should I approach her? Drake surely would.

I mulled over whether it was the drinks or bowls of weed or both that mixed together the lines in my head. Failing to come up with a basic opener when her name was called and she darted off to rejoin her friends. All of them high-heeled and baring lots of skin in their chic monochromatic outfits.

Even with such a golden opportunity at my fingertips it wasn’t for me. This bewildering experience was a stark reminder why I didn’t like parties to begin with. Somehow, someway, someone was always dragging me along with an expectation that it might be different this time.

The last glimmer of their shimmering train faded into the dark along with my bright disposition.

Nowhere else to go. An empty drink in my hand.

I retreated back to the bar. Forever cursing my inability to connect with what’s beautiful.

The buzzing neon light gave off a warm welcome. Loosening the tangled knots in my stomach. Even with Drake and Sal nowhere to be seen.

I went for the Seagram’s 7 and a shot glass which I righted on the counter and it wasn’t until I poured a full bourbon shot that I got startled by the presence of someone new. The bony curve of her shoulder blade poked through the soft sheen fabric of her red dress. Her bare shoulders complimented her golden skin tone which was covered in colorful tattoos. Red roses bloomed over her left shoulder, a pink cat with a curled tail watched coyly from the square of her back, while a peacock feather rested lightly above the sharp curvature of her right collarbone, just below her shoulder-length hair. Dyed red. Shaved on one side. With a star in it.

“It’s never too late for a liquor run,” she said. Her matter-of-fact tone was unnerving. Not so much due to its authority. But by being unexpected.

I was transfixed from the moment we first exchanged looks. Momentarily slain by the intensity of her stare as I was at the awards ceremony. Tati Monserrat. We crossed paths yet again and here I was fated to have another chance.

When I failed to respond she spoke instead.

“Since you’re already back there, that pretty much makes you the bartender, right?”

She radiated with the intensity of a red-hot branding iron. Becoming ensnared by the sarcasm like an unsuspecting victim, my mood lightened.

“I can be. What’s your poison?”

“A martini, please. Dry. One olive.”

“Ah, a lady who knows what they want. That I can do.” I couldn’t. But I swore there was a tiny response, if even a tiny smirk as I fumbled to fulfill her order. “Let’s see if there’s the necessary tools I require around here, sure you don’t want me to dirty it up?”

“No, thanks.” She answered straightaway.

“As you wish.”

Behind the counter I found bitters, Vermouth, triple-sec, and a stainless-steel measuring set and cocktail shaker.

With all the ingredients required at my disposal I figured there was at least some chance of fixing a beverage to her liking. So to distract her from how I awkwardly handled the cocktail shaker, I asked her a question. Something simple. Basic.

“Enjoying your night?”

“So far so good.” She said without looking up from her phone.

Strike one. I squared up to bat again.

“What brings you here? Partying with friends?”

“Umm, yeah. Pretty much.”

She continued scrolling.

Strike two. I took another swing. Spilling ice out of the cocktail shaker in the process.

“Cool. Have you been here awhile?”

“Too long.”

My attempt shot wide.

Strike out. Except the spirit in my veins refused to call it quits. Giving me the liberty to keep chipping at the icy barrier between us.

“Same. Except I just arrived and already want to leave.”

Her eyebrows raised. Setting her sights on me in the first outward show of interest thus far as I slid her my best interpretation of a famous drink.

I followed her gaze as she eyed the oddly shaped, thinly stemmed glass.

She sipped from it once, twice. “Almost good,” she said with finality.

“Not too bad for a tasteless amateur. Good thing you hadn’t left.”

“It’s super strong.”

“To get you where you’re going faster.”

I handed her a bottled water but she waved it off.

“That’s a good thing. Why’d you come if it’s so terribly boring?”

“Great question. Except the answer is far worse. One of my teammates felt like they owed me a favor.”

“Drake, I presume? You both walked in no more than twenty minutes ago, and here I thought I was overdramatic.”

I wasn’t sure if she was yanking my chain or not, but it felt like much longer than that.

“In some ways I’m meeting him for the first time despite weeks of training together.”

“No judgment there. I can see what you mean.” She checked her cellphone. “Ugh, I’m supposed to be celebrating with the girls. That likely means a couple more parties before my obligation ends.”

She laid her intense gaze on me like a set trap. The most blinding feature of all. Her sparkling green eyes. Like a jaguar in the jungle. Intense, and always watching. Their penciled black lids evoking an Egyptian goddess. Setting my soul ablaze.

“Congratulations on earning hard charger, by the way.”

“Don’t you love how I’m pitted with Drake when, penalties aside, my times were faster than that precious team captain of yours.”

“Wow. I didn’t realize.”

I paused to scratch my head. With how consumed I was by the proceedings and how it affected our club I didn’t once stop to consider the rankings from other groups.

Amused by my befuddlement, she spoke on.

“Don’t worry. You’ll never meet a greater threat to the established order. There will come a time when the top snow is saved for the best skier. Period. And I could care less about awards which uphold traditions better suited for the dominant male field.”

“You’re also not part of the Club, I take it?”

“Letting ladies in was, let’s say, a bit of an afterthought. But they’ll have to make room nonetheless. I’ll tell it to you straight. If it were up to me, we’d have left here hours ago. Or better yet I wouldn’t have showed up at all.”

She grabbed the pimiento stuffed olive between her thumb and forefinger, her nails painted the same scarlet hue as her lips, and paused before it met the smooth round edges of her pearly whites.

“I take it back.”

“What’s that?”

“The congratulations.”

Her head snapped back as she laughed. Loudly. Cackling no more than three times.

“Good.­ It wasn’t necessary. Thanks for the drink. Maybe I’ll see you later on?”

“Maybe. If I feel like sticking around.”

She popped the smooth green olive in her mouth and left.

I broke away from the eternal burning of her stare with nothing else to say. Dejected. Put down. I felt more scattered than the water rings left by the used, perspiring glasses left on the counter.

But what was this in my periphery? The supple nape of her slender body had made a full return. Settling with both of her arms on the bar top.

Instead of catching my sidelong glances of affection she appeared anxious in her search for something.

“Any more I can help with?”

Her soft red lips parted into a thin line which separated smile from frown.

“Doubtful. I appreciate it, though. Sounds like the girls have another place lined up. Some bar on Main Street. But we might come back. Who knows? We’re going to discuss it further over a cigarette. Only I need a damn lighter.”

Much to her surprise I tossed her my matchbook.

“I’ve got smokes too. They’re not menthols. But should scratch that itch.”

“I smoke Marlboro Red 100s, thank you. But that’s sweet of you.”

“My treat.”

“I can leave them at the bar before I leave,” she said. To which, I waved her off.

She stood up to go. Then shot back another look, beautiful as it was stunning. “I hope you get all that you want from tonight.”

She softly bit her lip. I was unable to respond due to my doorstop tongue.

“And never stop taking chances for what you want.”

She leaned over to set down her empty glass.

“If things get bleak enough maybe we can leave together?” I began to babble. My words spilling out like dribble onto my chin.

But despite half-joking, my brazen attempt at being forward with her might have paid off.

“If I happen to make it back. Otherwise, take care of yourself. And thanks again for the drink.”

“Glad to be of service.”

She broke off after that. I was left to consider the curves which set her apart. Gawking at the pink cat tattoo on the square of her back until it disappeared from view altogether. Her spikey-toed stilettos echoing their potential to kill with every step.

Alone at the bar. Again.

Or so I thought.

“Looking good, Romeo,” said the barfly Hank who was there all along. Flashing a chipped, yellow smile.

I raised my shot glass to him.

Throughout all my bouts of isolated bitterness I never felt this alone. The walls were caving in and brought with it the whole damn ceiling. Nearing despair, I contemplated my exit plan. But all I could do was look over a room full of rank and pedigree. A healthy overgrowth of the world’s most formidable skiers.

My head went rushing to the whims of desire. I scanned the party two to three times before spotting Holden on the dance floor.

The song ended and he slid out the glass doors to the back patio.

I finally took the bourbon shot.

It wasn’t until it reached my lips that the small fly could be seen floating in it. I downed it nevertheless before plodding out behind Holden.

Stepping outside was an icy plunge which stripped the oxygen from your lungs. I climbed up snowy wooden steps to an uncovered hot tub. The bromine box belching steam into a black sky that answered with soft fluffy flakes which sizzled in contact with the bubbly surface.

First thing which caught the eye were the two topless blondes. Drake bobbed somewhere between. His cheeks flushed at the star treatment. Already stripped down to his underwear.

Somehow their drunken cacophony drowned out the partying inside the condo as they beckoned us inside with them.

“Join us! The water’s fine.”

Where I was caught off guard by the prompt directive, Holden had already cast off his clothing and practically dove in. Although sufficiently heady off the drugs and liquor, my better faculties prevented me from diving right in. My reservations had less to do with soaking my bones than meeting the inevitable cold afterwards. Even despite the alcohol thinning the blood in my capillaries I was hesitant in the most comfortable situations, and repellant to all that was deemed fun or lighthearted.

“Where you been?” Drake called out to me through the swirling vapor. “We almost sent out an amber alert.”

I didn’t bother belaboring the point that he left me alone to begin with.

The topless girls giggled to each other from the other side of the hot tub. They had light blue eyes and could’ve been twins as they smoked their slim cigarettes.

My interests were piqued by the fleeting snippets of a foreign tongue picked up by my ears. Whether Swedish, German, or Russian, I had no clue, but its effects were equally intoxicating even without a drink.

“Vhat a kanone you are,” the blonde one with short bangs purred softly in Drake’s ear. “The French have a word for it, no?”

“Glissement.” The other one with golden-haired braids answered on his other side. Speaking with a slight lisp through her diastema.

“Speaking of glisse,” Holden added: “I’m surprised those hairpin turns didn’t take you out.”

Drake fired back with aplomb.

“Whatever it takes to clinch the title with panache.”

“Still the number one bullshitter in the game. Some things never change.”

I hung off to the side having little to contribute to the conversation. Staring at a corner jet as Holden’s mock flattery of Drake resumed. I slipped in and out. Airy, light. Like the exhale after a ripping bong hit. Letting go and vanishing into the collected vapors of my hazy mind when the voice of a drunken siren lured me in.

“’Scuse me?” The second blonde spoke in a husky, throaty voice. Her curvaceous figure bobbing my direction. “Vanna feel me ‘up?”

She stuck an empty cup in my face.

I burned hotter than the steamy 104-degree Fahrenheit water as I searched in the dark for a thermally insulated bottle of suspiciously clear liquid.

Still riding the high of my earlier interaction at the bar I attempted to stimulate a conversation. But unlike before where the talk progressed naturally, I chatted her up to no avail. Eventually hitting an awkward note that persisted until the excruciating end when I had finished topping off her cup.

“Dzhanks, ‘ave some if you vant,” she said before swimming back to her friend.

My stomach gave a gut-wrenching twinge as soon as my nostrils met the repulsive smell of unfiltered vodka. But I needed to preoccupy myself somehow so I filled up my cup and reached for the next best crutch to support my nerves only to remember I no longer had any matches.

“Sorry, but any chance either of you ladies can lend a spark?” I asked, only to encounter too late that I had butt into their private aside. They began to whisper to each other in a mix of broken English with their native tongues.

I felt a cold chill pass by.

The one with pouty lips spoke back. In an air reeking of privilege or boredom. Her thick accent contrasted sharply with her sunken cheeks.

“Dzhats surprising, no?” She pointed out to her friend.

“What? Me smoking? What’s so unbelievable about it?”

“You don’ seem lik zee type.”

She gave it to me like the thin cigarette smoking between her boney knuckle. Unfiltered.

“Dzhat’s a good zing, no? Dzhank, God.”

“Halleluiah.” I exclaimed.

I used her cigarette to light mine and handed it back. She continued on with an honesty that cut deeper than what could be expected from the boys.

“Dzhat boyish face, it deceives, no?”

“No deception here. Just another filthy human being with an irredeemable habit.” I sucked on the lit fuse. Dragging on it with newfound contentment.

Before long, I fell back into my cup. Struggling to keep a straight face while I drank up their tasteless swill. Being a natural born recluse meant living in isolation led to near crippling social anxiety. But when it came to the social games one had to simply play sometimes. We even managed to talk collectively for a couple minutes or two before the glass patio doors slid open.

“Is that who I think it is stumbling out here?” Holden drew the attention of the group over to where a half-recognizable figure stopped halfway across the snowy square to relieve his bladder on an evergreen sapling.

“We nearly called it quits for the night,” Drake said.

“Without your special delivery? That I find hard to believe,” said the newcomer, mounting the wooden flight of steps to the patio.

“Look girls! Duke arrived.”

“Right on schedule at the wrong time, as usual,” Duke gave a tiny bow.

He wore shorts and a white bucket hat that covered his balding head. A thin ribbon of smoke streamed from a cigarette holder in his crooked teeth. In both arms he cradled a faded leather briefcase to his chest.

Sal’s familiar face poked out behind him. Never had I been so happy to see him again. Hard to believe we nearly expired at the bottom of a cliff mere hours ago.

“Guess who else we ran into?”

There passed a marked change in Drake’s disposition. One of a an almost superstitious reverence which left him quaking. Pale as a ghost.

“Don’t tell me he’s here.” He gulped.

“He’s awaiting your arrival.”

“Where?”

Sal gestured towards the second floor of the condo.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Every subsequent inquiry from there got dismissed by Drake with a knowing wink. The blonde with bangs bent over the side of the hot tub for a bright beach towel.

“Look everybody, there’s a full moon out.” Drake remarked, unable to miss an easy cue.

She shot him a look of pure venom over her shoulder as if taken back by the attention drawn to her backend. Then she wiggled her bare hips.

“Not sure who caught the weather report, but the forecast calls for one-hundred percent chance of snowfall.” Holden stood up out of the water, completely in the nude.

I looked upwards as if dazed, momentarily confused.

“Do you like night skiing?” Holden asked me forthright. Tapping a finger to his nose.

“Some don’t?”

“Touché. I’d say it’s the perfect conditions for the most expensive headache around. Onward we go.”

Motivated by an eagerness only the promise of cocaine can provide, Drake and the girls hopped out of the hot tub and, after using the same towel to dry themselves off quickly, ran up the snow-stepped staircase to the upper deck. Holden and Sal skipped behind them with interlocking arms.

I stamped out my cigarette before climbing up with labored breath. Feeling absolutely miserable. My sore legs trembling. Wrenched over as if two great hands had reached into my body cavity to wring out my intestines.

These were only the symptoms of an indigestion that struck without fail at even the mere mention of snorting blow. Which was notoriously laced with laxatives and talcum powder as it was. My bowels loosening in a sick thank you of sorts which left me gripping the snowy handrails. In wait for the brow-perspiring flare up to subside.

The vertical slats of the blinds on the sliding door swayed above heavily-polished parquet flooring. We entered what appeared to be a private study converted into a trophy room. Old, mildew-smelling books with broken spines lined the shelves like crumbling tomes. The wooden-paneled walls softly lit by display lighting. Illuminating, here and there, a stuffed woodcock or grouse enshrined amongst a pageantry of other trophy fowl with beautiful plumage and colorful crests mounted on dusty wooden stands or up on the wall. Permanently in mid-flight.

It wasn’t until we all had entered that someone cleared their throat.

Contrary to my initial belief, this otherwise stuffy chamber wasn’t empty. Seated there in an elegant leather chair, reddish-brown, with a deep seat and wide armrests, before an unlit fireplace which hissed the charred remnants of a once great fire, our entry prompted the stirrings of a previously unseen individual whose statue-like appearance could’ve equally been made by a taxidermist’s hand. The rugged older man was unshaven with a classical tuft of receding hair on his crest. He wore a khaki safari jacket in which the untied belt hung loosely like ornamental strips of mantling. His aloof disposition somewhat betrayed the air made heavy by his presence.

He raised up from the club chair at his leisure. Half a burnt cigar rested in the vintage green marble ashtray beside him. Slowly, he took a few steps towards us. A slight limp in his step as he kissed each of the girls on the cheek.

“Is this our prospect?” He asked Sal. The first to receive him.

Drake immediately jumped forth to take his wrinkled, elegant hand, which, being oversized in comparison nearly clasped all of his as he beheld his idol like an overeager fanboy who got led away from the group to speak privately aside in front of a shut door.

The always cool and collected Holden picked right up from where he left off earlier. Bridging the silence.

“There are icons of American exceptionalism, like cowboys, astronauts, and athletes. Living ideals of every man. Forerunners who in former days bore the brand for every subsequent harbinger to further push the envelope. With true grit. If not all the hallmark traits of distinction. And that dignified, healthy-looking gentleman over there is a giant amongst men. Which is why we affectionately refer to him as Papa. One of the most famous American skiers of the last century, he held twenty-seven World Cup titles until suffering a career ending injury. How Picasso called Cezanne. He’s the father of us all.

“And whenever great talent gathers such as this, they’re like shining stars who share the night sky. Rarely do they stand out alone. Much like the masters who outperform by virtue of fidelity. Whose mere presence can illumine other objects in their surroundings, often transforming their character or place of origin. Judging from their illustrious record and lasting influence upon mountain tops they’ll withstand the strength of any winter force. Distinguished at home and abroad as a world-class skier. A special breed of athlete with a penchant for facing the steepest inclines and extending the horizon for others to follow. Even in the twilight of his career, the carved lineaments of Papa’s worn countenance reflected his personal style. Simple on the surface with long reverberations in each line. Master of subtext. In which every wrinkle, crack, crease, and split tells a story in one true sentence. Either short or in long-form.”

“He’s one of the mad ones all right,” said Sal. “Talk about stories. He raced as an expat between the world wars.”

“But he returned. That’s what counts.”

Sal walked over to join them. Positioning himself beside the door. His hand on the handle.

“He’s ready to see you now,” were the only words I heard Papa say before Drake entered inside. Sal shut the door behind him.

“Part of every cycle to great renown is the premature death of a short-lived career. Allowing for a rebirth that forever etches one’s legacy into the annals of living memory. Only a skier that’s valorous and of high caliber knows how tumultuous that can be. The invasion of privacy and personal loss becomes the ruin of many names worthy of mention who slip like grains of sand through the cracks. Talk about a catch-22.” While Holden talked, the further the alumni got in proximity to us. It felt sublime to witness a living legend during their athletic decline in which it was possible to pick out every visible chink in the armor. Like taking an honest stab at Achilles’ heel. Almost.

Holden quickly rushed over. Leaving me to continue playing spectator. The older gentleman gladly received him with a fondness only shown by a father and when he spoke, his loud, thunderous voice became vibrant and full of life. As if living vicariously through new generations of fresh talent.

Once he had finished shaking hands for the sake of formalities, the venerable Papa, winded, wheezy, and puffed up to a degree no different than one of the stuffed birds laying around, withdrew to the private chamber. A full snifter of rye whiskey in hand. Walking proof that the day you ever got noticed for your abilities was the beginning of your downfall.

Drake exited the room.

He stood there aghast. Blazoned with the look of a former initiate. Unblinking, wide eyes. Mouth agape. His already fair skin drained of all its color and visibly shaken.

“What an absolute honor it is,” he sputtered, unable to contain himself. “To have met the infamous no-tuck bomber. Who carved his name with the best skiers in the world for every future generation to live up to. A long legacy uncontested, and unbroken. He says to make ourselves comfortable with the humble lodgings. Never in all my life have I been so speechless.”

“Talk about sucking the air out of the room.”

“You don’t get it, Holden. He’s a legend. The quintessential ideal of a skier by all manner of appearances. Historians could fill volumes regarding the exploits and adventures preserved by Club lore. Yet he’s managed to led a life of relative anonymity despite the status of his name. Our old founder and the first to take U.S. ski racing to the world stage would’ve been proud,” Drake solemnly nodded towards a sketched portrait above the mantel of an aged skier with both of his ski poles planted on the mountainside, his blue eye wilder than his gray hair. A twisted flowing wreath that tangled with his beard like a silver garland round a youthful face with rosy cheeks not unlike their own. Engraved in large characters on a gold plate affixed to the wooden frame were the letters GC, Gent.

“Don’t be such a phony,” said Holden. “What was that he called you, The Prospect?”

“It holds a certain gravitas, does it not?”

“For such an appellation, you must feel blessed.”

“Rightfully so. And how fortuitous that we’ll get to venerate the icon with pure snow,” Drake raised his drink to Sal who motioned towards Duke.

“Let’s make some noses bleed.” Duke said, spilling most of his rum drink to dig into what he called his doctor bag. Moments later he produced a flakey white rock that shone in his hand like a walnut-sized disco ball.

“Try not to lose the contraband, Drake.”

“Spare me the lecture, Holden.”

The European girls giggled amongst themselves.

“Get comfortable, everybody,” said Sal, pulling out a dark green square-shouldered bottle from the freezer of the mini bar.

The blonde with the pouty face squealed with delight.

“Ooh, I recognize dat. Master of zee hunt.”

“What, this? A little digestif.”

He walked over to the couch with the frosted bottle of herbal liqueur in one hand. A stack of tall shot glasses in the other.

I sat beside him with Holden on his other side. Drake, still sandwiched between his golden-haired ladies, took the adjacent couch. Duke refused a seat altogether. He merely waited for full payment to be provided before dumping the shiny rock onto a decorative mirror plate with a nonchalance that made our mouths ache. Our jittery eyes unable to divert focus from Drake who used his Amex Gold Card to flatten the large white chunks into a finely crushed powder. Sal poured out shots of the black liqueur for each of us. Its sludgy botanical aftertaste like a licorice syrup which agitated my stomach further.

Duke spoke in the meantime. “My regular guy had to seek psychological help. Which, don’t get me wrong, he needed. But it kinda put me in a bind so I had to resort to a known rip-off and charlatan.”

Another rogue stir below. Followed by another.

The very anticipation of waiting affected the physiology of my body for the worse. My discomfort grew until I could stand it no longer and had to ask Sal, who was becoming totally engrossed by the festive activities, where the closest bathroom was. He pointed towards a hallway.

I nearly ran out the trophy room.

Down the hallway. Down to the end where I sought total privacy in a bathroom with basalt stone walls and marble floor.

The biggest upside being there was no line for the toilet.

I couldn’t help but close my eyes while sitting there. Desperately hoping nobody from the party found me.

When finished it was like I was born again. Up until I tried flushing the toilet.

Its soupy contents of the bowl began to swirl and slowly rise up. Then stopped. I frantically checked under the sink while the tank refilled.

One hand on the handle, I tried flushed again. Praying for the drain to unclog.

Water rose up to the porcelain rim. Nearly spilling over and flowing onto the white-tiled floor if I hadn’t twisted the shut-off valve behind the toilet.

I checked helplessly around when someone came whistling down the hallway.

The closer he got, the clearer he became. Short, curly hair. His almost cartoonish bespectacled face and mustache drawn with the straight, smooth lines which distinguished them. He came wearing yellow rubber kitchen gloves and wielding a plunger.

“Call me Kilgore.”

That was all he said as he waved around the wooden stick with a red rubber bulb.

“Pleased to meet you.” I briefly offered him my hand before retracting it. “I sure appreciate the help.”

“I’m more than happy to jump in when necessary.”

“How’d you know I needed that?”

I gestured to the plunger.

“This plot stinks, don’t you think?”

The sparse word choice of this character might’ve been minimalist but he reeked of chain-smoking cigarettes and could’ve been mistaken for the handyman given his presentation.

“Yeah, about that. I can explain.”

“No need. It’s self-explanatory. Drake’s guest, I imagine?”

“If you’re asking whether we ski together, then I confess. We arrived here with Sal.”

“Allow me to apologize for the bumpy ride.”

I shot him a bewildered look as if he accessed the inner sanctum of my mind. He stuck the plunger into the murky toilet bowl.

Plunge. Plunge. Plunge. Plunge.

He paused plunging to explain. His mustached face revealing a blend of dark humorous wit.

“I don’t have to be there to see what I know.”

“That sure tells a story.”

Plunge, plunge, pause. “You haven’t read much by Diedrich Knickerbocker, I take it.”

“Who?”

“Well-known Dutch-American historian.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“One should be acquainted with the adventures of our countryman Captain Bonneville. If not the Leatherstocking Tales. Anyhow, I’ve nearly unblocked the toilet drain. Let’s give it a few more plunges for good measure.”

“What am I even doing here?” I confided in him further.

“Y’know, I used to ask the same thing myself.” Plunge. Plunge. Plunge.

“Have you been here long?”

He paused to consider my question, gazing into his reflection between two mirrors which faced each other.

“Can’t say. I’ve come and gone so often. You could say I’ve been here a lifetime, or several.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You wouldn’t be the first. It’s something I wonder often to myself.”

A loud sucking pop ensued. Followed by a swirling flush of the unclogged toilet.

“My work here is done,” he said, pulling off his rubber gloves.

“Sorry again about the mess,” I began, but he was already outside in the bathroom with only his head poking in the frame.

“Blockages happen. We all clog our fair share of toilets. So it goes.”

Exit stage left. He disappeared back from where he came.

I returned to the room with the others. They instantly quieted down as if they were waiting for me. Drake was first to make mention of my absence.

“I ran into a man named Kilgore,” I said.

“That old fish?” Drake and Holden laughed.

This odd response left me with an unsettled feeling.

“He was a lifeline when I needed it. Do you know him?”

“Do we know him? He was inducted long ago.”

I couldn’t believe it. At no point leading up to this did I consider him to be part of the Club.

“I’d be careful reading too much into his stories,” said Drake. To which, Holden further added:

“He’s ever-present even when he’s absent.”

Seven neatly racked lines on the table turned to five after Drake pressed his face to the glass. A rolled up hundred-dollar bill stuck in his nose. “One can’t put a price on good old fashion fun,” he said. “Somehow, some way, you always manage to bring the party. What a pleasure it is to share in your presence.”

“Maybe one day that will reciprocate.” Duke scoffed at the mere mention.

“Come now, I must offer something in return. Oh, and ladies, you’re up.”

“I don’t reckon,” said Duke. “Especially not for all the favors I do.”

The bravado ensued.

Slowly, the rotation circled. Of which, I was located on the opposing end.

Only four lines left.

Now just three.

Then two.

One.

“Where’s the tooter?” I asked. A hand on my knee to stop it from shaking like a jackhammer.

Drake, rubbing his puffy red nose, a diamond glint in his eye, reached for another snot-encrusted rolled up hundo stuffed inside his shirt pocket.

The force of a revolver blasted apart my skull. The burning drip told me straight away this was stronger than the stepped-on shit we’re used to back in the valley. Sinuses numbed already, I choked on the words taking permanent lodging in my throat. With every regular pleasure growing steadily intolerable.

The plate now cleared for more lines to follow.

Drake used his card to separate more broken chunks from the mini mound of cut powder. His once smooth movements becoming increasingly erratic each time the process repeated. Their four voices gradually filled the size of the small room as they conversed freely about their favorite topic: competing on the world circuit while pushing their abilities to the max. Drake would try to steer until Holden, now more wired with energy than before, effortlessly stole the spotlight back. Sal too showcased his fair share of witticisms. Backed by his syncopated stream-of-conscious rhythm. Occasionally they’d veer off onto other favorite topics like performance enhancement.

“What can I say about my penchant for speed? Maybe I’m addicted to operating at high performance.” Sal said, to which he attempted to explain. “It’s preferred. That’s all. It’s like climbing a mountain after a night of binging uppers. What’s Duke got to say? Let’s hear the doctor’s opinion on the matter.”

“You mean something along the lines of topping the podium high on coke and two hits of acid after submitting clean piss for the drug screen? Gonzo.”

Now with Duke weighing in, the room grew over-crowded with newly competing voices.

“How do you do it?” The European girls asked.

“It’s all mostly show,” Holden answered for him.

“Like your old hunting cap,” said Duke, sneering.

“That’s right,” said Sal. “Don’t forget worn backwards.”

“Hush now. The ‘doctor’ can explain it himself with his crummy storytelling.”

A dark shadow fell over Duke as he spoke next.

“I plan to keep it up until I can’t. Then I’ll go out with a bang.”

The girls broke into laughter.

Every line ripped through the soft, spongy membrane of the nasal cavity. I embraced being captive to the endless turnstile of topics, most of which pointed back to Drake who sifted through the glittery clumps to rack more lines.

The first-round excitement had long worn off and diminished each subsequent line. Along with any pleasure I may have previously felt.

Duke, formerly cool and collected, was equally on edge. Being the difference of doping in controlled measures versus abusing vast quantities of drugs in every manner possible, he was disturbed, shaken by the slightest pin-drop as he shifted in his seat until Sal asked if he might have something to take the edge off.

“Hmmm… lemme think about that.”

Duke consulted his briefcase with the air of a rogue businessman.

He threw at least a half-ounce onto the table, saying: “Of course I do. Question is, are you lot going to be ready for it?”

“When have I been known to rest upon my laurels?” asked Holden.

“The moment they were assumed, dear boy.”

Once more, Duke fumbled through the miscellaneous paraphernalia including, but not limited to, uppers, downers, zingers, stingers, and poppers. He resurfaced brandishing a newfound grin along with an orange screw-cap bottle of prescription medicine and an unopened pack of sweet cigars.

“Now that the brain’s fired up let’s dowse the flames with a beela.”

“What’s that?” Drake asked.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Somehow despite his every idiosyncratic quirk, Duke opened up not one, but two swisher sweets and hollowed them out.

I quickly hit a sluggish pace despite everyone else soaring high.

A slump brought about by the clashing voices. Always at each other’s throats. Vying to be heard. I had to strain through what felt like pure torture for another pick me up. Waiting upwards of twenty minutes at times for what amounted to thirty seconds of satisfaction. Repeat. Bumping one after another. The wear of this routine soon became reflected in the transparency of our smooth, glassy faces.

I was the only one not talking. The trophy room shrank smaller with each painstaking pass. The lump in my throat refusing to vacate its lodgings while the top half of my face leaked onto my shirt.

By this time Duke had successfully fused the two cigars together at the ends to roll up over an eighth of sticky chronic broken up with his bare hands. Resulting in a blunt so long it required two hands to support.

“Behold. A be-legit for your bitch ass,” he admired his creation with a smile.

“You learned something in school after all,” Drake admired the craftsmanship.

“I picked up this tek from a couple Frisco cats who would sling thizz by the jar. And now for the finishing touch, a shiny red cherry on top…” Duke lifted a four-ounce amber bottle half-filled with viscous artificially flavored cough syrup.

“What goodies have you in store?”

“A dose of promethazine codeine.”

“You mean a low-grade opiate?”

“In the same class nonetheless. Don’t mind the scratched off label. It took two bogus doctor appointments for me to score.” With utmost care he applied a liberal coat along the length of the ruler-sized spectacle.

“That’s why we call him Doctor,” added Sal.

“Damn straight. Wait—was that the bottle of lean or dropper acid?”

For the first time a flash of worry showed on Drake’s face.

“What do you mean? Like LSD?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Duke gave me a knowing wink.

Drake merely crossed his arms. His nose stuck in the air.

“A couple extra licks. Apply some pressure. Run a flame over it. Then top it off with a shake of kief to give it a nice spackle-finish, voila! Don’t mind the wetness. We’ll be dripping from our earholes soon enough.”

The tip fired off like a Fourth of July sparkler at the first inhale, which mellowed out Duke to his normal off-kilter self. After taking a couple sustained drags, he passed it to his lefthand side.

Once again, I was caught on the wrong side of the rotation.

The newly added haze did little to stem the flow of conversation. In fact, their chatter increased. The paper was so wet that the beela burned out as it reached Drake’s sweaty palms.

This required him to stop cutting lines long enough to bring a lit flame to his lips when Duke exploded with unexpected rage: “Not like that! It won’t burn properly causing it to run.”

About as quickly as Mr. Hyde came out, he was hidden for Dr. Jekyll to play cool with ladies present, brushing off the outburst as if done in jest.

“No worse than your sinuses. But contrary to popular belief I’ve smoked a blunt before.”

Drake cherried the charred tip before proceeding to cough out half a lung.

We enjoyed a good laugh at his expense while Drake weakly puffed once, twice more before passing it to me.

The moment the franken-blunt left your lips your fingertips vibrated. A tingly sensation which uplifted every cell of my body every hit.

There came more lines to face. Followed by hard pats on the back.

Soon exhausted, I wanted nothing more than to break free of this endlessly repeating cycle. Then things took a nasty turn as the conversation meandered its way towards me.

“I haven’t heard your name yet. You’ve been mighty quiet all night. You’re also from Carbonado?” Duke simply had to ask.

“I’m on their roster, for now,” I said.

“How come we never saw you today–er, yeah never mind,” he backpedaled at the others’ stern, nonverbal reproach. “Sorry—Sal mentioned what you did.”

“Still, this is a great opportunity to get to know our acquaintance better. He is competition, after all” said Holden, pressing further. What’s your discipline?”

“Good question.”

“There’s an air of mystery with this one.” They all laughed.

“I wish I was joking.”

“Even the most humbled skier knows in what they excel.”

“I’m no skier. Not yet, at least.”

This last response counteracted his dumbfounded look with one which bordered on shock and horror.

“At least not until I’ve raced.”

The room fell silent. Dead silent. Having been exposed on the spot.

Only Drake, the master of ceremonies for the evening, couldn’t help from feeling obliged to vouch for my uncontested character.

“He’s a little late to the party is all,” he said, quickly jumping to defend my honor. “Wait until you see this maniac on downhill. Or any speed event for that matter. He’s the real deal. A champ since our first race together and after having trained hours on the mountain together I’m glad to be racing for the same club.”

Sal, summoning up the rogue elements which made him a reluctant icon, spoke up next. “Having been a lionized young skier, the result doesn’t matter anymore. Win some lose some. You’re bound for a super ranking. I’m sure of it.”

“In a way, Drake, he’s the true winner today. If not for his DQ there’d be no savior role for you to play. And I say this in good faith knowing the added incentive to break records for the win, we’ve seen this before.”

Both blondes sat there on Drake’s either side. Visibly bored. Hands clasped on their laps until talk circled back to themselves and I was safe again.

Regardless of intent, I couldn’t help from feeling patronized by such a defining statement. By not competing I lost by default. They were double and triple winners who were all too quick to offer sage advice from Duke’s altered skiing to Sal’s practice of standing on his head three to five minutes a day. What they couldn’t answer for was the ineffable quality they possessed which marked them a born winner. Dumb luck.

Having been caught in the chase of expecting something new, something magical and exciting, the hunt had abruptly ended. Here the trophies were preserved by taxidermy like the spoils of conquest of some bygone era. With the man of the hour being no different than a trussed-up bull on the altar or a burnt offering.

Lungs burning, a hummingbird fluttered in my chest as if it might explode. I was beyond blunted. I was bagged, bludgeoned, and beaten into submission.

Paranoia sunk in. While pangs of indigestion struck with every scratchy, metallic drip.

Their rising laughter broke up the thickening cloud of smoke. And we were only midway through with a whole blunt to go.

“I still can’t think of a better performance than today,” continued Sal.

“Me either,” said Duke.

“And Holden?”

“I’ll commend your ability to rebound after bending your skis through the turn. But that’s all.”

“Because the body is a center of mass, right?”

“You mean center of gravity?”

“Same difference. The end result is the medal.”

“Speaking of metal, Sal,” said Holden. “It only molds if tested and the time is nigh for Drake.”

“As if I haven’t proven my mettle. Today I took gold. The books are open at last.”

“Nothing lasts. That’s for certain.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Sal. What’s all this meddling supposed to prove?”

“If its noble or not.”

To which Holden added: “AKA phonies!”

“Who’s a phony?” Drake asked.

“Those with a weak constitution, we’ll say.”

“You’ll find I’m the touchstone of success soon enough.”

“First, let’s see what the season brings,” said Holden.

“We can take this onto the mountain right now if you’d like?” Drake attempted to stand but was blocked by the husky blond who placed a single doll-sized hand on his chest. “I’d rather swallow blood before my pride.”

“As you should. We’re not beholden to anybody. That’s what makes or breaks us,” Holden said, and as he spoke his eyes became far off, and distant as the swelling ocean depths. “Even with differing styles we aim for the same result. Win. I’m a rather solitary creature in the offseason, truth be told. You can’t tell me you only do this for glory.”

Drake’s demeanor softened as quickly as his tempers flared. Like an Atlas unencumbered by shrugging off his heavy load.

“Why else race? It’s not exactly egalitarian.”

Sal added: “Nor altruistic. I’m not responsible for how others perform. That’s true freedom.”

“How charitable of you to speak as if we have free will.” Duke said to more shared laughter. Sal poured out another round of digestifs. The botanical smell alone made my stomach turn. Aiding with indigestion.

All of this talking with nothing to say. Privileged members. All of them still paying tuition well beyond their heyday. And the more they spoke about their gamesmanship the more it started to lack substance. Obsessing over their victories as if they were notches on their belts, from number of wins, overall titles, discipline titles, and podiums. Fixed on the same determinacy which allowed religion and science to rule every major social institution. Even the formerly beautiful foreigners were no more than a living symbol of newfound interest that inevitably fades. What I was most concerned about was the way I bombed down the slopes at breakneck speeds.

Haunted by specters of paranoia, and without a sole consolation, it dawned on me I didn’t belong. Not a single person knew me and there was nothing for me here. Or at least not like there was for others in my company.

A crushing weight had settled upon my chest. Stifling each breath. The others were lost to fits of unbearable laughter while the couch I sat on became a pokey pincushion beneath me. Making it excruciating to sit patiently on and wait my turn. The plastic cup of vodka which remained untouched turned surprisingly warm in my cold, sweaty hands. I stuck around as they chewed the fat to the bone. The mental stew reaching its boiling point somewhere between rounds of the mirror plate until I got edged out and cut from the circle entirely with each subsequent pass.

I sought the magic words to grant my escape. Like a prisoner unable to finish their sentence.

After one last look around at the dead birds decorating the walls I asked if anyone else wanted to step out for a smoke.

But Drake was too busy tending to his entourage. On track for a World Cup debut at age twenty he had nothing to lose. Destined to add his name to the golden book with all the rest worthy of mention.

The shock of freezing cold air decelerated my rapid heart rate and it wasn’t until the sliding door shut behind me that I remembered I couldn’t smoke a cigarette.

Breathing steadily relaxed. Although both feet felt numb in the hard crusted snow and my head continued to throb even after my removal from the previous setting. The rubbing alcohol in my cup screwed up my face worse than my stomach. Puckered into a fitting reminder of my present disgust as I dumped it over the balcony with a shudder.

Being Cannon Club material was a badge of honor reserved for those who defied the norm. Those chosen few who competed on nothing less than water-injected race courses. Trenchant luminaries with moxie. Fated to be the champions and heroes of written history. Whereas I was barely starting to give this an honest go.

Regardless of the time lost, I was learning the competition was all for show and that I’d rather dwell in obscurity than be a dazzling light for others to fixate on for a night.

It wasn’t long before a gaping space emptied up inside that only the need for more coke could fill. Once more I made up my mind to return for another pick-me-up but the sliding door wouldn’t open. Whether locked from the inside or a subtle hint to stay out, I knew one thing for sure. I wouldn’t be tapping on the glass in the hopes of regaining entry. Abandoning that portal to pleasure and pain altogether held greater appeal than ramping up my vexations with added lines or trying to smooth talk in my common tongue, let alone a foreign one.

By now the sharp burn in my nostril had long lost its edge. I could only ponder the remaining hours until being home. That and the search for more alcohol.

The only presence downstairs was the music from a running playlist. I went straight to the bar where I pilfered the remaining bourbon right in front of the mounted buffalo head. Even if the dice hadn’t rolled in my favor, at least I would take a top shelf buzz back with me.

On my way out I happened to notice Hank at the bar. Still at his spot from before. Drinking straight from a bottle of cheap red wine.

In the hopes he hadn’t noticed me I had every intention of slipping out when he called out to me from behind. Like a herald of further bad news.

“You blew it, by the way.”

He pointed to an empty martini glass left on a soggy napkin. Its shiny green olive uneaten.

“She was here? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I already did.”

“Great.”

“Good news is that the accolades mean nothing. That’s what they fail to tell you. Want some real advice, bud?”

Hank drained the red wine to the last drop. He looked over at me again. His wrinkled eyes red and watery. The words in which he spoke held the grave finality of being etched upon his headstone.

“Don’t try.”

The foyer was empty leaving the condo. Save for the echoes which filled the hallway. The only sign there had ever been a party were the canned lights someone else turned on. Illuminating every past shadow from before while shining a good spotlight on that once terrifying and formidable overstuffed housecat.

I stepped out to meet light snowfall on a vacant street. That woody smell of fresh snow making my nose stir.

What a cold, unforgiving world it was.

As always, I left there wanting for more. And after failing to generate a buzz like so many other times I had to move on.

Such untimely vicissitudes were about as flattering as an obligatory compliment better left unsaid. Somehow with every odd staked against me I had a fleeting chance with the only person worth caring about and it was gone. Of all that remained of her memory, her hands, lips, brows, and amber breath, what stood out the most was her green eyes. The prime movers in setting the bond between us. Bright as the sun, rare as the most precious jewel. Only they appeared now as waning moons. Or at worst, enemies who betray and wound with their darts of disdain.

I was left stricken by an overwhelming apathy. Caring too much was what rendered the object wholly unattainable. Still, she would’ve grown bored either way. Leaving me to shuffle out of here empty-handed with another hole through my chest.

Hovering uneasily on the precipice of an expired high, I cracked open my newly acquired salvation. I chased the foul taste of the first pull with a second, then I zipped my jacket to the neck.

I scanned both ways down the abandoned street.

Nothing stirred in the early stillness of a morning devoid of human life. A sight more serene than any overcrowded beach. Snowflakes drifted playfully. Floating nondescripts that melted at first contact with my flushed skin.

Even the straightest narrow had its twists and turns. I was still in the throes of understanding an identity I was yet to act upon in this theater of doers versus dreamers. Cut off from the heavens when the latter falls short. Not only did I fail in a strictly biologically sense, but managed to manufacture a dreamworld to validate my life’s purpose. Then there was the Cannon Club. Illusions of splendor, legacy, and renown: all of this made available with the induction fee and proper insignia.

Being hopped up on stimulants my feet roamed in stationary shoes. Close. Yet, so far. Too far. I took the only path made available to me. Blowing back from a winter’s tale with no fireside to tell it by. I cursed my fleeting thoughts for the quickness they traveled to my cozy living room. For all my stomping around I could only think about home and how carefree I was to leave it behind. I was that much quicker to wish it back since regardless of wherever I’m whisked away it will remain in that same spot.

Tonight’s events had triggered an intense longing for Sophia and I counted the hours left between now and when I could see her again. Furthermore, I was compelled to reach out across borders. A notion which left me with a bloated feeling I couldn’t displace. I hadn’t messaged her back since earlier and I feared missing out on what might have been there for me all along.

Someone else exited the condo.

Imagine my relief to find Duke staggering from out of it. The little hair left on his head stood on end from his constant habit of running a hand through it. He was driving an all-nighter to Colorado and offered to give me a ride.

“Got EtOH?” He asked once I had sat in the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry?”

“Ethyl alcohol.”

I showed him the bourbon I nicked from the bar.

“Hold on a minute—” Duke held up a hand, staring off into the distance until snapping free of his trance to pop open the glove box. “Ahh, there she is. To find beauty such as you is like reacquainting with an old friend.”

Duke brandished his bottle of rum and with drunken sailor swagger took a hefty swig.

“Need to wet your whistle?”

“I’ll stick with whiskey, thanks. Can I use a lighter?”

He took another swig and stuck the bottle between his legs.

“I’d take issue if you didn’t,” he punched in the circular lighter built into the car’s ashtray.

My threadbare narrative read like a stock character in another’s dynamic plot. Duke racked lines on the dashboard for us to rail with his briefcase of drugs laying open on the backseat. He dropped me off at the hotel roundabout and with an unintelligible reply sped off into the crazed moonlight.

It was some accomplishment to have returned at last. But with so much energy I wasn’t even close to thinking about bed.

I dragged my cigarette and calmly blew smoke into the starless sky. Which, to no surprise, failed to come crashing down in a deluge of glass shards and broken splinters.

The rev of an approaching motor filled the hotel drive. Three doors sprung open from a cab. From which stepped out The Jury, one by one. All three with stumbles in their step.

Immediately I flicked my cigarette to the street curb.

Judging from the looks of their skewed gait and cheeks flushed with liberal drink, they appeared to be having a much better night than myself and hardly took notice of me while gabbing on their way inside the hotel. If only I could be so invisible. For immediately upon seeing me came the piss-poor attempt to clean up their act. Most notably, Ms. Mann who straightened right up, croaking,

“What are you doing out so late?”

“I could be asking the same of you. Enjoying ourselves tonight?”

“Never mind that.” Her mouth snapped shut. Flustered, and unable to articulate a point further. “Come, Richard.”

“One moment, please. I’ll have a few words with my athlete here.”

She stood facing the other way, tapping her foot while Mr. Pantofle entered the lobby’s revolving door.

I did all I could to prevent from sniffling or wiping my nose.

Coach Price stared back at me. Instead of the stern face with the wrinkled eye and furrowed brow I was so accustomed he looked uncharacteristically calm and relaxed. Expressionless almost.

His eyes filmed over and brimming with celebratory drink as he took no time to break the silence.

“So did you get a chance to live it up?”

“I won’t lie to you,” I started slow, expecting harsh backlash to follow. If only he knew about the first night! “Drake let me tag along with him.”

“Save it, I spied the both of you leaving from the parking lot. But you earned it.”

My jaw clenched tight. No longer was I able to keep pretending to laugh it off.

“I didn’t realize condo parties were part of the curriculum.”

“How was it?” He persisted. A strong scent of alcohol carrying on his breath. “Get to know the ladies field any better?”

“Somewhat. What about you and Ms. Mann? She’s quite friendly off the clock.”

“That there, that’s strictly platonic.”

We both looked over at her shivering in the freezing cold as she awaited our conversation to end. “OK, I plead the fifth.”

I revealed the bourbon inside my coat to seal the deal.

“No, no. I’ve said too much already. But I was your age once, you know? Letting loose. Getting wild.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen from grace. Where’s Drake?”

Having already covered his ass once I figured there was no harm in lying a little further on his behalf.

“He’s already inside. Didn’t you see him?”

“I can read between the lines. Even in this state. Anyway, the real reason I stole a moment with you was to ask a favor.”

Both of my eyebrows were raised.

“Sure. What might that be?”

He glanced behind his shoulder before staring downward as if ashamed.

“A cigarette.”

“I thought skiers were supposed to have marathon lungs?”

“This is one of those rare occasions that warrants bad behavior. But I still expect to see you bright and early with everyone else to leave first thing in the morning.”

“Okey dokey. Need a light?” I offered my lit cigarette to him.

“Ahem, actually, I was planning to share it with somebody…”

“Say no more. Keep the pack.”

He studied me with a vacant look.

“I won’t be needing them.” I said with finality. “I don’t have a lighter. But the concierge should be able to provide a matchbook. Try not to smoke them all at once.”

Before leaving, he cast a far-away glance back my direction. “You’re yet to visit my office hours. You should drop by. Until then, many thanks for the last-minute crutch.”

He left to rejoin Ms. Mann. Their black silhouettes quickly slipping around the building’s far side.

This brief interaction provided levity at the end of a long over-drawn ordeal.

Yet I was still partnered with familiar company. Loneliness. At the crossroads of that defining moment, I vowed to make a change. Even if something small to regain control of my life. A superior act of will to lay the groundwork for a new foundation. One governed by bold action and bolstered with strict discipline.

Shivering, I returned to the pitch-black stillness of an empty hotel room. Devoid of all comforts and warmth and where my coke come-down came crashing over me.

Unable to sleep, I nipped at the whiskey bottle until greeted by the raising sun.

Having seen the trip through to the bitter end, I was more than thankful to pack, eat, and board the same lumbering vehicle that bore us here what felt like so many nights ago. In the range of all my roaming this adventure wound up being no longer than a short story. Now, the most difficult part was left.

Waiting. Idle as the bus which never fully warmed up when, following a false start and a backwards roll the cold machine drove off in a steady plume of slate gray exhaust. Hands sweaty. Mouth dry. Last night’s proceedings flashed by much too vividly for my liking. It came as some relief knowing I’d likely find all the states of comfort where I had left them. One upside of living in a small city was that you could plan on little change during a long absence. But who’s to say that doesn’t work both ways regarding the condition of our return as glorified hometown heroes? Only I had failed to put my mark on the mountain. All I could look forward to next week was a heavier practice schedule. But not before a snowstorm was forecasted to bury Salt Lake City in another bountiful harvest. Already loaded up with future dread, I couldn’t breathe a single sigh of relief upon the freeway. Our path quickly unraveled. Back through narrow passes that wound upon never-ending stretches of a busy interstate. Each pass opening up to a new tract of land or golf course brilliantly lit by a new horizon. Amidst the early darkness were shiny glimmers in the murk. Tiny, bright flashes to help guide our passage through the potential unknown. But mostly my thoughts were spent envisioning time with Sophia instead—and in every way possible. Outlining every conceivable plan from bowling and ice-skating downtown to buying movie tickets for whatever the latest critically-panned blockbuster of the season might be.

Ever since my desire for her crystallized there was no receptacle large enough to contain the capacity of my longing in which she dominated every daydream. If only these hard driving desires travelled faster than the speed limit allowed, I wouldn’t be passing the hours consumed by love’s rite. Cursing out my cellphone’s dead battery with my charger stowed away with the bags and ski gear underneath.

The dark grid of streets appeared drab in the all-gray dawn against the orange sandstone once we neared the mouth of Parley’s Canyon. Where Suicide Rock and the flickering streetlights drew my laborious journey to an end along with any closure that I wouldn’t return the biggest loser. I wasn’t even in the standings.

Missing the mark. Always and forever.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

          “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

Suicide Rock told a story. From the moment you passed this heavily graffitied landmark at the mouth of Parley’s Canyon it evoked ties to an urban legend about a Native American woman. As the story goes, she was so heartbroken when her beloved never returned from battle that she hurled herself off of it. In similar fashion I was about to create a story of my own. Once the bus driver shifted into gear, he cranked the steering wheel like a boat undocking from the harbor. I could almost see Sophia’s figure waving back at me from the uncertain, swirling dark. Along with my native city and whatever else it had to offer. The spread-open valley with its sprawling salt flats and network of wetlands; all belonging to a great basin where creeks, streams, and rivers found no outlet to any ocean and were bound by the Snake River Basin to the north, Sierra Nevada and Cascades to the west, and the Wasatch Mountains to the east; an outdoor wonderland for those who enjoyed winter sports along with all the hiking, mountain biking, river rafting, and rock climbing alike.

Park City was considered a world-class resort and a major tourist attraction for celebrities and skiers the globe over. A destination accessed via Interstate 80 which made its passage through the stream-cut canyon. The lower part was a narrow, winding series of curves through the distinctive orange-pink sandstone exposed on the north side of the canyon. On a route overrun with semitrucks racing up to the mountain pass at the top. Where finding a navigable pass over such a ridge once presented a formidable barrier to travel, our path to the popular mountain resort was like turning over blank sheets with no delineation. There weren’t any crumbling overpasses, fallen rock, or even a single pothole along the way as we drove into nothingness with only the headlights to guide us. I felt exhausted already thinking of the white volumes stretching endlessly ahead. As if shipping off into a ceaseless white sea. The Great Unknown. And with giddiness at the reins, this trip was bound to be an eventful one. I was running headlong towards a well-deserved break from my banal routine and perhaps there would be an opportunity to learn about myself and grow along the way. Yeah right.

Along with that realization came a deep-seated anxiety. Gnawing at me with the teeth of beggarly mice. A mood which starkly contrasted with Coach Price who bounced up and down the aisle cracking jokes to everyone’s shared laughter. I had never known someone to be so chipper and high energy this early in the morning, and any attempt to catch up on sleep got thwarted as the team excitedly covered every aspect of what to expect for the week, and to nauseating effect. Too stoned to sleep; yet, I was too wired to prevent fidgeting for a better view out of the windshield when daylight broke over the black rimmed horizon. Having forgotten my sunglasses in my haste out the door I became dazzled by the lightning flashes of rural splendor as the open road pierced into the sublime landscape of a sketch book. The hefty saddles of her highlands, whose trickling slopes were now frozen over in sparkling ice bright as diamonds, gave off an ethereal gleam at its cleavage before curving out from the hidden slots into snow-covered plains that beckoned you like a weary guest in search of hospitable lodging towards the security of an over-arching bough. I couldn’t see clearly due to the blinding imagery but envisioned frozen cataracts erupting from her formidable peaks in an icy mountain torrent. Teeming with the burden of a season’s unyielding term. A sight no less wondrous than if painted by the early morning light; dripping from mountain peaks, and spilling over each jutted crag to pool in valleys. One could also envision the wildlife. Mule deer, elk, and black-tailed jackrabbit. Perhaps a mountain lion stalking pronghorn or bighorn sheep. After receding further into the landscape, every twist and turn brought me closer to needing something beyond my hometown. The world itself being much bigger and exciting by comparison. Brighter even. I felt the pang of departure stronger than ever. That arresting emotion where desire broke you free from your routine and I intended to take full advantage of this excursion. Even if I didn’t deserve it. One needed to leave home sometimes to be known abroad.

And what was more enjoyable than new experiences? Our drive quickly turned into a voyage of epic proportions. Preparing me in advance for its destination. Yet, to prolong one’s distance from their familiar surroundings was equally liable to induce vivid hallucinations. Ones that eluded sober recollection. For with travel came that seductive pull. The allure of inherent promise like being whisked away from one’s motherland. The memory of which disappeared in fuzzy patches until one forgot how home looked with no trace linking back to it. And scanning over the horizon I couldn’t help but feel this was a rite of passage. Escaping from it all like one who tosses their comforts aside in favor of daring endeavors and ceaseless roving. This renewed spark of vigor came accompanied with a newfound eagerness to observe new scenes and customs during my travels. For which there was no greater ideal than what lie beyond this picture-perfect sketch framing.

On a steady climb towards burning daylight. My eye turned inward. Where I was free to daydream countless hours about winning races. Starting somewhat realistically before they quickly degenerated into full-blown fantasies beyond any reasonable doubt. All conjured by an imagination centered upon myself as an underdog stacked up against the impossible who somehow outperforms his peers. But whenever the reel played out to the awards ceremony where Coach Price congratulates me with a big smile on his face it would stop before I returned home to show what had been accomplished. Having succumbed to enough repeat scenarios, I rested my head against the vibrating window. Clouds darkened the sunny skies overhead while I pondered every potential bad performance from buckling at the line to missing the last gate. Drifting further into my lucid state, I half-awoke midway to peer out with heavy-lidded eyes at vast aspen fields backed with evergreen hills from the lowest saddle to the highest peak. The sun ascended into ashen clouds with touches of bright orange and yellow which painted the mountain-countryside in stands of fir trees interspersed with golden aspen groves. In the distance, a gravelly road wound out of the surrounding lodgepole pine towards a black structure under the guise of a cozy, log cabin which spotted the hillside in a remote clearing. Long-abandoned and fallen to disuse. In near blinding light I could see a series of tracks dotting the white acreage where gathered logs were split for firewood. All of this filtered through the golden light of a passing snow flurry. Like frozen rivulets in an hourglass before its upturned again. Suspended in time. I faintly recalled my bewilderment not knowing whether this were reality or some dream of a simple life fulfilled by hard labor. A comforting notion up until the next bend when it revealed itself to be nothing but a shack on a private golf course.

Becoming weary of the sharp, sudden turns upon a thin belt with towering gulfs on either side, I dozed off again until snapping out of my knee-jerk reverie—halting with a forward lurch as he came to a full stop in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Alas, not all had been a dream.

Road construction at Kimball Junction had limited traffic to one-lane. Delaying us mere miles from our exit. Soon the bus grew restless.

I became subjected to one too many conversations. Becoming disoriented without a single line of dialogue to follow that further antagonized my rude awakening. I cursed how short passages elapsed so slowly, thinking it uncanny how weary I remained from the process. As if doing the equivalent of a solid day’s trek with no stops.

Even after we cleared the traffic jam and pulled off the interstate it was only constant dread from there.

The Utah Olympic Park sparkled upon the mountainside. Once the site of the 2002 Winter Olympics for luge, skeleton, and Nordic combined events, the worldclass training facilities had a freestyle aerial splash pool and bobsled track in addition to ski jumps.

“Look at those groomed slopes!” Coach exclaimed. “Feast your eyes on the legendary training courses for the U.S. Ski Team. The big time. You’ve heard me going on about nominations for the West Team and Regional Training Group, well their athlete selection goes on to make up the finest talent our country has to offer. Competing internationally against the best ski racers from across the globe in every alpine ski discipline. Super-G. Downhill. Slalom. Giant Slalom. Racing on some of the same courses we’ll practice on before Friday’s mock tournament. No wonder the U.S. Ski Team’s address is 1 Victory Lane. Perhaps one among you will rise to their rank.”

At the base of the state’s largest ski resort were the steep roofs, windows, and wooden balconies of a chalet-style hotel with ski in/ski out access, heated outdoor swimming pool, hot tub, restaurants and lounges, fitness center, and spa. The hotel drive was packed with the general madness of manic bellhops and incompetent valet parkers. All of whom ran amok in general disarray trying to accommodate the long chain of buses now idling stationary. Their vented exhaust clouding up the clear sky.

Coach Price addressed the unruly cab in the only way he could to quell our growing restlessness. “OK. We made it. But don’t get too excited, the journey is only half the battle. Next order of business: the code of conduct for this week’s proceedings.”

There followed a collective groan.

“Yes, gentlemen, that means a strict, zero tolerance policy will be enforced by myself and all other event personnel. No snowballs. No sword fights with ski poles. And absolutely NO drugs, NO alcohol, and NO leaving the resort premises. Remember: it’s only a weeklong stay and it’s a privilege to be considered to lodge here. I’d hate to pick up a disqualification from the onset because of someone’s failure to follow these simple terms. Any questions?”

“Yes,” said Drake, making a noise to clear his throat. “Where are the ladies staying?”

“Not here. They’re at a different resort in the village with the kids. Which reminds me, no late-night visitations are permitted of any kind.”

Next came the guilt trip.

“Every year there’s someone who ruins it for everybody else. Don’t be that person. If it’s serious enough you will be sent home early. Lastly, there’s the matter of curfew. Yes, even us adults have them too. Apart from specially sanctioned outings, you are to be inside your rooms by 10PM. Lights out by 11:30. Any questions? Wonderful. When, and I say when tentatively because I don’t think we’ll check in until tomorrow morning at this rate, we do get off this bus I want everyone to stick around to account for their gear and luggage.”

Bus doors slowly hissed open.

Everyone sped down the steps and dispersed every which way with no heed to Coach Price’s instruction.

The hotel lobby buzzed loudly with commotion. There were many windows and the mountain contemporary décor adorning the walls harkened back to this former silver mining boomtown’s past in the 1870s. Every ski club in the Intermountain Division was represented. Including neighboring resorts like Brighton, Solitude, Alta, Snowbird amongst others throughout the state. Snowbasin, Cache Valley, Brian Head, and Sundance Ski Resort and beyond, spanning the western region from Sun Valley and Bogus Basin in Idaho all the way east to Grand Targhee and Jackson Hole. Twenty in all. Most were quick to drop their bags and glare at us while we passed by.

Like a lost child sidestepping through an endless mob, I found myself plopped into a nightmare sequence when my panicked steps stopped dead at the gift shop. Inside of which I found salvation in a wood-carved vitrine containing a small alcohol selection.

I pretended to make a choice. My mind already made up as I picked up a pint of sour mash whiskey and a non-filter soft pack of Lucky Strike being intoxicated with newfound adventure.

I stowed away my purchases inside my jacket without a crinkle before rejoining the hustle and bustle with a whole different attitude.

But such relish lasted mere steps from the gift shop. The team stood beside a crackling stone fireplace. Coach Price spoke with the concierge at the front desk while a sweat-soaked bellhop with bloodshot eyes scrambled to accommodate the mound of bags and suitcases stacking up on his overflowing cart.

After nearly blowing a gasket when told his booking info went missing over a simple misspelling of his name, Coach Price had the key cards to our rooms and we were told the schedule for the week. A slew of early morning, all-day practices with on-hill coaching from a supporting cast of coaches and guest ski instructors.

Being in such close proximity with the others I dared not breathe so that the liquor bottle didn’t show its boxy contours through my jacket as our room assignments got announced.

“OK, I don’t want to make this any longer than it’s already been so let’s listen up. I’ll divvy out your room keys if I can get the twins’ attention. Everyone’s mostly in three-bedroom arrangements except two of you will share a studio. There are two cards in each envelope. Due to volume, I’ve been kindly informed these are the only ones you get and if you lose it prepare to scale the walls. Quiet down now—I’m past due for a bottle of red and I’m only going to say this once. First up, Round, Top, Chuck, Hanger, and Shank and Shank. Go figure. Not sure how that happened but here you go Zack. Wait—you’re Luke? Good try, but not this time. Try not to cause too much damage in there.”

“Yes, Coach,” they both grinned.

Coach Price read on.

“Next room. Blade, Rib, Short, Plate, Flank, and Skirt.”

Only two of us remained. “Look who we got here, Drake and…”

I should have seen it coming. Like attracted opposites we were a natural pairing.

“Don’t give me those looks now. This was a randomized selection, alright? And I’ve been assured there will be two double beds.” Coach Price maintained his poker face all the way through. “It’s only seven days and who knows? Maybe you’ll find some common ground by the end of it.”

The team snickered at this prospect.

I knew better than to speak out on the contrary. As always with Coach Price, the arrangements were final. Despite an initial show of defiance from Drake, his disposition altered to that of utter indifference. Yet I continued to harbor my frustrations. As if there wasn’t enough to stress about. I now had to sleep with one eye open.

“I’m told there’s going to be pizzas ordered for dinner. After that, I expect everyone to get a good night’s sleep. Orientation starts early tomorrow morning.”

Drake took his key card and strutted off towards the elevators. Coach Price smiled back his reassurance which only antagonized my growing headache as I shouldered my bag to follow behind my roommate.

Neither of us breathed a word in the elevator. All the way to the top floor. Making for an otherwise pleasant ride if not for the malignant tension that elevated with each level of our ascent. Doors dinged opened. Drake exited. I proceeded snaillike before a round mirror hanging on the wall. Holding the straps of my backpack which contained all my belongings for the trip with two ski boots dangling from it.

Drake broadened the gap between us with his exaggerated gait. More than fine with the distance, I hung back. Counting down the numbers until reaching my new lodgings for the week.

The hotel room came fully furnished with all the typical ski décor decorating the walls along with all the amenities from complimentary internet to a kitchenette and mini-fridge. Drake had already taken residence with his luggage on the first bed before locking himself in the bathroom.

I dropped my bag, the exact same kind and color as Drake’s except for the broken zipper, and skis to the floor and got settled in. My shiny new purchase hidden under the pillow.

This retreat already provided the freedom I’ve been yearning for and with one glaring exception I felt comfortably secluded. With a world of troubles now behind, there were no constraints to tie me down. I even contemplated striking up a conversation with Drake. If not to disarm him entirely.

Nearly thirty minutes of running water later Drake stepped out only to grab his bag and leave the room without so much as a dirty look my direction.

Alone at last. I pondered the many options from my cushioned chair by the window. Nothing was on the agenda for the night and Coach Price said he didn’t care what we did as long as it complied with the rules.

I nipped at the sour mash while cycling through endless ads on TV. Eye-level with the bottle each hit until it made sense to me. This was the time for spontaneity. For being completely open to the moment.

And the more I drank the clearer it became. Adventure awaited me beyond the lobby’s revolving door. What’s the harm in breaking a few more rules? Other than being sent home amongst other worst-case scenarios, which, if anything, might be the best service I could provide this distinguished organization.

Even without the usual comforts of home all of my previous excitement came rushing back so I filled up Billy’s flask and one glance out the window at the empty drive below was all I needed to steal out of there without bothering to turn off the TV.

A misfit shadow: devoid of any order or plan. Brimming with curiosity and mischief, and holding zero regard for Coach Price’s warning.

The downstairs lobby no longer crawled with hotel guests. Only a shell-shocked concierge leaned against the check-in desk, still struggling to recuperate. I took care to circumvent a group of fellow campers sipping espresso drinks at the café by using a passing bellhop with his cart as cover.

I slipped by largely unnoticed with the exception of two puzzled maids who witnessed me snatch a matchbook along with a complimentary mint from the crystal bowl on the check-in counter before waltzing out the revolving door.

No schedule. No plans. No rules.

Ice-cold mountain air nearly caused me to choke. After spitting out my mint I checked over each shoulder before sparking up a Lucky Strike. I relished in the harsh smoke. Unfiltered.

Late afternoon sunlight broke like runny eggs through the dark rack of cloud. Completely filling me with a newfound ardor to experience firsthand this mountain retreat in all its magnificent glory.

Halfway down the drive I turned heel to walk the opposite direction, as if blown about by every passing wind.

Quickly disoriented. Having no clue where to go. I couldn’t wait around here in the open where I stuck out like a sore thumb. I looked hopelessly around the drive until spotting an old yellow taxicab at the far end. Its lightbox on.

If anyone could steer me right, it would be one these captains of the road.

Without wanting to shout aloud to the cabby I started making wild, frantic gestures to flag their attention. It wasn’t until approaching the passenger window that I viewed the cabby dozing off with his mouth agape.

The wrap of my knuckles on the window would’ve sent him through the roof if not for wearing his seatbelt.

“Vacant or off duty?” I exclaimed. Using the same level of jubilance my mother used to wake me up for school in the morning.

“Depends,” the cabby rubbed his dry, red eyes with rough, deeply cracked palms. “Where you trying to go?”

“Good question.” I stooped until head level with the cracked window. “Maybe a quick ride into town. I haven’t figured that much out.”

“I can tell,” he tugged at a bushy beard which got counterbalanced by a head of thick, dark curls.

He waved me on before attempting to start the already running motor with an awful grating noise.

I flicked my unfinished cigarette to the curb and hopped in.

With a belly full of good spirit—I was off already! Eagerly casting myself forth to the whims of desire. And was that an eastern accent on the cabby’s tongue? His slouchy beanie could hardly contain such a suave demeanor and the waxen twirl in his mustache signified he was a certified drifter.

The ashtray lighter popped out and he pressed the glowing orange end to the tip of a hand rolled cigarette.

“Is this a smoking cab?” I asked. “Why not?” He answered without hesitation.

Finally, someone who spoke my language, I thought while striking a match.

It was all coming together. The cabby even offered to handroll one for me. I dug for another unfiltered cigarette from my soft pack. “How’s your day going?” I asked after he had chugged his remaining cup of coffee. My aim was to tap this wealth of local knowledge and keep the chatter alive while it lasted.

“No complaints yet.”

“Are you off soon?”

“Jus’ getting started. I work graveyard shifts.”

“Right on. I’m itching to check out the action.”

“New to town, eh? I remember when I first came back in the early aughts. It wasn’t long before I had been everywhere and seen it all.”

“Any recommendations on what I should do? Where to go?”

He stroked the ends of his mustache as he thought it over.

“Most out of towners love Main Street. There’s the charming 1800s architecture which transplants you to the past with its Victorian buildings. Along with your fair share of shopping and fine dining. The Egyptian Theatre. It even has a museum. I’ll take you.”

“Is it far?”

“No more than a ten-minute drive. Twelve if you hit any red lights.”

We were yet to pull out of the hotel drive. But with the hidden flask I had all the time in the world.

The cabby whisked me away. Talking all the while as he followed the sharp curve of this bustling mountain town. Now painted with the golden strokes of a pastoral promise suggesting inner growth. Or better yet, a transformative experience.

This transmuted mood came accompanied by a cheerful willingness to make a pilgrimage out of my visit to this storied community. With all its historical charm as a world-class destination for American winter sports. A glossy travel brochure narrative which defined this mountain town as an escape for celebrities and ski bums alike. From piney vale to majestic peaks, the stunning contrast could only be realized in person.

The cabby dropped me off at the top of sloping Main Street and said it was the best spot to return to once I needed a ride back.

From there I loitered at my leisure. Down the historic district where I blended in with ease while puffing on a Lucky Strike. Ambling past decorative storefronts belonging to countless gift shops and winter retail outlets out of which families and seasonal tourists flew off the racks in neoprene flashes of every color imaginable. Flaunting brand name clothing and ski gear in a parade of bright colors topped with ridiculous ski hats.

As I sauntered about, led around by delayed spurts of curiosity, I became caught in large blocks of passersby which were otherwise too preoccupied to note an additional floater adrift this backed-up cesspool of rampant consumerism. Brushing right by me in avoidance of secondhand smoke exposure. By virtue of this newfound perspective, I enjoyed being a random variable. Lost and liberated. Safe from the knowing looks usually found at home.

Nothing felt better than wandering an unfamiliar street. Completely unnoticed. Without fear of random chance encounters with acquaintances you’d rather not recognize. Operating within this mode one’s character could even be obnoxious in manner, disposition, and dress. All while repeatedly failing to affect the masses beyond their primary concern. Themselves.

Roaming on. With nowhere to go. I kept becoming swayed by the whims of misadventure. Like the fading remnant of my story’s origin.

I wandered down the winding stone-hewn avenues. Chain-smoking cigarettes. A slight skip in my step. Breaking off into an alley or side street to intermittently consult with my shiny flask.

Becoming lighter and lighter with each thirsty swig until tapping out at the bottom of a storm drain.

My romantic lolling ended somewhere around here. Stuck upon the lower step of an abandoned stoop. The rapid approach of evening soon left me shivering. Every short breath matched by slow, steady puffs off a dying cigarette.

This beautiful resort town was no more than a snow globe sitting on display at a cheesy souvenir shop. But what had once been a bright and sunny afternoon turned dark and cloudy again along with my thoughts which had taken on the sudden, heaviness forming overhead. The sky purpling in the coming dusk to cast eerie shadows which began to swirl and swell on the darkening streets. Teeming with the near imperceptible flakes of a light snow revealing itself only in the glowing gaslit orbs hanging over the sidewalk.

Here, alone on some side street I’ve never seen before, this was supposed to be my turning point and I hadn’t the slightest idea what the next step would be.

The gathering gray cloud broke over me. The wind picking up so that it was impossible to light a match for a cigarette.

I staggered snowblind—zigzagging back in a diagonal line towards the top of Main Street. My head down and jacket held fast beneath my chin. Ears ringing from being whipped by the stormy gusts of incessant winds.

All sight became a wall of surrounding white.

I wandered aimlessly for what could’ve been miles. My pain and exhaustion bypassed altogether as the liquor I consumed circumnavigated the brain to operate my feet.

Having misjudged the importance of orienting myself before I left, it didn’t take long to realize that in all my stumbling around I must’ve missed where the cabby first dropped me off. And likely more than once whenever I returned to moving forward.

What began as a personal journey or youthful rite of passage was quickly lost to an all too familiar wasteland. The sour mash starting to affect me for the worse.

Hardly nighttime and the town was already going to sleep. Stores no longer being open and the once vibrant street didn’t show signs of a single living soul. I yelled outwardly in a desperate cry for help.

Almost immediately I got answered by birdcall that was uncannily joyous considering the pelting snow and other blizzard-like conditions.

It came from a slate-gray dipper bobbing up and down from its perch upon the swinging wooden sign of a red-brick building. The songster cocked up its tail as it continued to harmonize with the growing hellish winds. Their screams becoming one before the bird swiftly took flight by plunging straight into the heart of the storm.

Blown about by a fortuitous wind, I stumbled towards what appeared to be an olde world tavern. Like going back in time to when a weary traveler could order a flagon of grog or malted quaff. Inviting me to come in as if an ivy bush hung upon the red brick wall.

The ruddy glow coming from the window caught the eye like blazing firelight. I considered smoking a cigarette when a rising swell forced me to take shelter inside where I was met with the sweet embrace of grilled meat and other savory foods.

Every blustering gust, both great and small, tested the heavy door which rattled with each unabated blast. A row of oak casks stacked three high lined the far wall. Some of them with missing staves. In the far corner a stuffy wood-fire provided dim lighting along with wax tapers in brass candlesticks which were wreathed in garlands of green holly upon the wooden mantel. An old hanging wall clock ticked away behind the taps.

My hands, all reddened and numb, sought the warmth of the fireside and a freshly tapped keg like any other wayfarer passing through here. As I was handed the menu I gave a cursory glance about.

The few patrons who were there hardly noticed my arrival. Even the barkeep seemed unfazed. Humming a tune while she wrung out her dirty dishrag to wipe the same greasy spot.

Always a thirsty soul by nature, I was unable to stave off from spending more of my emergency money and got handed the closest thing possible to a magic beverage to dilute the sour mash getting metabolized by my liver and flooding my brain.

Being too impatient to let the draught settle, I drained it well before the food arrived. An overly greasy bacon cheeseburger with a small basket of fries.

I sat there solid as an ice block. Stationary, except my eye kept darting aside. Skimming over, and glancing about, I feverishly imagined trading tales with that one local ski bum who, leaning against a rail, hand on hip, sucked up the air with his extravagant stories. I soon craved social interaction like never before. As if all the life-altering and potentially life-threatening experiences weren’t nothing until shared with a kind stranger over a frothy glass. I quickly became filled with enough mirth to buy a round of drinks for everyone. The barkeep partook as well. Along with all of her guests and the only thing I had to offer in exchange was more money. I was feeling good. Too good. My comfort beside the toasty hearth shifted; I nodded to acoustic voices set to the rhythmic titling of glass. A tawny pub cat with a bushy tail brushed up against my legs between visits to the bar to lap up the scummy dregs. It was somewhere between my last pint and another round of shots that I faded from kindred to sour spirits. Swooning from side to side. My wandering eye rolling backwards as it spun circles in my hollow skull.

One of the last things I remembered was smoking a cigarette outside and conversing freely with another casual straggler I promptly forgot about. Sunken eye-level with liquor clear as a muddy spring—my blurred vision became a rippling sea of capsized faces. Their seams torn asunder. The darkness gobbling, swallowing, closing off the mental faculties in an inexorable blackout stew as the rising waterline brought with it the remnants of my last meal.

Weightless; floating in a swirl of pointing fingers belonging to authority figures in tight blue uniforms with heavy-duty belts. At first, nothing came through but their inaudible facial contortions which became further twisted and strained until purpled like oversized beets stuffed into rigid blue collars. Imagine my confusion standing on the welcome mat of an angry lady’s residence until being escorted off the premises by police officers who couldn’t bother to help me make sense of it all.

From there the message came through partway. Like the broken feed of a staticky walkie-talkie. “But, can I get a ride?” I asked the cop again, more confused than before. “Absolutely not! - {static} You’re covered in sick- {static}!” Said a burly officer with a distinct English accent which sounded strange and out of place. All I could do was incoherently spew something back about Carbonado Ski Resort and ski camp. Thankfully, they must’ve had better things to do then take me in for processing and after the senior officer emphasized how many charges he oughta stick me with, to which I simply nodded along, I was allowed to flee the scene without even a consideration as to whether being released back to the street was better than being in their custody.

It had stopped storming. The skies clear. Only now I couldn’t escape the sickly smell of stale vomit.

All of my prior excitement and drinking to excess quickly caught up to me. And with a vengeance. Permanently erasing the rest of what happened thereafter, and perhaps for the better. I strained my mind trying to remember any more tidbits and relevant bits of information. The one thing I gathered was that after knocking endlessly upon the door in my drunken stupor it flung open to reveal someone else’s condo instead of my hotel room. The poor pajama-clad couple could only watch in horror as I moved onto the next door of their complex. Before the cops had the opportunity to pound my face in the pavement, all parties involved must’ve wrote me off as an out of towner and cut me slack for the sake of public relations. Tourism contributed to the city’s income, after all.

It became abundantly clear I tried walking to the hotel after closing time and been too inebriated with good spirits to prevent from puking, and mostly all over myself. And the more I came to, the further I was from blacking out the means to my utterly humiliating end. The solid evidence covering down the entire right side of my jacket, my hair, and shoe in half-digested orange chunks. Even Billy’s flask was missing.

I burned with my cigarette. Reflecting on the reckless decisions leading to my walk of shame in an unfamiliar place during the lonesome hours of the night. Without even a gentle breeze for company. A walking, spectacular back fire to the motive which sent me out here to begin with.

Like being pointed by a compass with a broken needle. I had no means of discerning which direction to turn.

I was turned loose. Left stranded on this empty road I never stopped travelling.

Blinded by the dark; no more than a vagrant earthworm squirming through loose dirt to bury itself deeper. Confusion begot frustration. Frustration begot despair.

The night air hung still as I blew down the sidewalk more furious than any storm. Nearly on the brink of giving up when a passing car trapped me in its high beams.

“You sure get around, don’cha?” The driver’s response came from out of the partly cracked window.

That was all I needed to hear to know it wasn’t more law enforcement and the same run-down cab from earlier.

“Man, I’m sure glad to see you. I can’t seem to find my hotel.”

The cabby sniffed at the air with cool indifference.

“Not surprising. It’s nowhere close to here.”

“Can I get a lift?”

Warily, he studied me over in my present condition. Crusty. Red-eyed. No doubt stinking worse than the trash-filled gutter I emerged from.

“I’ll pay double the fare,” I added.

“Don’t be standing around now, get in,” the cabby said. His disbelief regarding my altered state was palpable as I crawled in, puke-ridden and eager to be wrapped in the running car’s warmth. Safe and sound all snuggled in the back seat.

“Thanks again for the ride, I thought I’d be hoofing it.” I started to light a cigarette in hopes of distracting from the vile stench emanating from my clothing.

“Not a smoking cab. Sorry.”

Given such a distortion of character I soon found I was riding with someone entirely different. Someone who viewed me with disdain. Eying me suspiciously in the rearview mirror as he drove. He pressed on.

“Rough night, huh? What’s the story? In my experience, only a lady puts you out on the street at this hour.”

“Even worse. I did it to myself.”

“Well, I hope you learned your lesson.”

“I never was a great student. Sometimes you gotta keep fucking up to make sure.”

“Back in my day, once was enough.”

“Must be something with my generation. There’s almost too much pleasure in fucking up the process.”

“The threat of punishment should serve as a precautionary warning. I’m surprised you weren’t picked up by the fuzz.”

“I was, believe it or not. But strangely enough they tossed me back out like a feral stray. They’re a one-stop taxi service they said and had no desire hauling me to the station.”

“Not a terrible arrangement from the looks of it. All considered.”

“I wasn’t complaining. Except I’ve had more than enough walking around.”

“That’s the experience a visitor pays for, and as a seasoned cabby you’re not the first to be sitting in the exact seat you are now. Travel doesn’t do every visitor good.”

“No fooling.”

“It’s partly why I never leave or go nowhere. I don’t know about that touristy stuff. I live here is all. But you’ll help pay for the gas.”

“As long as somebody benefits out of this. It was some faulty reasoning to explore a new city with a full pint for a map. Remember which hotel?”

“How could I forget? It’s not too far from here. But a long walk if you don’t know where to go.”

The ride wound up costing all that I stuck aside for emergencies. Although a price couldn’t be placed on peace of mind.

Exhausted, fatigue pulled heavily at the dark shutters of my eyelids. My head wobbling unsteadily on its supports.

No longer bothering to cover my tracks I walked straight to the elevator in my crusty, puke-covered glory and took it to the seventh floor. The round mirror in the corridor revealed my hideous transformation into something toadish. With puffy rings around my eyes and a red bump on both sides of my forehead. Back in the hotel room I ran an extra hot shower. But there wasn’t enough soap to remove the night’s poor choices. I stepped out still swaying in my drunkenness shortly before collapsing onto an unforgiving mattress. Thankful it hadn’t ended face-first on a hard cot behind bars.

The TV set played on. Like the residual pains from that failed first night echoing throughout my dreams. Set like negatives hung upon lines inside a dark room.

My autopilot had always been an intolerable drunk.

I snapped back to reality with Coach Price pounding at the door. Still fully clothed and lying on top of the bedcovers.

I scrambled for the TV remote on the floor to turn it off.

“I still don’t hear any activity in there,” he said with clear urgency. Something told me he’d already been here before.

I responded in the affirmative with only slight incoherence. His tone quickly switched.

“Great! See you both down there.” He proceeded to the next room down. It then dawned on me that Drake wasn’t there. Neither were his belongings.

So began the week’s sobering routine.

Ski school officially began with scheduled orientation. Held in a grand conference room which, brimming with opulence, mixed terribly with the lingering smell of dried vomit clinging to my nostrils.

Day one started off with free skiing and technique drills before getting into gates on day two. Days three and four consisted of three slalom gate sessions followed by three giant slalom gates. Our week ended with a scheduled event in which all of us would race on the final day.

Instead of skiing as fast as the laws of physics allowed like I wanted to, this became my formal introduction to alpine ski disciplines like slalom and giant slalom. All set to FIS and USSA guidelines where the distances between gates were measured to ensure quality training. I was also learning about gate combinations like delay gates and hairpins, a two-gate combination in rapid succession that forces a change in the skier’s edge and direction. Where I faced the obstacle of having to perform. Day after day. At the Eagle Race Arena which hosted giant slalom for the 2002 Winter Olympics.

Course conditions for gate drills varied by the day and slopes were subject to sudden closure. Obstacles included advance terrain like bumps, rolls, side-hills, or sections alternating from steep to flat and flat to steep, inclement weather conditions, and my own stage fright. Especially starting, which I found to be the most difficult position. It was nerve wracking enough mounting the start block, a piece of plywood in a steel frame with a textured rubber mat, even without the added pressure to be ready to race on Friday. The thought of which I couldn’t shake as I readied to run my first flagged course. I sped off. Running counter to the gate in a traverse with my chest facing downhill. The air whistling in my eardrums beneath a helmet strapped too tightly. Each gate approached faster than the last and at the apex to every arc my surroundings began to blur. Like being airborne coming off a jump and the mind blanked. I briefly forgot about racing and breathed in deep, deeper than any bong rip and could feel the oxygen surge through my body. Starting at my feet, then slowly creeping up along my spine until reaching my head—then both skis slammed onto the iced over track and, absorbing the impact with an exhale of breath, I was brought back to reality at the finish line where I half-expected to meet hisses and boos. Whether it was out of celebration or scorn mattered not. I was alive, and the pounding heartthrobs were proof.

Nothing was better than carving the slopes and looking back at the curved S-shaped tracks I made after a run.

But to ensure this high didn’t last long came a host of the region’s top performance trainers. Each of our afternoons were spent with one Nor-am or Olympic level coach. With a couple athletes who competed in the Salt Lake 2002 games appearing for a quick speech accompanied by a rough overview of your racing performance. Which they capped off with something along the likes of: “Ambitious run. Take care not to take on more than you can handle.”

According to a gangly Frenchman with thick curly hairs sticking out from his enlarged nostrils and a heavy accent, the objective was controlling your breath throughout the run. That and the sole intent to perform at an optimal level. For which, he drilled me straight away and countered each answer with another question:

“I’m guessing you’re familiar with the fundamentals?”

“Pole plants?”

“Carving turns?”

“Transitions, gliding, and jumping?”

I’ll never forget the disappointment of the coaching staff each time I gave them an answer. Like I was wasting their time providing the wrong response and somehow failing their test. And nothing curbed an acid tongue like repeated performance drills in slalom. With junior instructors acting as Gate Judges who yelled commands.

“START STOP!”

This indicated whether the preceding racer had fallen or was blocking the course. There were designated yellow flag zones on Downhill and Super G courses for this reason, and in the case of an error or fall they’d instruct the competitor with one of two responses: “Go!” or “Back!”

Additionally, most of them loved to bark orders at you in attempt to knock us down a peg whenever and however often they could.

“Drills are not a safe space to be fawning over each other’s talent,” one named Isaac liked to remind us. No older than his late-thirties with silver flecks frosting the tips of his hair, he diligently checked for when a fault was committed and savored the bitterness of a harsh critique like any amateur after their athletic peak. “Done properly, they’re the method of bringing awareness to what’s holding you back.”

Further torn between extension and flexion, this dynamic got balanced out by the youngest instructor whose idea of harnessing potential was through unconstructive positivity and single-word feedback like “brilliant!” for simple things like flipping the ski from its uphill to its downhill edge. But perhaps the most harrowing experiences were the peer reviewed ski runs in which your fellow skiers got the chance to eviscerate your hard efforts.

Such gatekeeping came packaged as scathing critiques which demanded things like show me, don’t tell me. Calling to question why I ever considered this to be my life’s purpose. If skiing was my true calling than why did all this instruction seemingly land on deaf ears?

Drake meanwhile, was in his element. Especially in the technical disciplines there couldn’t be a more natural performance. Where I preferred speed events like downhill or super-G, Drake’s expert coordination led him to shine on slalom runs. His edging and pressure skills unmatched as he struck a perfect balance, rotational and side-to-side. There was an unspoken quality to his charm in the way his ski goggles concealed puffy, red bloodshot eyes yet he still skied with effortless grace to everyone’s unfaltering praise. Whereas, I struggled worse than I did back home. Between warm ups and recovery exercises I slipped into bad habits like centering my stance on the ski through the turn. Even without the dynamic balance or other critical components which made up a high performing ski racer I remained committed to a fault. Of which, I declared a catalog list of them. Whether failing to pass on the proper side or cross a gate line with both ski tips and both feet. Or continuing on the course after stopping completely. Always I was racing to make new mistakes on the next run with actual competitions on the horizon.

Following my first night’s drunken escapade, I had no desire to set foot into the cold or make the mistake of leaving resort premises again. I even considered dumping the leftover sour mash down the sink drain. Each day I only did what was mandated of us. Then skipped the social activities by staying sequestered in my hotel room. Almost monk-like. Except for smoking cigarettes on my balcony which I’d likely later be fined for, it was the best insurance for me to keep a low profile. Stone cold sober. Exhausted, and homesick beyond cure. I could hardly remember why I was so excited to travel here to begin with. Drake never once stayed in the room but always managed to meet us in time for breakfast. Like a beaming ray of sunshine that only further clouded my day. Yet these brief mornings to myself afforded the only respite before daylong workshops on the mountain.

All that week Park City saw unseasonably warm weather. Snow-making machines ensured the course remained race ready. Yet the challenging slopes remained icy and subject to closure in the case of windy conditions.

Still unable to distinguish myself via my craft I was more unprepared than when I first enrolled at the Academy and secretly wished for a shift in weather patterns or program change. If not some natural disaster or any other Godsent calamity.

Breathless whenever upon the mountaintop. I felt awash the infinite possibilities of a directionless sea of opportunity. Stuck upon that dizzying crest before each run. Where the course rippled and billowed out into the vast white nothingness below. Unsteady. My glutes and hamstrings already sore from nonstop training. I felt more disenfranchised and hopeless than ever before. My head swirling with directives as the mock tournament neared. Tips up. Nose down. Look straight. Tuck tight. Release. Despite being an unofficial event which had no bearing on the season, the atmosphere was as competitive as ever. Park City had been the reigning champs for years and treated it as their mountain. “Until now,” Coach would say to us in private asides. Adding further pressure whenever I practiced for the course it would be staged on.

Come Thursday everyone’s families started to arrive for a fancy Thanksgiving feast held in the resort’s largest event room, holding upwards of five-hundred guests. Most of my teammates could be found huddled together in small contingents. Trading impassionate stories with plenty of hand gestures and finger pointing. Always speaking loud enough for anyone in earshot to get the gist of what they discussed. Mostly shit-talking the other ski clubs while obsessing over what they referred to as the Cannon Club and rumor of the wild parties they had. Glamorizing second-hand experiences without having one of their own to share. The Cannon Club comprised the highest rank of named athletes in winter sports. Competitors at the elite level which, like any dream, being a member wasn’t available to all. They were 4-event skiers whose selection was a matter of their national ranking on the USSA points list. But regardless of qualification, they were distinguished by the emblem of a gold embroidered ‘CC’ encircled in laurel wreaths upon their jackets.

Despite feeling famished I slipped out before the dinner got served. A not too difficult feat being invisible to the group already.

Packed in with all the other athletes only triggered my performance anxiety. Now pent-up with energy I couldn’t stop thinking about racing the next day. Compelling me to pound drinks at the lobby bar I managed to avoid all week. I would’ve loved to share this special time with family but what was there to say? That I’m between jobs and spending my time and money taking up an old calling? Until I’ve got something to show for it, there was nothing for anyone to know.

Before long I wasn’t the only one.

A striking girl with honey skin and a curvy, petite body covered in tattoos sat a couple stools away from me at the bar. She had straight, shoulder-length hair dyed red with one side shaved and a star etched into it. Her high cheek bones framed by an oval-shaped face. Her emerald eyes aglow.

Beautiful occasions like these were a testament to all the missed chances which passed me by. Surely, she must not be in a ski racing program. Or else she’d be holed up in the banquet room with all the rest. I spent the remainder of my time attempting to muster up the courage to strike up a conversation before I thought better against it. For what was I doing? Dying to be left alone with a drink to take the edge off. So I should extend that same courtesy to her.

When I looked over at her next, she was gone. Slamming that window shut forever.

After downing enough martinis at the lobby bar to feel like a dry gin-soaked olive I strolled down spacious halls packed with fellow alpine skiers and their parents, grandparents, and siblings, along with countless volunteers who bustled about in all-white shirts. With nowhere else to go I returned early to my hotel room to smoke cigarettes with my belly full and breath reeking of vermouth and gin.

Race day. Friday morning arrived bitter cold and at the wake-up call of Coach Price’s twenty-minute warning.

“Time’s up. Hopefully you took my advice and slept well. Breakfast is ready in the lobby.”

Little surprise that Carbonado’s golden boy wasn’t here. Surely, he was down there already.

No time to shower. I climbed into my race suit and tossed loose clothing on top of it to keep warm. Then I grabbed my skis.

Most of the team was awake already. Wearing fresh, rejuvenated faces as they heaped waffles, eggs, bacon, and toast onto tiny paper plates. Being unable to stomach a continental breakfast this early, hot coffee staved off the nagging hunger yet to come. Other ski racers were already there in a variety of ages, the youngest of them still shuffling their feet.

Coach Price eyed the influx of competition anxiously. But was yet to formally note Drake’s absence or make any sign of it. Although the team clearly had, and expressed their concern silently amongst themselves as they shoveled in their food. Eyes glued to their plate.

The red hand on the wall ticked full circles. Still no Drake. Coach Price’s intensity heightened. Nearly forcing him to recognize all hope may be lost when Drake entered the room in a waltzing fashion, freshly showered and clothed.

“All right, now we’re all convened,” Coach Price proclaimed, right on cue. “Drake, grab a quick bite to eat.”

“You got it boss. I’m running up to the room real quick.”

“Absolutely not. It’s well past time for us to leave.”

The overwhelming dread of running out of time swirled in my unsettled stomach as they spoke. Unable to control my race day jitters I grabbed for my black gym bag when Drake stopped me.

“Hey, I wasn’t able to make it to the room,” he wore his friendliest smile. “Can I keep my items in your bag? I’ll even carry it for you.”

That explained it. An underlying motive existed to his nicety.

As much as I reserved every right to refuse his simple request it was far too early and I was feeling far too hungover to act so petty.

“What’s the catch?”

“What am I asking for here? I need a favor. Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”

Paying no mind to his cagey response I shrugged, saying: “As long as I find no ticking time bomb.”

He took my gym bag then made for the remaining platter of scones, biscuits, and whatever else he could bring along. Coach Price’s scowl hurried us off to board the bus bound for Park City Mountain.

Scattered throughout the resort were the artifacts of the silver mining which had established this mountain town. Along with the weathered shell of the Silver King Mine historical landmark, the leftover hoists, abandoned mine shafts, many of them blocked with large steel doors, and old water towers were all that existed of what was formerly the world’s largest silver mine. The precious metals from its lodes delivered by sleigh. Turning a previously unknown laborer into a millionaire. When the price of silver dropped the site got repackaged into Treasure Mountain. Opened with federal government funds to revive the town which had become economically depressed. By result, a thousand miles of old mine workings and tunnels lay buried beneath these slopes. Some chairs on the lifts were even converted from old aerial trams once used for hauling ore.

Now, the only reward that can be found here was by deliberate runs on the race course.

Most of the competitors were already on the glinting cat-track below the finish line. Lined up like soldiers with the bright afternoon sunlight glancing off their helmets. Ready to race. Only I didn’t want to join them. But that was no longer an option now.

The sheer number of spectators was horrifying. All of them bundled-up to their pink faces with more layers than an onion and filling up either side. This was my opportunity to accomplish something. Even if impending failure was the only expectation. At least the record will show I gave it a shot.

Wind drifts carried me across the bright, snow-packed expanse. Coach Price must’ve read my confusion because he showed me to the registration desk. I hardly turned away from the sign in sheet when someone seized my skis.

“Hey—those are mine.” I nearly exploded, damn near clambering over the flimsy fold-out table to seize the twerp who took them.

“Excuse me, young man,” squawked one of the volunteers, an older lady whose stiff arm extended into my rising chest. “Rules and regulations require event staff to check your gear. You’ll get it back before you race along with your bib number.”

“So you say.”

“Forward your grievances to the Race Administrator.”

I suppressed the rest of what I said under my breath. Even Drake watched with wide-eyed horror as attendants whisked away all of our gear to a bright white tent. But only for an instant before he smoothed out his expression, plastic-like.

“Nothing lost,” I said.

He answered with a glare. “You better hope so.”

He left me there to stare after my livelihood.

Coach Price hurried us along. His usual intensity doubled. If not tripled. The process of waiting for the younger groups to inspect the course provided ample time to check out the competition. Ski racers varied by age with the youngest no older than kindergarteners dripping gobs of snot from their nostrils. Races progressed through each age bracket to the oldest division, Seniors/U21. Clear animosity existed between them all. Carbonado skiers stood huddled together. Heckling the other clubs from every possible angle with every sideways comment answered by a belting chorus of laughter. For once, it was a relief not to be in their crosshairs. Even if by default of being teammates. From which came a sense of community by our association so I planted myself on the environs of their conversation to avoid fretting further like a worried mess.

“What a show of competition this year! And for a super combi, no less,” said Chuck. To which, Hanger added:

“Right when you think it never gets better, it only gets bleaker. Take Tamarack, or Bogus Basin, for example.”

“Let’s not be insulting,” said Drake. “At least the latter recognizes their lame. Brighton looks trashed from the night before and Snow Basin is capped at U19.”

“Solitude isn’t much better off. Not that I expected less from that ice skating rink.”

“Must be those low altitudes screwing with their oxygen, don’cha think, D?”

“What I think, is there’s no chance we won’t make the pedestal.”

“I don’t know, have you seen Alta’s new stud?”

The new mention set the pack astir before Drake could contain it.

“Are you talking about the Swede?” He asked.

“I heard he’s from Austria and he’s barely nineteen.”

Shirt pushed into their circle to get a word in edgewise. “He looks thirty. Maybe they fudged the birthdate on his visa.”

“Yes, we’ve all heard about this Bavarian import.” Drake cut in impatiently. “Austrian or Swede. I’ve raced top tier breeds my whole life. Worry about your run times and leave this new hotshot to me.”

“That’s kiddie play for you.” Affirmed one of the Shanks.

“He should be racing U16.” Added the other with a smirk.

Even fellow skiers from our program got targeted. With Blade cutting them down in hushed whispers if they didn’t have a low ranking or failed to make the athlete selection for regional projects.

And the more I listened, the worse I felt about my own prospects. The unknown of what I would soon experience rotted inside. Like a sour pit in my stomach. The hourglass sands quickly dissolved minutes to seconds in a steady crawl to my deadline.

I felt for the boxy outline of my cigarette pack following an anxious pat down. Hiding off to the side, a sharp inhale later and the friendly burn of tobacco smoke soon caught my lungs.

Five more minutes and they could throw me down the mountain for all I cared.

But before I could relish further in the nicotine rush, the junior instructor Isaac advanced my direction. Flanked by two event staff with larger builds.

All this for a cigarette! Yet I had been previously warned and only had myself to blame. “Sorry,” I said, burying the still burning butt in the snow once they reached me. “I know smoking’s not allowed. See, I’m done now. I take full accountability.”

“Too late. Come with me. Now.”

Isaac grabbed me firmly by the arm as if part of the security personnel. He escorted me all the way to the white tent standing opposite the racecourse.

I was dumbfounded. My mind on a zooming racetrack, running in repeated loops without destination while my limbs ached with bone-jittering discomfort.

Isaac led me through the parted flap and my jaw dropped. Already there with his head hung in shame was none other than Mr. Team Captain himself. Even he appeared to have burned all of his good credit. His somber face refused to meet mine whenever I shot a glance his direction. But I could glean nothing further. For the first time he was shut down and visibly shaken. His face downcast, and fixed.

I was instructed to sit next to Drake before a table with three chairs. Two of which were already filled by two senior officials, the Technical Delegate and Referee. A man of small stature with gray flecks in his hair and a rigid woman who appeared giant by comparison and whose face carried deep-set frown lines, respectively. The third chair remained empty.

“Thank you, Isaac,” said the Referee to the junior instructor who continued to linger on the threshold. “All of your help has been invaluable.”

“Absolutely. Anything else I can do?”

“That will do for now.” The Technical Delegate dismissed him without another word. His tone slightly nasally. Isaac shot a last glare our direction before taking his leave.

The tent hummed with unsteady breath. The silence ticking away to the count of a clock the short man repeatedly kept checking.

The fact they didn’t confiscate my cigarettes graduated my fears from a smoking violation to wondering if my first day’s misadventure had finally caught up to punish me. Drake’s presence and continued silence, furthermore, could mean he was here to testify against me. But wasn’t he also absent that night? Clearly, the incrimination of such allegations would result in my removal from the program and his life for good.

In a bright flash of sunlight Coach Price entered the tent. He avoided our looks as he shook hands with the others in a brisk, semi-friendly exchange.

“Richard. You made it.” The woman regarded him curtly. Coach Price looked unfazed.

“Stacy. Matt. It’s been too long.”

“Not long enough considering our current predicament,” the Technical Delegate spoke to him at last, checking the clock again.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the Jury Advisor?” The Referee said.

“They’ve deferred to our judgment on the matter so we’re handing this internally as of now.”

The Referee loudly scoffed. She carried on with what sounded like a high-pitched hiccup in her voice that made one feel uneasy.

“Off the record, you mean? Need I remind you of Regional Policies and Procedures?”

“The super board doesn’t necessarily need to hear this. Please—join us. We don’t have much time.” The Technical Delegate nodded to Coach Price who took the empty chair at his side. His veiny hand pulling on the cord of the black stopwatch noosed around his neck.

The Jury had officially convened. The group consisted of the highest-ranking officials and they formed a formidable line before us. A wall of uncompromising scrutiny which observed our every movement in expectation of a confession to some perceived wrongdoing. Court was in session.

Drake avoided eye contact altogether by boring imaginary holes through the floor. His focus unbroken.

I could think of no clear motive for this assemblage but I knew keeping quiet was best to avoid taking blame for what I may or may not deserve. No mind any late encounters with the cops after covering somebody’s doorstep with hot puke. But why drag the both of us down together?

It became a stalemate of silence. The short man in the center tracked every passing second. Blinking in erratic flickering bursts.

When he stood, he barely looked over the heads of those sitting and with his nasally tone he snapped the tension as he spoke with the air of an extemporaneous speech.

“Afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Mr. Pantofle, the acting Technical Delegate. You may or may not know that my role as the divisional official chairman is responsible for the overall management of today’s race along with my counterparts here, our regionally appointed Referee, the highly esteemed Ms. Mann, and today’s Chief of Race, Coach Price, with whom you’re both well acquainted. We, the Jury and Organizing Committee of this event, are burdened with enforcing the good conduct and integrity our fine sport was founded upon, and we go through great pains ensuring our pristine organization isn’t blemished. This morning however, these most stringent efforts were compromised by unlawful conduct.”

“This affects not only the Division, but potentially the entire youth program.” Coach Price added. His emotionless delivery undercut by tremors of rage.

Mr. Pantofle, who maintained a delicate air about him despite the gravity of the situation, continued on after waiting for Coach Price to finish.

“Could someone be so kind as to elucidate what brought us here today?”

Drake’s dependence on higher authority rendered him as useless as most others who typically cracked in this situation. If there was any possibility of talking myself out of this, whatever this was, I had to speak up first and foremost to demonstrate a willingness to cooperate. Such were the basic terms of any negotiation.

“There’s been an issue?” I suggested to the Jury at last.

“That would be an understatement,” Mr. Pantofle whined on, casting furtive glances between the clock and something Ms. Mann held under the table, back to us again with cold, scanning eyes. Busy computing the probability of every variable to the integrity of our merit. It was torturous. Like being placed directly under the hot light for interrogation.

“You see, for us to proceed with operations as normal, it’s imperative we establish who this certain performance enhancer belongs to…” He nodded to Ms. Mann who withdrew the familiar black gym bag with the broken front zipper from her lap and dumped the contents out onto the table.

Mr. Pantofle slowly sorted through the pile for dramatic effect, which at first glance appeared no different than the usual racing gear. Ski goggles. Padded gloves. Then there it was. An orange screw-top pill bottle which revealed a baggy of finely crushed powder and a miniature spoon when opened.

Coach, who wasn’t focused on the contraband or any person whatsoever, remained seated and looking forward. His arms folded.

I was dumbstruck by the turn of events. But mostly at Drake’s brazen stupidity. And I was just as much of an asshole for not even knowing what was in my bag. If I was a little more on guard from the beginning this would have never happened.

Drake’s placid disposition bordered on comatose. Stripped of his usual posturing, he appeared to be moments away from making a mess of the place. This surely was the best outcome imaginable and I welcomed whatever happened next with open arms. Making my public debut had become a necessity. However superficial that might be. I couldn’t fool myself from not desiring the position if it were somehow achieved.

Yet despite having the power to indict this overprivileged prick, I found having such power to be unwieldy and heavy-handed. Most of the time I was getting in trouble. Whether for drinking and smoking, or thinking and talking—but who was I to sell him out? I wasn’t even sure how enjoyable that outcome would be considering what this meant for the Academy and from a utilitarian stance, it made no sense to disqualify our best skier. He was team captain because we needed him. And to regard my simple passion as a career profession was an ideal in itself. The thought of competing made me nauseous in contrast with my love for skiing down open basins unfettered or passing through pockets of trees in hidden glades.

But before I could formulate something else to say Drake exploded in a flurry of emotion.

“This is a mistake. I’m supposed to be at the Team Captains’ meeting right now. I swear I don’t know whose it is,” he sputtered, his bottom lip trembling. “Or how it got there, alright?”

“You repudiate the allegations?” Ms. Mann cut in. The shrill tone of her voice dragging like nails on a chalkboard.

The pressure nearly split his swollen head in twain until I stopped him short to spare all the trouble.

“Because it’s mine,” I said. Drake’s mouth opened as if to dispute my claim when Ms. Mann promptly snapped it shut again.

“Do you protest, Mr. Jager?”

To which, Drake stared back at his feet, shaking his head.

“We’re sorry for the trouble. You’re free to go the Team Captains’ meeting,” Mr. Pantofle said and he didn’t proceed until Drake slipped out of the tent in a bright flash. “Young man, you’ve compromised our esteemed program with your selfish little stunt. However, in lieu of previous infractions against the Intermountain Division, we must avoid scandal at all costs and being in the preseason, will decidedly not press this further.”

“Outrageous!” Exclaimed Ms. Mann, lunging forward with a bony fist pressed to the hard plastic of the folding table. More than prepared to throw the entire book at me. “You know as well as I do, Matt, that it only enables this unallowable, and need I mention illegal, behavior. The issue, as I see it, is we mustn’t foster these toxic cultures any further. It must get nipped at the bud. And sometimes it’s necessary to toss out a few bad apples for the sake of the batch.”

“Under regular circumstances I’d have to agree.”

“What about in-season events? Can we not dock his points?”

“He has none.”

“It is worth mentioning he’s a late recruit to our official roster,” added Coach Price.

“I swear to God, Richard, it’s as if you somehow plan for this. How do we know Carbonado won’t pull these shenanigans when they host the Regional Open?”

“Rest assured, Stacy, you have my word. I had no knowledge any of my athletes could dishonor this fine sport. If I did, I would’ve already expelled them from the Academy otherwise.”

“Big words. No mind the conflict of interest. Why even have this council? This is clear grounds for disqualification if not potential sanctions for future races.”

“Duly noted. Although unofficial, we’ll decide upon appropriate action through due process. Don’t thank me. A series of repeat offences is responsible for that. Primarily, of which, has been singularly provided by your program.” Mr. Pantofle shot a pointed look at Coach Price over his rimmed glasses. “So, once we arrive at a final decision you’ll be informed of additional demerits, if any.”

His tone took an ugly turn towards a subject that made his female counterpart quiver with excitement.

“Do what you must.” Coach Price said.

The Jury consulted in private about the extent of my punishment. Trying to reason with them now would be like trying to douse a match in gasoline.

Coach Price reclined back in his seat. His arms crossed in disgust. Periodically, Mr. Pantofle shook his head with dismissive complacency. A cold, calculating machine with zero regard for mercy. Still, their whispers worked up into a hotly contested debate. They vacillated from one end of the spectrum to the other, and after much contention their verdict had been reached. Landing somewhere in the middle of the two extremes.

Ms. Mann smiled as Mr. Pantofle dwelled even further on the potential detriment that my reckless decision could’ve had, digressing cyclically until getting around to the decision we all waited for. “In conclusion, and after much deliberation, we not only stand by our earlier position but are in agreeance we’ve been too lenient towards the Academy regarding its problematic history for the division.”

“I’m well aware of our maligned reputation before I joined the program,” said Coach Price with a degree of stoicism. “Thus, I take full accountability for where we stand today. But these are kids. Kids sometimes make stupid mistakes.”

“Except they are grown adults,” said Ms. Mann. “And it’s time we start treating them as such.”

“As our Referee points out, and I readily concur, every action has a consequence, its weighted counterbalance, that acts as a repercussion for breaking the rules. So in addition to a five-hundred dollar fine, a half-second will be added to each run of Carbonado’s U21/Seniors group. Questions, comments, concerns?”

Coach Price burst forward. “How can you penalize them all?”

“For reasons I’m only at liberty to discuss with you further in private.”

“Young man,” Ms. Mann took this moment to butt in. “Do you have a substance abuse problem?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“This is no minor offense, is there something else we should know about?” She stopped short when Mr. Pantofle, on the verge of a breakdown, made a frantic gesture toward the ticking clock.

“OK. It’s settled. You may reconvene with your teammates before the races begin. We’re past the scheduled time already. Chief of Timing and Calculations must be having a conniption fit by now.”

Attempting to talk now amounted to scratching my sandpaper tongue against the roof of my mouth. I had difficulty swallowing this big lump. My throat bone dry.

I tried taking my broken bag and the slap on the wrist with some humor. This was the opportunity the team needed to castigate me from their circle for good. A clean break for the organization to wash its hands clean of impending scandal with a fine at my expense. No need in tarnishing a pure reputation. And despite this ill fortune, my sentence removed a considerable weight from my shoulders.

Back on the outside. It was perfect conditions for race day and all I was thinking about was the lobby bar. Since that wouldn’t be made available, I sought the closest option. And right around the next corner there it was. A concession stand selling hot cocoa and adult beverages without a single person in line.

I was nearly a sip away from warming up with an ice-cold brew when Coach Price intercepted my purchase.

“And into the trash you go. No greater shame than being wasted,” he guided me back to the racecourse.

“Why waste it?”

“Good question. It’s to show that you care. Regardless of how you act. Which is something you should know well enough. That, and because athletes aren’t allowed to drink. I hope you read some of the rulebook I gave you.”

“Not sure what you heard back there, but I’m no longer in the running.”

“How so? You’re still training with the Academy, aren’t you? DQs are a regular deal. A mishap in the grand scheme of things. Just don’t expect any kind words from the others about it.”

I stared him down. Speechless. Stunned.

Barriers of poles with special netting demarcated the courses. Each marked by blue lines that converged at the same runway to the finish. I forgot all about my previous thirst during the transition to our racing group. Watching the ski racers gearing up eased my nerves while I tuned into the action narrated by the unpleasant squawks of a wonky PA system.

The race-day program began with a draw to confirm the start order. Conducted by the Team Captains’ meeting, after which, competitors from the ladies group began to load onto the chairlift, prepared to leave their marks. They raced first so they could start lunch after first run.

Coach Price studied me over long and hard. His face stern with a squinted stare which felt like a giant spotlight shining down on me before addressing what weighed on his mind.

“If I may ask, why take the blame back there?”

“What do you mean?”

“We both know that wasn’t yours,” he pressed. “You shouldn’t take the fall for someone else.”

“Neither of us exactly have a clean slate. Which is an important thing for a successful career. But Drake deserves an honest shot at the title.”

“Titles are available to anybody willing to step up and take it,” Coach Price responded with a sharp smile suggesting it might all work out. Providing my first sense of team pride since joining his team.

“I may not be able to stand Drake as a person, but I can’t fathom so much potential going to waste over such a little—OK, such a stupid decision. It would have only been my first race so we need him more than me. Who can compete with el capitán? Hopefully he learns his lesson.”

“I hope you both do. Especially you. It’s almost as if you speak like yourself and the team are different. That can always be you leading the team. What separates the two of you?”

“He’s been skiing competitively since the single digits.”

“So what?”

“I was never a contestant to begin with, and if that was needed for us to win, so be it.”

“Bullshit. And you know it. Never sell yourself short. If you focused a fraction of that energy towards something productive, you’d see the return we both know you want. Endlessly rationalize it however you want, but you should be the one up there today, not him.”

Regardless of how he felt, nothing could be reversed now. Even if I explained how taking the blame felt like the right thing to do, there was nothing more for my tied-up tongue to exhaust.

“Although I must add,” Coach went on. “It was quite admirable for you to do that. Leaders are distinguished by selfless acts made in decisive moments—but I wouldn’t make a habit of being someone’s martyr. People only love to watch you burn. Visit me during office hours if you wish to continue the discussion. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I’m a vast reservoir of knowledge and experience for your benefit. There’s no greater resource than a lifetime of dedication to the discipline and I’ll be goddamned if I don’t impart some of my wisdom on one of you. Come, let’s get to the ski area.”

The raucous crowd of spectators filling the designated area along the edge of the course further curtailed conversation as we slowly made passage to where the team stood grouped together on the snow. Collectively, they were unhappy about the delayed start and didn’t mince words once narrowing down the source. Drake remained nonplussed and for once stood outside the circle’s center.

An internal shift displaced the pressure in my head as we awaited course inspection. Seeing all of them in their skin tight racing suits made my stomach lurch. Their bib numbers reflecting the sunlight in radiant splendor.

Today’s event: a super combined. One speed race on a shortened downhill course and one slalom run. Although technically not a scored race, ski racers competed for bragging rights to start the race season.

Coach Price delivered a quick pep talk before the racers gathered in the start house.

“Remember the goal for speed events is to limit drag. Initiate turns by moving your center of mass from its previous position to one less inclined and to create tip pressure the movement originates at the ankles forward and downhill toward the inside of the new turn. Working the terrain with your outside ski may increase speed. On the slope, the lead change in the ski tips, hips and shoulders will gradually even up so you want the ski to maintain contact with the snow surface at all times and adjust where and when the pressure is in the turn. Now: to achieve an optimal downhill position will require a lot of mental stamina. Synchronization is going to be key here for good time management. Fortunately, we’re known for making prospects favorable to their advantage.”

It turned from an icy morning into a blazing hot day that made me wish I had left my coat behind. The mountainside became a bright, soupy bowl of sunshine. Brought alive the echoes of excited chatter. Somewhere, live music played as the announcer boomed in a resounding baritone voice that tingled the tiny hairs on your skin.

I joined Coach Price at the finish line with the other bystanders as he shouted out last orders at the team while they readied themselves to board the lift.

“Make sure to keep your muscles in tension. Not stiff.”

The likelihood of ending Park City’s longstanding win streak seemed impossible. That and it didn’t help the team penalty for my disqualification resulted in a delayed start. But Coach Price came readymade with enough tactics and strategies to tip the scales back in our favor. Shouting his orders at the team while I had the pleasure of tagging along. Taking some notes here and there. Even after they boarded the lift the discomfort remained. Like all my organs had ceased functioning.

We waited in painful silence as the athletes ascended towards the rising sun on a triple chair.

The electrified buzz of excitement held the audience in anticipatory fervor as each athlete positioned themselves at the start gate for the downhill course. The longest of all the different events with fewer turns and wider gates. All of which were the same color. Its boundaries marked on either side by blue lines. There were even several wipeouts that played out like car crashes for the oohing and aahing crowd who could not look away.

Younger groups who had already completed their run joined the crowd which only further charged the atmosphere. The mountainside rumbled with the sound of ski patrol on their snowmobiles and the cheering of spectators. Many of them parents holding up signs and banners for whoever they supported. Except one group stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the cheering crowd. They were less animated and clad in long charcoal-black overcoats with clipboards obscuring the bottom half of their faces. Their boredom palpable amidst the screaming stands. Coach Price quickly identified them as regional scouts who had come to evaluate picks for national selection.

I checked the scoring as another ski racer completed their run. I looked over at the course as if for the first time. Never had I spectated the sport live before. Coach Price provided all the specifics I needed to know about the point system for the coming season. New racers started their career at 990 points and raced last. In each age category racers got divided into four seeds; A, B, C, D, with the first race ran in bib order. Apart from non-scored open runs and optional fun races during the season, you moved onto additional events based on three qualifiers. Qualification is based on the best two runs of three races, two runs per race.

The only way to improve in the USAA point system was to perform better than your second best result the previous year. Coach Price went on to explain how athletes earned points from competitions for a national ranking by receiving numerical scores based on their relative performance and work to lower their points within a given discipline. Lower points not only provided a better starting bib number but fed into higher level events such as FIS Development and Western Cup races. Soon enough, he said, my own time would come. But I wouldn’t hold my breath. I couldn’t bog myself down with the ever-foggy future while we observed the next run.

As Chief of Race, Coach Price received a report after each run from the start and finish referees. He then checked the gate judges’ cards for any faults worthy of sanction. Marked by the letter F for whatever they declared to be incorrect. During the process, Coach Price broke down the key concepts of what made their run exemplary from the well-handled maneuvering of movement patterns and skill blending to pressure control, or not, simply by eyeballing the separate components of the athlete’s movements.

“You see, the double-S curve on the upper part of the course demands…” Coach Price was explaining the mechanics of the downhill course when an unexpected buzz at my thigh commanded my full attention.

A text from Sophia! She was asking if we still planned to watch tomorrow’s football game together. An event dubbed the Holy War by the press in which the University of Utah played their longstanding rivals from Brigham Young University.

I had so much I wanted to say but I played it cool. After yearning to make a connection for so long I could reasonably conduct such affairs at my leisure.

“Got that?” Coach Price asked me again. “All that said, the sharp right curve of the bottom section calls for…”

The stands broke into a thunderous uproar.

Park City outperformed everyone in each group thus far. The ladies had already started lunch by the time the U21/Seniors were to take the stage.

I felt the heat of rushing blood. The struggle became a shared one and no longer mine only. Each run had to be executed flawlessly and it would take some miracle for any chance of winning. I inadvertently picked up on Coach Price’s intensity and anxious fretting as the painstaking moments built towards our turn on the downhill track.

Already in his crash helmet and pads at the start line, Chuck spearheaded our futile movement. He was not our fastest but well-rounded for split events which made him second-in-command.

There followed another roar while his bib number and name were announced for the crowd.

He remained still inside the start blocks used primarily for speed events. Ski poles planted.

Ski racers were allowed to start five-seconds before or after the start command was given. GO.

With a kick-off motion Chuck launched out of the gate. Timing started the moment he propelled past the start switch to trip the fiberglass wand mounted horizontally on a hinge and forced to swing open at the movement of his leg.

He was off to the second gate in skate strides with tiny vertical jumps.

“Could’ve been a better start out the gate,” Coach Price muttered to my side, mostly to himself. “For clean skis pay attention to the interaction of his skis and edges on the snow.”

Chuck raced against the clock. Meeting more friction on the wet snow than by sliding on the icy ruts left by another competitor’s carved turn.

He glided through a series of linked turns in a direct line down the hill. Approaching the gate with enough lateral space to come from behind it and picking up the ski by finding the inside edge early in his turn.

Coach Price’s analysis of his movements detailed every aspect of the proceedings. Highlighting anything good or bad in an objective scaling of performance. And if one sifted through his critiques you caught profound insights here and there, even praise at times of Chuck’s transition from a low tuck with his chest flattened against his knees to being forward and high tucking to allow better movement of his lower body.

“Check how he’s coming into the gate deep and catching the edge to establish balance and pressure quickly on the new outside ski. Focusing always upon the feet and skis. Your base of support. Ideally one wants their ski grounded at all times for pressure control. Yet the real trick is adjusting where and when the pressure is in the turn. Technically,” he further elaborated, “no run was perfect and mistakes made in one area were effortless to others. Each side often canceled the other, almost working against them.”

Left foot turn to right foot turn—Chuck’s expert handling of each turn and jump while absorbing the impact of every external pressure from gravity, air resistance, and pole-to-snow interaction landed him in a blaze of glory as he skidded across the red finish line.

But such an effort hardly made up the deficit going into the next discipline as the top seeding times nearly 1/2 to 3/4 his time in the standings. Everyone from Top, Rib, Skirt and both the Shanks to Bottom—failed to make the cut. The other competitors in our group were cold, calculating machines who operated within a slight margin of error. And any potential frontrunner was prone to the tiniest slip ups that snowballed into further mistakes. The largest threat remained the hometown favorite, and if there was any chance to thwart our long running rivals it would require nothing short of a quality run.

Run after run, Coach Price would be first to greet whoever crossed the finish line regardless of the outcome. Our group began shaving hundredths of a second off their runs but ultimately fell short of being in the running.

Coming out of the downhill portion of the combined only Drake could make the flip. Starting his run before the start command was given to finish in the top thirty within mere tenths of a second.

Afterwards his race time got posted on the giant scoreboard—1:41.88. If not for the applied penalty Drake would’ve bested the top seed, the local team captain. How fitting the leaders of the two top clubs were duking it out for representation of the division and western region. Each began racing at a professional level since their teens and had the same goal in mind, Olympic gold medals and a cereal box with their face on it. For which there was only one spot.

Even Round’s spotty consistency wasn’t much of a factor moving onto the second event. The slalom course. Designed like a long drawn out “S” it had less of a vertical drop with gates placed closer together. Requiring short, quick turns which even at slower speeds made it the fastest event.

Between events there followed a quick lunch break.

Event staff handed out crumpled brown sacks containing a flattened ham and cheese sandwich with a couple orange slices to munch on while we sat on the snow as Coach Price lectured on the importance of pole usage and what else to expect from the second run. Like hiking which is permitted in slalom but not worth the effort because you must exit immediately if you get passed by the next ski racer on the course.

Despite my guilt over not contributing my fair share, we behaved as if under the same banner throughout the entire event and I did whatever possible to cheer the team on for another run. Although I didn’t concern myself too much with the logistics, I eagerly soaked up whatever I could in these crucial moments.

Course inspections finished for the ladies before it was even set up. The day was flying by as our brief interim ended with the remaining athletes switching to shorter skis, shin guards, and straight poles with pole guards in preparation for the more technical components of this discipline. The slalom course was specially lined with consecutive gates alternating colors in red and blue with a couple hairpin turns and a flush which was three or more consecutive closed gates. Ski racers would be tested on a number of differentials while attempting to ski the straightest line possible to the finish. To achieve this, Coach Price reviewed some of the techniques we practiced this week.

The group of spectators seemed to grow exponentially. The cheering crowd applauded as kids no older than ten-years of age stepped into the start gate. Once again, I hung back at the finish line until our group raced. The rigid structure of being part of a team constantly placed you around others. Still, I found comfort in my sense of loneliness and that was the paradox I had to live with.

The second run shuffled the top thirty racers to the end. Providing others an opportunity to race first and take advantage of better course conditions. Once the top racer completed their run, the rest ran in reverse order from fastest to slowest.

But only one Carbonado skier had the stamina to further shorten the time gap.

“This is what we’ve been training for.” Coach Price said to Drake before his run. “Go out there and show how it’s done.”

“I’ll give it full gas,” Drake assured him.

“Pin it!”

Cue ski racer #27, Drake Jager. Our fearless and capable leader.

Already in his set up stance in the start house.

Cocked and at the ready to spring into action. Poles placed in front of the starting wand in a crouched position.

The ensuing buildup intensified the atmosphere. Everybody shifted in their ski boots. On edge. Bent in expectant climax of what they came for while not an echo could be heard in the final seconds before Drake, the next to race—and our one saving grace—was signaled to start.

As his feet moved closer to the start wand he straightened up, moving his upper body forward which transferred his weight.

It wasn’t until his center of mass moved past the wand that, with a kick up and a little back, it made contact at the upper cuff and lower boot as he passed through the gate line to start the race.

His arms pulling hard to pull the rest of his body through and using this initial momentum to gain speed using powerful skate strides towards the second gate.

Drake came out of the starting gate charged with kinetic energy. Each muscle contraction generating internal force. The centrifugal force could be felt as he followed a curved path entering the course. His skis bending through the turns. Flipping the ski instead of rolling it to offer him early edge while in seamless movements he exhibited complete mastery of pressure control.

He moved his body forward to create a groove for the rest of the ski to follow, then shifting toward the tail, he started a turn in a strong, inclined position before adding angulation in the hip, knee, and ankle, offering quicker movement between turns. His upper body appearing to be completely unmoving.

His hands out and forward. He glided through turns in perfect unison with his pole plants through the gates.

What could be noticed above all was his athletic stance as he created edge angles in lateral movements. Steering through the first series of gates in parallel turns. Then switching to a countering movement which put his body into an anticipated position with a pole plant and his lower body twisted to pivot and redirect his skis before edging.

Coming out the under gate he moved his upper body forward to maintain a perpendicular attitude upon entering the steeper pitch to the flush.

For speed control he executed a stivot turn with minor slipping—basically a high-speed skid which sacrificed the top of the turn to allow carving out the bottom of it to get a good line.

Coach Price remained silent. Still as a statue despite the nervous gleam in his eye. Not only was this important for establishing the Academy’s supremacy but for him as well. We were equally in this together. The stakes being the same.

He glided across the hill in a precision arc by balancing along the length of the ski with his movement more forward while initiating turns and finishing more on his heel with pressure always through the bottom of his boot. Drawing an optimal line on the straightaway he passed between each gate with his ski tips and feet by cross-blocking. Using inside and outside arm clears to move them out of the way or knock them down using his shins to take a tighter path to those of us who rallied in the finish area.

As soon as the race started it had ended. Everyone fell silent looking at the carved track. Simultaneously holding their breath.

The result was debated only in hushed whispers until the Referee’s report came in with the official time.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

Back on the line.

Ski tips hovered over a white sheet marked by staggering track lines as I awaited the green light. Set for my second run.

My perspective narrowed to a bird’s eye view. Each movement smooth as the most basic of thoughts. Natural. Easy.

Then the switch.

In a final, desperate shot to better my previous time I placed too much emphasis on each turn, which, instead of subtle strokes, were made either too early or too late. Making my passes mechanical at every bend.

Frustration only mounted from there. I soon became flustered. Tense.

Two times too many my arm caught the gate, nearly uprooting the flag as I came barreling out onto the straightaway. Like being whisked upon an avalanche. Jerking left to right—in long exaggerated swoops with the irreverence of a mad violinist’s bowstring.

Overall, a lackluster performance of hopeless determination. Coupled with careless execution which ended in Coach Price’s wrath. His voice loud enough for the whole mountain to hear.

“Again. You’ve spent the entire first stretch not carving anything that wouldn’t be implicit if you’d just start transitioning your turns. A hindrance which only adds seconds to your time, doing you no favors. Control requires calculated awareness. Apply the absence of which to your entire run, or practice for that matter. Turn after turn and only for the worse! Any slight rotation in the upper body means you’re banking every one of them. Again, must we establish the inefficacy of this technique? Time and time again I censure you for the same behavior exhibited on your previous run. Not to mention that poor tucking is a blatant refutation of what I taught—but not the only problem here. Skis should be parallel and vision forward—always—with your ankles, knees and hips flexed, your back flat or slightly rounded while hands and elbows stick in front of your chest. The movement from low tuck to high tuck is in the hips, not shoulders. Tucking is never a static position. I’m rapidly losing patience. And don’t even get me started on those gate passes like we’ve spoken about. A waste.”

With no excuses left for me to give, I nodded all the while.

When I first signed up these comments cut to the core. I’d stand there all dry mouthed with palms sweaty before even being mentioned. Holding out hope to hear some positive feedback that never came. He thought my runs were torturous? Coach’s critiques were like an endurance test filled with the same long-winded tidbits I’d heard a million times. My skin slowly turned rubbery from the constant chewing. Up until his bite became toothless altogether. Rendering the profound rumbling of his tirades to nothing more than short-lived eruptions. Like having shoveled too much coal into a poorly ventilated furnace.

Not only had I repeatedly failed to make it to the final round, but seemingly regressed. Like a knife dulled before ever honing its edge.

Once we had finished racing parallels, Coach Price, with a sad shake of his head, began to address the entire weary, worn-out group.

“We’ve still got a long way to go from what I can tell… Short,” he directed his focus on a sunken figure with high shoulders whose stubby arms hung in a forward slant. “You’ve got bad balance on the middle section and will continue to unless you start unweighting prior to a turn. Flank,” his piercing gaze sought out a squashed face to the side which glowered with bored complacency, “And Round, you both can’t get the narrows straight whereas Shank—not you, the other one—you’re turning too broad. Subtle strokes make smooth passes. For the most part, however, we saw significant improvement today.”

His eyes fell on me. I shifted nervously away. Knowing these words didn’t apply to me.

“Call me pedantic, but always tuck arms tight with a straight back for a better crouching stance. Bear in mind that the tuck position sacrifices athletic freedom. This goes for each of you. It’s imperative we make use of whatever time we have left before our first event come mid-December.”

I expected Coach Price to circle back and drill me on a couple additional fine, technical points but I was saved by a name I had never heard before.

“Ah, and before I forget—Offal!”

Coach Price scanned over the team. Once. Twice. A twitchy nose poked through the row of squared shoulders from the back. Out emerged the previously unregistered face of a fellow teammate who got dwarfed in relation to the rest.

“Ah, there you are. Hidden away in the back. No need to break your starting stance until you’re coming out the starting gate. Remember what we discussed before. We need the ferocity of a bloodthirsty warrior. Understand?”

The soft-spoken, nearly imperceptible voice peeped back in response.

“Sorry, couldn’t hear—you said?” Coach Price boomed back.

“i, erm, yes, Coach.” Offal spoke up in a shrill voice that got quickly overtaken by Coach Price’s return echo.

“That’s more like it. This is what I expect from everybody. OK?” He started up again. He must not see the glaring obstacle standing before him or know that my failure to perform was predestined.

While Coach Price expounded upon his point using more detailed terminology I couldn’t grasp, I dismissed his latest tangent in favor of observing Offal. This unmarked anomaly who had practically disappeared amongst the rest. Previously unnoticed; I made a habit of never taking a sidelong glance at my competitor as if I were skiing against myself. Now, without any blinders setting my sights ahead I could plainly see what I had missed.

My skull hummed to the tune of a thousand questions: Who was he? Was he part of the team? Our team? How had I failed to notice? Almost a month of training together and I couldn’t recall a single encounter with him ever occurring, on or off the mountain. Yet who knows how many times we raced each other.

Offal’s focus remained skyward. If not staring at his skis when personally addressed. His presence withdrawn until Coach Price gave a directive for him to follow.

“With one more practice to go, nothing shakes my confidence moving forward into next week’s ski camp. As always when traveling abroad, Carbonado shows up to compete first, celebrate second. That said, I’ll remind everyone here that each of us bear the burden of representing the Academy standard. They say it’s lonely at the top, which I propose is a good thing. Never compromise your character or personal integrity from the model we uphold. But above all, I want to see your best marks up there. Now then, I’ve got an important conference call this afternoon, which, much to your dismay, brings today’s practice to a close. Enjoy the extra hour of daylight.”

By the end I was grappling to comprehend the origin of this character so cloaked in mystery. But the news of a ski camp I never knew of came with a renewed sense of dread. Coach Price’s words becoming another one of those itches I couldn’t scratch.

One by one, everyone dispersed off the mountain in uniform fashion.

I hung around to smoke a cigarette and watch the smoke tangle with their descending figures as they drifted downstream the snowy current. Becoming smaller with each bob until disappearing altogether over the final mound.

My throbbing head ached. Unable to be laid to rest. I defaulted back to brooding over the day’s horrible performance. The only worthwhile aspect to it was the opportunity to observe skills and tactics to steal from the others. Yet, rigid with impotence from my feckless disposition, it didn’t take much for me to resign in utter despair.

To avoid from yelling out I held a generous inhalation of smoke captive in my lungs. Letting it stream from my nostrils in weaving ribbons when a small voice broke me out of my petrified state. Causing me to choke.

“erm excuse me, sorry but uh, smoking’s not allowed on the slopes.”

It was startling to hear another voice up here. Like being answered by the subconscious.

But such critical, albeit miniscule, words were passive enough to be disregarded. Even his delivery lacked conviction. Almost whispered in a tone which hung around as if too timid and unsure of where it originated or where it wanted to go.

Right away I knew whom it belonged to. And that he remained rooted there all the while, benign and unthreatening, too stuck to flow along with the rest.

“OK,” I said at last, seeing no harm in demonstrating my compliance. But before I dropped the unfinished cigarette into the wet snow, I had one burning question to ask him after feeling static in my process for so long.

“But first, one thing before you go,” I cleared my throat. “Why do this?”

He shifted. Becoming visibly more uneasy the more I responded to him. As if he may not have expected the questions to persist.

Still looking down, the cigarette burning, he replied. “what?”

“Why are you doing all of this?”

“because smoking isn’t allowed.”

“No, not that. What are we doing to ourselves up here practice after practice, day after day?”

“skiing?”

“Not just skiing. But yes, that too.”

He shot me an inquisitive look which asked: what, then?

His eyes darted back to the cigarette still smoking in my fingertips.

“Oh, I’m sure you know what I mean, entertaining this endless charade of having to practice for a base competition where we compete against one another and ourselves. What for?”

This response left him reeling far worse than before. As if brimming over with excitement.

“i do it because skiing is my life,” he spoke slowly, as if ensuring the words were uttered correctly.

“But we can ski any time we want. Why bother adhering to the paradigm of a strict ski racing program?”

“i-i guess i love to compete, i mean, i haven’t officially done it on an international level, not yet- there’s still a lot for me to learn. to optimize is key, so says Coach Price, anyways,” he sounded more and more deflated than a balloon by the end, his sharp breaths laboring to intake air.

His facial features, small and refined as they were, practically gave the appearance of a caricature with his oversized ski goggles. Comparable to the bulbous lenses of some flying insect. And his nervous feet told me what he couldn’t face to face.

I’ve encountered these characters before. And they were always the same. Solidified in their steadfast belief as if it were a birth right. Indoctrinated by a culture which rendered them too meek and fearful to achieve lives of great import. They were microscopic to the naked eye, if not invisible entirely. Completely frozen to a standstill. However long they dedicated themselves to their noble cause was case by case, but for some, will surely last a lifetime. They were essential parts to the slaughterhouse mechanics of everyday life, filling in the cracks like mortar for the frivolous leaders who care little for what they dispensed of greatly.

There might be a tendency to pity the Offals of the world. But there was nothing to feel sorry about. If anything, I’d consider myself lucky to have a modicum of the courage they possessed. Although unassuming at first glance, they often concealed an unmarked brilliance within them. Like a snowflake, each being unique, yet indiscriminate unless viewed from up close. Or a buried jewel one had to painstakingly dig up depending on how introverted they were. Which, such excavation efforts were usually met with significant pushback.

In many ways I could see myself standing there, gawking back. One of the forgotten ones. Deviations from the norm. The left behinds relegated to the fringes of regular life. Those incapable of wearing a proper label. Therefore, shunned on the grounds of being misunderstood altogether.

We might’ve been standing on the same mountain together, but the reality was that we couldn’t be more set apart. Stranded on either extreme of which constituted an average, except Offal was defined by moxie that I’d never have.

“Tell you what. It makes perfect sense to me. And I’m right there with you.”

I openly laughed at the prospect of being too petrified to race due to our unrecognized potential.

“r-really?” He piped up. Half-concealing a toothy grin.

“Absolutely. No use trying to hide it. Right—sorry, what’s your name again?”

“offal.”

“Why go by your surname?”

“that’s how it’s always been.”

“To be perfectly honest, Offal, I’m not prepared for any of this either. Everyone here’s committed to a discipline I haven’t got the most basic experience in. Little fish get swallowed in a pond this small. Except staying out of a bigger fish’s stomach is sometimes less trouble than avoiding shiny hooks.”

“i don’t know about that. yes, i’ve raced my entire life since the DEVO program, and most of us here went to mountain school. but that doesn’t make me any better for it. my dad was racing FIS by my age. like he says, impossible is but one possibility. as it should be.”

I trailed off in thought before breaking our silence again. “Another question, and here’s what I believe to be the crux of it all: without being conditioned as a child to ski, would you still love it?”

This last one clearly set him back. His noticeable struggle to respond confused his already screwed up aspect. His gaze leveled with mine for the first time as he continued, carefully mulling his words over as they formed on his tongue.

“of course i would, i mean i love to ski. really, more than anything else i do and will continue skiing until i’m–well you know—dead!” Ending with a shriek, he drooped down as if drained from this spontaneous spurt of excitement. His arms wrapping around his sides as if attempting to fold into his wiry frame as he withdrew.

“But are you one-hundred percent sure?”

I wanted to press him further. But after noting his efforts to recoil from the matter altogether I coaxed him back into comfort.

“Look, I’m not judging one way or another, I’m only asking if given the opportunity, how else would you spend life’s precious moments?”

“i don’t think i understand,” offal receded deeper into his jacket until only his ski goggles and helmet protruded from its folds. “skiing is my life. ok? i was born for it. plus, smaller skiers are most aerodynamic.”

I dropped it at last. Having nearly forgotten about the flaming tar-stained filter in my fingertips I discarded it altogether.

“Sorry. I suppose we’ve all got to be a little crazy or why else climb up here time and time again to meet the same challenge? Too bad we can’t all be perfect like our inimitable team captain.”

“from what i hear Drake has less friends on this team than you. oops—sorry, i shouldn’t have said that.”

My eyes grew to be the size of dinner plates.

“Really? Says who?”

“well, to be fair, he was homegrown like the rest of us here at Carbonado Ski Academy, but rumor has it that he didn’t make the cut for any Western Region Projects due to a banned performance enhancer—but you didn’t hear it from me.”

“And now he’s looking for a clean slate.”

“maybe i uh- i really shouldn’t say more, i should probably go.”

“OK. Last thing, I promise. What’s all this talk about ski camp?”

“good one. you heard Coach, see you bright and early Sunday morning.”

He bounded off like a spooked bunny down the groomed slope. I waited all the way until he disappeared down and over the ridge with the others before sparking up another cigarette.

There you have it.

A fellow unknown skier whose legacy was no more than being a placeholder in the club. We were the failed matadors. Too foolish to die from our mortal wounds, we become martyrs to our inner calling for greatness. I didn’t know when I’d see him again. But he’d surely be there, every day. Like an island of rock. But even the most resilient objects eventually gave way, crumbling at their foundation until swept away by a much stronger force. What we shared most in common was that we’re utterly convinced we had no choice otherwise.

Best of luck to us both.

We sorely needed it.

At the plaza. Fiending for another burn in my chest. I searched my pockets for the lighter I must’ve left on the mountainside when a snowboarder came bombing down the slope. I would’ve thought nothing of it except they were beelining straight at me.

Right before making impact they abruptly skid to a stop. Covering me with a sheet of fluffy snow and causing me to fall backwards.

I attempted to grapple with what had transpired while the still-standing figure, slightly bent, eclipsed the radiance of the sun so I needn’t shield my eyes to gaze upon her like a fiercely blazing star I recognized immediately.

“Looks like we ran into each other after all.” I lamely broke the ice, seated ass-down in a soft snowy patch.

“You never came back to the lodge. And smoking isn’t allowed except in designated areas.” She helped me to my feet, buying me time to search for the words I’ve been wanting to say since we first met, but were now slippery as wet fish in my mind.

“But I won’t say a thing if you let me bum one.” She pointed to my soggy, limp cigarette.

“Lead the way to one of these so-called designated smoking areas.”

She unstrapped herself from her bindings then led me to a secluded area behind the ski rental shop. The rain gutters lined with dripping human-sized icicles.

Once hidden within our enclosure she handed me a tiny pink lighter. I pulled out two cigarettes from my pack.

She shivered, stepping closer.

“It’s freezing.”

“Here, put some fire in your lungs.”

Her face lit up with a soft orange glow as I used my hand to shelter the tiny flame from the wind.

She kept the fiery brand pressed to her lips and coughed. The tall-tale sign of an unseasoned smoker.

“What?” She said. “Do you have something to say?”

“No. Nothing. Just that I remember my first time smoking is all.”

“Oh, stop it. I’m not used to these.”

“What do you usually smoke?”

“Menthols.”

“Never been a fan. They taste too sweet. Like smoking candy.”

“That’s why I love them! I’ve never heard of Parliament. Charcoal filtered, huh?” She examined the white cigarette pack with the blue square and silver trim.

“The only sound investment in life is in good smokes.”

After weeks of cold contact this conversation was firing on all cylinders.

And the questions kept coming.

“And why’s that?”

“The best insurance for killing time.”

“What a peculiar way to look at things! What are you still doing here with your skis?”

“Oh, you know, trying to get a confidence boost before the coming race season.”

“Have you thought about a haircut?”

I was speechless. Here she was busting my balls worse than my closest friends and I struggled to think of a comeback so I switched subjects instead.

“How late are you hanging around here, anyway?”

“I agreed to switch shifts for a friend last week but remembered maybe an hour ago. Good thing I’m always late.”

“Consistency is clutch. That and a manager who looks the other way.”

I imagined him lurking somewhere around the corner, searching high and low for us to listen for us with a strained ear.

“Oh, he’s not that bad. Just a little petty, jealous, and over-protective, is all. So do you train with Coach Price?”

“Uh, yeah. You’ve heard of him?”

“That’s like asking if I’ve heard of the Academy. I can’t believe you train with Carbonado’s best.”

“Try not to sound so surprised. Although I was a bit of an afterthought to the team.”

“Sorry if I don’t stroke your ego. But you don’t strike me as the type.”

“Because I’m not.”

“Prove it.”

“I’m not sure if we have the time, but it would be easier if I had your number,” I spit it out at last. More than ready to draw a straight line to my intentions.

But I was left more tongue-tied by what she said.

“How ‘bout I take your number and I’ll reach out if I feel like it?”

“Deal. So uh, how’s the resort?” I’d already reverted back to dreaded work questions. Apparently with nothing better to ask while I inputted my number into her cellphone.

“Meh, pretty slow. But who knows what madness the season will bring once we open to the public. My boss is projecting an uptick in tourism for the coming years.”

I could only gaze back in wonderment whether she spoke. She came from the same world I did and our little heart-to-heart far exceeded my wildest expectations as if the stars were crossed and planets aligned.

But even that one security had its fatal drawback: she knew more than I did about every upcoming competition.

“Are you ready for ski camp?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. If I don’t eat shit on the first run, there’s always the next one.”

“Stop. It’s not like it’s going to be your first time.”

I blurted out a readymade response. But the damage was done. Beneath my clothes roared a burning furnace. The polar ice caps couldn’t squelch the flames fanning out from them. Why lie? I wasn’t sure. The sequence of events happened so fast that I panicked. The situation was dire when the path of least resistance was swearing a solemn oath to the story you told. Taking her silence as cause to elaborate, I fumbled over the most generic nonsense that could be said. Like so many beds I made in the past, my only choice was to sleep in yet another. I never enjoyed speaking openly about my passions. Doing so was more shameful than committing a cardinal sin. But she seemed less concerned about the events of the past than the coming future.

“Don’t make that face—you’ll do fine! Let me know how it goes. The Intermountain Cup is coming right up.”

“What’s that?”

“Only the most important start to your season. Don’t worry, though. It’s still over a month away.”

“Which leaves plenty of time to disappoint.”

“You’ll be fine! You’re with the Academy, right? My dad raced for Park City. Same with all my brothers. I even got to travel the world with them so I’m the black sheep working at Carbonado. No less, being a snowboarder.”

“I can relate. I prefer to have no one rooting for me in the stands.”

“Oh, I’ll be there.”

She nearly silenced me with her toothy smile.

“Really?”

“Of course. I’ll be working,” she said, pushing the hair off her forehead. “Done with that cig?”

“Kill it.”

“Oh shit. Never mind. My manager messaged that I’m super late. Thanks again.” She dropped the cigarette butt in the snow before the last drag.

I remained held in a trance until she disappeared with a little wave around an icy snowbank and out of sight. For once I seemed to respond well to the challenge and I couldn’t be more elated to see her again—and I still didn’t know her name!

It wasn’t until she was fully out of sight that any clarity returned. Along with all the anxiety gifted by her presence. Who knew when our next chance encounter would be.

There followed a buzzing in my pants pocket. I unlocked the screen to read the following texts:

hey hey

it’s Sophia ;)

All the pieces were falling into place. And with minimal effort involved.

The surprise come up felt like a delirium. Lasting the whole drive home where all of the familiar elements grounded me once again. As if coming out of the stupor this whizzing blur of practices left me in. And given the many driving forces that filled me with bottomless dread, today’s terrible performance plagued me by far the most.

Once more, black storm clouds formed over me. Like the inversion which had settled in the city. Trapping it beneath a lid of car exhaust and industrial smoke in which there was no escape. On really bad inversion days you can feel the pollution enter the body. Invading the cells of the tissues and so on.

My aching exhaustion got countered only by restless frustration. Leg muscles burned as I became stagnant. Smoking back-to-back bowls to still my pacing mind.

I wanted nothing more than to collapse into the comforts of my bed. Except my growing discontent goaded me from behind. Pricking my brainstem where something primal stirred so I left the house once again to consult the crystal ball sky.

Ever-swirling.

Upon sidewalks spun with webbed sheets of cracked ice. The black dog and I walked in tethered steps.

Alternating between brooding plods and bursts of renewed vigor I plodded along, vying to surpass the dual thoughts which switched between past and future. Both leading nowhere, while never fully in the present.

Reflecting upon these weeks of training with the Academy, I soon became buried by an avalanche of all the events prior, ending with Coach Price’s unending criticisms of my abject failure to perform. Testing the nylon leash which kept hold on the beast’s savage whims.

Tug­. Tug. Break. We’d come to a dead stop at random. Pausing for an indefinite amount of time—only for me to be pulled back forward with practically no progress gained.

The black dog was on the prowl. Head bent and walking with the gait of a caged animal. Its scraggly tail wagged as we tread through dark snow. I began to ruminate over the newfound information I received today. Ski camp? Yet another variable to fear in which every unknown outcome struck me down like lightning. At least I was being spared Thanksgiving dinner with the family. A mundanity punctuated by answering the same questions about what my life plans were while suffering through the same anecdotal tirades of a loudmouthed uncle. Even my older cousins who were starting new families left me alone for the most part. Avoiding me as if they had me pegged one way or another.

Moving forward these thoughts of mine swarmed in a ceaseless drone. Humming for hours with no sting. More jarring distractions to prevent me from taking responsibility.

Our staggered steps lasted the recently plowed stretch to West Temple. A street which eventually led straight to Temple Square. Where the friendly denizens of this city constructed a giant middle finger to the idea of the separation of church and state.

Turning left, the same push/pull tempo ensued. Lonesome ones; every step a struggle to move forward from what I was leaving behind. I looked back for some solace but received none. Only a playful squirrel scurried along the low-hanging power lines strung through a chestnut tree to a fury of bird chatter.

Against the backdrop of a setting sun, the strip of business offices continued to buzz with traffic. It was the inability to escape people that sent me up the mountain to begin with.

I looped back down 2100 South and slogged on. Fuming blacker than the hollow, rotten center of my intent to go on this nightmare jaunt. All while trying not to fall into the depths of icy pools along the way.

And to think it had once been likened to a dream.

Up and down the block there loomed a large expanse of white. Blinking under an oceanic veil of gray. The sight affected my companion, who excitedly hunched back its shoulders and would have bounded off if not for the leash which tethered beast to man. Using most my strength to pull back, the strain lasted all the way until we reached what was formerly an enclosure of green space during the warmer months of the year.

Far below; an interior shift. An unsettled notion. Insatiable as quicksand. I wanted nothing more than to leave for a couple days. Get a fresh start. But that entailed doing what I actively avoided.

Half-bent, I unclasped the metal hook from the dog collar.

It merely stared up at me with slight confusion. Upon receiving my nod of approval, it spun circles around while bucking its back legs out with each twist.

I threw some broken sticks for the black dog to return but it only ran amok as if wanting to be chased. Any attempt to catch it, however, got thwarted with every pass as the feral beast stopped just long enough to sprint off to the side as you were about to lay a finger on its mangy coat. Who was tiring who? The human? Or the animal inside?

The day grew too late for play. Something which I’ve done most of my life. And I may have paid the ultimate price for never taking it seriously enough.

Somewhere overhead the zoom of a jumbo jet droned out all the noises. Too tired to go on, I retired onto a long concrete curb and lit new cigarettes whenever they died out.

I remained there smoking. Dead in my tracks.

I faced a whole new perspective from the other side of the street. With my back to the mountains which had towered over my entire life.

The skulking beast panted with exhaustion before collapsing in a heap at my side. A pent-up wretch could only run itself ragged so long.

Slowly, it dropped its ghastly head between two massive front paws. Its crocodile eyes snapped shut. Loud, raspy snores creaked into the darkening void. Remarkably brazen in their attempt to fill it.

I pulled out my cigarettes. Tapped one of the filters out of the pack and pulled it out with my mouth. It wasn’t until after the first couple drags that I stopped to consider the tiny pink lighter in my possession.

Sophia—I nearly forgot about this chance encounter altogether and this little sparking mechanism was what I needed to break up my gloominess with a brilliant flash. Forget practice. Forget Coach and his cutting feedback. And forget Drake and his drooling minions. I had something which I haven’t had for a while. A chance at something new.

With nothing better to say than some lame apology for stealing her lighter, I hoped for the best after the message sent.

My shoulders grew tense. I couldn’t relax. But before I could finish my cigarette, I received her response.

thief! lol jk what u doin tonite?

Not just friendly conversation—but an open invitation! Amazing how it was the little things in life which often altered one’s destiny. Like leaving my lighter behind on the slopes…

I looked back. The reddish alpenglow on the summit of the eastern mountains contrasted sharply with the pointed shadows cast from those in the west. It was in the throes of that moment I realized I’d have to take my shot. While the pathetic animal lay resting in its snow bed. Completely still except for its deep, laborious breath.

I broke away from the hapless creature altogether.

Overwhelmed by a pure mixture of horror and disgust. I could no longer bear to harbor such a grave responsibility any longer.

I hustled against the blustery wind. Returning home purged of the usual woes that once gnawed my insides raw with sharpened teeth. I dragged down the slushy concrete back to my humble abode which vented dark swirls from the rooftop. A smile on my face.

But before I could rejoice too much the floodgates of worry began to crack open.

What was I to say? Suppose I did succeed in hosting Sophia a couple hours, my current state of affairs was in shambles. It would require an altered state of mind to even entertain the idea of inviting a girl over to my place. That, and ample party favors.

Nothing could make matters worse. Then Lefty called.

I let it ring through to voicemail. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again. The next call was just as expected.

“Hey Niko.”

The deep grunt answering me from the other end indicated he was on the line.

“Your dad decided to let you out of your cage today?”

“I got in an argument with my brother and he told me to leave. You home? I’m fixing to drink some cold ones this fine frigid eve.”

“Just walked in the door.”

“Be right over.” A man of few words, nothing more needed to be said.

There went my hopes for something special tonight; squandered.

And like clockwork, the nightly visitors began reaching out to pick up a sack. By the time Lefty and Billy got there I was a nervous wreck attempting to tidy things up. Even they took note. But promptly dismissed the matter in favor of something about sports.

I wrenched open the freezer door to work out the knot between my shoulders. The sub-zero liquor cabinet yielded a half-empty ice tray, half a bag of frozen vegetables, and five unfinished whiskey bottles of variegating brands, the glass rimed over, which I combined into the decanter from an old crystal set on the kitchen table.

One whiff of the questionable elixir made my stomach turn. The voice box instantly seized by the liquor’s mixed coolness when it touched my throat. Burning taste buds in a wildfire which spread from tongue to esophagus. Spilling down to form a molten metal casting of my chest cavity.

It was nice to take hits I actually enjoyed for a change. Especially after a long day of being pummeled on the slopes. I drank with the ascetic devotion of a mystic searching for divine enlightenment. None came. Which only reassured my current position.

I only needed to reach for the bong to have something with regards to nothing. No performance needed for this fleeting sensation.

Some residual anxiety and dread continued to nibble away. But no more than usual. All it took were more spliff bowls and sharing in some much-needed laughter to set things straight.

Lefty entered the kitchen and returned with a large wine glass full of brown liquor.

“I made myself a cocktail too,” said Lefty. “Hope you don’t mind.”

The ice cubes in his drink rattled like a diamondback as Lefty sat back, bringing the concoction to his lips. Even for a seasoned drinker of harsh whiskeys this foul potion offended the palate, and to stomach it brought about an unmistakable pained expression.

“What is this? I know I’ve had it before but can’t put my tongue on it.” He gave it a good long swish, followed by another gulp.

“I’m surprised you can’t remember…” I choked on my words in attempt to conceal my laughter. “5 Seal bourbon, or was it rye? Some selected blend or other that’s advertised as a special run.”

“Oh yes, good ol’ 5 Seals. Of course I’ve heard of it. And what a lovely burning sensation it puts in the stomach too.”

“A good bottle rarely eludes any afficionado worth their salt,” I said, taking great pains to sip it with a straight face. My chuckles got instantly checked by gut wrenching pain as my little conceit nearly revealed itself.

I had to turn aside to hide my grimace while snatching at the only means available to subdue this infernal pain. If I ended up puking after my bong hit then so be it. It’s not like I had practice in the morning or any other place to be.

Every so often I stole away from the group to continue drafting my response to Sophia.

Having been so long since someone showed any interest, I was hesitant in trying to connect. And if skepticism was a discipline, I’d already be an Olympic athlete. Being reclusive was my only prerogative. But this recent breakthrough simply couldn’t be ignored.

The irony of being an unapologetic abuser of every substance available was that it fed into the One Love stoner stereotype I hated. But the fact of the matter was that I woke to get stoned. Ate. Got stoned. Dressed. Got stoned. Nights and weekends were spent pairing highs with hits from the bottle for an added buzz. I feared what Sophia’s reaction might be to this lifestyle of abject disregard towards anything which resembled a healthy lifestyle.

And beyond her pending approval of my healthy appetite for drugs, alcohol, and whatever else afforded a cheap sensation, I was faced with the most glaring oversight of all—accounting for those who didn’t hold themselves accountable whatsoever. Somehow this one-bedroom arrangement didn’t serve me alone. It was offered freely to a collective group with little to no restraint. Take Lefty, for example. Like any friend with no filter everything with him needed to be taken with a grain of salt. If not the whole shaker. Nothing felt more vulnerable than introducing someone to your friends. At least on dates there’s a level of remove from all that’s personally damning or too close to home. Even if you happen to survive a few of them, dreadful as they were, if uncouth behavior or the rabid consumption of drugs and alcohol hadn’t sent them running out the door, such visits quickly turned stale. And to bring anyone home and meet this band of misfits was saying a lot. But this was my house. To live and do as I please—or why else was I paying the rent?

So I figured what the hell and invited Sophia over.

She asked me for the address and when to drop by. All I had to do now was break the news to the guys.

“So everybody knows,” I said, “I’m inviting someone over for the night.”

“Yeah, OK, sounds good,” the room replied without one puffy red eye glancing my direction.

“She hasn’t been here before so I expect you all to be on your best behavior.”

“Wait,” Lefty began with a start. “What do you mean ‘she’?”

“I mean she’s a girl.”

“Atta boy!” Billy thundered, clapping his hand on my shoulder.

In one respect, the announcement successfully motivated some stoney campers to stir and collect their belongings. Only one party remained wholly unconvinced.

“Who is coming over, exactly?”

“Her name’s Sophia. But don’t worry, Lefty, you don’t know her.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Do you like her?”

“We just met.”

“You must if you’re bringing her home.”

I had no response. But he wasn’t done yet.

“Can we even smoke bowls?”

“That remains to be seen. Who knows how she’d react to such brazen displays of debauchery?”

“For all that I do around here I reserve the right to smoke when I want, and now you’re telling me to behave?”

“Got a problem? Leave. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve asked you to leave my place of residence.”

“God damnit.” He folded his arms at last. Knowing full well there was nowhere else from him to go. “When she coming over?”

“Anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour so load your last bowls now. Then you can help me clean.”

“No thanks. I’ll leave when she gets here.” He grabbed for the bong.

I sipped at my tasteless swill when a new thought began to burn worse than my screaming esophagus—what about the house while I was gone? Without wishing this treacherous trash heap onto even my worst enemy, I had to look no further than those at hand.

“There’s something else to discuss. I’ll be gone for a couple days,” I started, slightly distracted, cutting back into their conversation. “A week to be exact, and I’ll need the house watched over, you know, for safekeeping. Since you’re here every day we’re practically roommates already.”

“Yes.”

“Yes? I haven’t asked anything yet.”

“We’ll watch it for you!” Billy cried before excitedly planning out the week without one consideration as to where I’d be.

Only Lefty was too astute for such vague subtleties.

“Wait—where you going?” He asked.

“Park City.”

“For the week? That’s a long time.” Billy mulled it over. “I’ll lend you my flask. It’s sure to get you out of trouble in a pinch.”

“That’s unnecessary but much appreciated,” I accepted his kind gesture. Sticking it into my back pocket.

“What’s the occasion?”

Lefty just couldn’t leave it alone. I hadn’t planned to broach this subject with them. Not before tonight. But already being placed on the spot I downed the rest of my drink before obliquely mentioning that it was for ski camp. It didn’t go unnoticed.

They looked back stunned before chastising me over how long it took to tell them.

“Alpine ski racing?” Lefty laughed. “So that’s what you’ve been up to these days.”

To which, Billy added: “As in training to race other skiers?”

“That’s the idea,” I said.

“We didn’t even know you skied! I’m sure that’s costing you sorely.”

“You have no idea.”

Like that, my secret was out. That shameful dirty little thing I couldn’t bear to expose to the public was presented for all to see.

I never told my friends about it because I never expected them to understand. Let alone support it. It seemed to be the forces of nature molded you into the person you were, and none of my life experiences thus far resembled that of a competing athlete.

“Does that also mean you need help with the business?” Lefty asked, practically licking his lips.

This had been the arrangement in the past. But I wanted to take more than the week off from business as usual. I wanted to terminate it for good.

“I might sell out my stash and get out of the game.”

Lefty nearly choked on his bong hit. I attempted to explain myself: “I don’t want to sell pot my entire life.”

“Why say such a terrible thing?”

“It’s a recession for one.”

“Which is when the black market thrives!”

“Let’s be honest, there’s far more toil for what it reaps. Especially when not a single waking day was your own. I’m small scale in the grand scheme.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. We’ve always been there to help you stay afloat.”

“That’s the problem. Add the daily intrusions plus the countless hours wasted—I can’t do it anymore.”

Slowly, the horror sunk in. “But who will I buy from?”

“Thorny. Start buying in bulk. Maybe you can play the drug dealer for once.”

“Spencer Thornton? He never answers my calls.”

“For having all the connections, your rapport seems to be lacking.”

“I’ve got a couple contacts for whenever you don’t come through, believe me. Except I prefer to support my friends. It’s a privilege that I buy exclusively from you.”

“The same a parasite gives their host, I imagine. Only I could do without daily dimes on the front. You must have expected this day to come.”

“On the contrary. I’ve always seen myself as a fully functioning addict dropping by for a bag until early retirement. Besides, no one’s got a problem with you benefitting on the side.”

“Excepting federal law. But I digress. Sorry I’ve got plans of my own that don’t cater to your design.”

He studied me over. Then to my surprise, he chuckled, saying, “I don’t know why I worry when this is like the last ten times you’ve threatened to go straight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that we’ve heard it all before.”

“Where’s Niko?” I changed the subject. “I talked to him hours ago. Also, it’s time to put the bong away and help me clean up.”

No longer taking any calls, the last to pick up eventually came and went. The house cleared. Leaving my thoughts obscured by clouds of smoke as I remarked how easily the two who remained made themselves into permanent fixtures. Like furniture. Except recliners don’t hold arguments with the ottoman.

All was going according to plan. But still no knock upon the door.

After the first hour had passed, I nearly broke and busted out the bong. I sensed the smug gleam in Lefty’s eye glowing brighter. But I refused to give him the satisfaction by staring straight ahead.

Nearly two hours after her last message and I was practically on Lefty’s side. He knew it too and was starting to joke again when a sudden tapping caused the three of us to bolt upright. The sound of a metal ring on a glass pane.

The light step on the threshold and sound of talking voices instantly gave me rise. Fearing the worst, I took a cautious approach to opening up when I got met with a welcome change of spirits.

“We made it!” The girls burst with laughter, derailing from whatever conversation they were having to regain control of their giggling.

Sophia entered first followed by her friend who was slightly shorter with a white ribbon in her long, plaited hair. Her distinctive smile radiating the same brightness as her bubbly personality.

I shot a sidelong glance around the room. Billy shrugged his shoulders.

“Sorry. We do that sometimes. And sorry for being so late­—we were at a friend’s house and lost track of time.”

“It’s not like I was sleeping soon,” I said.

“It’s not that late!” Sophia’s eyes flashed with the same dark glint as the jet beads on her necklace. “Also, I should’ve mentioned I wasn’t alone. This is my second half/partner in crime and absolute best friend in the whole entire world. We don’t do anything without each other.”

“Hi! I’m Chase.” She introduced herself with a wave and a smile. “Thanks for having us over.”

More giggling.

I rubbed my eyes to see more clearly. Despite hardly drinking I seemingly beheld the same image as if in double-vision. Both of them were practically the same height and wore knitted sweaters.

“The more the merrier.” I said while looking for somewhere to put their coats. “Allow me to introduce you around: the degenerate with an unlit ciggy in his mouth is Billy.”

“Hi Billy.” They said in unison. Speaking together was another one of those quirks of theirs I was to shortly learn about.

He tipped the brim of his fitted cap.

“Evening, dolls.”

“And this degenerate heathen is Lefty.”

Lefty yawned with disinterest. Still seated on the couch.

“Can I interest you girls in a drink?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, we come bearing gifts.” Sophia said with a pearly smile. Her purse unclasped to conjure up a liter-sized bottle of cotton candy-flavored vodka, mostly finished. “Do you have any mixer?”

“I’ll have to check. Two drinks coming right up.”

“Better make that three if there’s enough,” Billy said. “Otherwise, I’ll settle for a Manhattan?”

“Ooh sounds fancy.” The girls said. “What’s that?”

“A whiskey martini,” I said. “Want one?”

“It has a lot of alcohol, right?”

“That’s basically all it will be.”

“I’ll take one!”

“You got it. Chase?”

“Ditto.”

“Three Manhattans it is,” Sophia laughed with glee. “Unless Lefty wants one too.”

Lefty merely scoffed in disgust to the side.

My fears subsided as they took their seats side-by-side on the two-cushion couch. There was no cause for worry—so far.

With no time to chill glasses I filled plastic cups with ice to pour out the cocktails. I nearly started to relax when the girls became mobile again. And by the time I realized they were headed to the bathroom it was already too late.

No more than five minutes and they visited the worst room imaginable.

I waited with bated breath.

Listening fearfully for their inevitable return until the door opened again and they both popped out. I expected the worst when Chase took me by surprise.

“First off, we think your home is amazing!”

“We really love what you’ve done with the place.” Sophia added: “It’s just so, quaint.”

“And cozy.”

“It certainly has charm.” I handed everyone except Lefty their drinks.

Then Sophia dropped a bombshell.

“How about the rest?”

“I’m sorry.” I about spit out my drink.

“Of the house, silly.”

“You want to be shown more?”

“We’ll take the grand tour, please.”

Lefty couldn’t roll his eyes further back at such demands. Let alone my eagerness to perform backflips for them. However, no amount of cleaning could fully remove the hardened grime which coated every surface.

Even after all of my planning and preparation I didn’t think about every room. The kitchen floor remained sticky. Its sink over-flowing in dishes. The bathroom smelled dank and moldy. No need mentioning my trash heap of a bedroom. These subpar conditions functioned as the basic amenities for one to be isolated in quarantine. Any unforeseen oversights wouldn’t be just typical, but expected.

I mean, what was more intrusive than granting full access to your living space? If left unsatisfied, they’d only want to invade and inspect the deepest darkest recesses and corners.

I responded at last with a nervous chuckle. Like laughing in wait for a hallucinogen to rear its ugly head, and put on my best smile despite the awkward fit.

“Shall we begin? Here through the hallway and past the bathroom we’re taken to the disaster zone I call my bedroom. Complete with messy bedsheets and a box mattress.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad. You should see Chase’s room.”

“Umm excuse me.”

They burst into a fit of laughter.

Awkwardly, I continued on: “Don’t mind the clothes crawling back out the hamper upon your exit, they’ll be washed someday­… out through the adjacent door and passing through the living room we find ourselves back in the kitchen, and yes, that’s the swamp cooler in the window. You’ll also find the average appliances here like the microwave, coffee pot, and Billy at the bottle as you pass. A familiar spot for him.”

“Because it makes me easy to find.”

“Hey Billy!”

“Hello again, darlings.”

“Down the stairway to the landing we have the backdoor to my backyard,” I stepped into the white-squared enclosure so they could better view the back parking lot of an auto insurance office with the apartments behind it.

“What an adorable yard.”

“So tiny and cute­. It’s perfect!”

“Not much to look at, really,” I said. “Tenants of the apartment don’t take kindly to us playing soccer at midnight, and understandably so. Sometimes I’ll grill out here too.”

“Soph, how fun does that sound?”

“So fun. Like for hamburgers.”

“And for hot dogs! We’d love that.”

“­Erm—moving on down we come to our final stop. Every castle has its dungeon.”

I led them down another flight of stairs to an unfinished shelf basement filled with the storage of needless clutter which also doubled as the laundry room.

“And yes, that’s a solid crack running through the foundation there.”

“Don’t you get lonely living by yourself?”

“It can get pretty cramped for a one-bedroom.”

“You’re too funny. Chase and I are all about the vibes, you should know.”

“Literally.”

“And?”

“This house is too charming. We love it!”

Although hesitant to add any grand sweeping statements, I felt comforted nonetheless to overhear their perceived enthusiasm regarding there being “lots of opportunity” here.

Back upstairs. Lefty still pretended not to notice the new company. After checking his phone, he yawned and asked, “anyone know what Niko’s up to?”

The door gave way to an icy blast. Flung wide as if kicked open. In its frame there stood a dark figure.

“Speak of the devil!” Lefty shouted over the whistling wind as I jumped to shut the door behind our untimely visitor.

“How you living, Niko?”

“Swell.”

He came dressed in his usual articles of gloom with dark strands of hair hanging slick against his face. His face wound up in a maniacal smile that was as preposterous as the Old English font spelling out REBEL on his all-black hoodie.

“Doesn’t seem like it.” Billy remarked upon the latecomer’s face which got twisted as if sprung from a broken cog.

“Where you been?” Lefty persisted.

“Had my first indoor soccer match tonight. We won. 8-nil.”

“Congratulations. Ladies, I’d like you to meet the missing link,” I tried segueing back to Sophia and Chase. But showing up in rare form Niko could’ve cared less or, at least, seemed to take little notice.

He bantered on.

“Good to meet you and whatnot, but first things first I gotsa littl’ present for us…” He fumbled within his backpack, nearly dropping it more than once, to withdraw a square bottle which he held up like Excalibur to the light.

Its liquid was deceptively clear. Like an arctic spring. And as unassuming as the missing label was, the contents were of an unknown proof.

“Ooh what’s that?” The girls moved in for a closer look.

“That right there’s a game changer!”

“It’s only moonshine, Lefty,” I attempted to explain. But as with any truth, he was quick to contort it fast.

“No. It’s Mediterranean goat milk. Tseek-oo-dia.”

“Don’t say it like a Mormon.” Niko cleared his chest with a loud belch. “But I had to dip into the ol’ family reserve for this.”

Lefty caught a whiff from the uncapped bottle.

“It’s nearly half-finished­—you were driving with this?”

Niko’s skeletal face cracked up into a grin that screwed up his deranged features even more.

“Is that what your dad makes?” Billy asked.

Niko nodded. “But it’s illegal so we don’t talk about that.”

“For Billy, drinking and thinking never go hand in hand.”

“Shut up, Lefty.”

“Care if we have a taste?” I said.

“I’d care more if you didn’t.” Niko said, pulling on the bottle again before thrusting it into my hands. Frosted over, the bottle was cold enough to be chiseled from out of a glacier. The result of spending the day chilling in the trunk of his car.

I poured out shots for everyone.

“How strong is it?”

“Who knows? 150-proof maybe,” he added with a lazy shrug. “Like snowflakes, no two bottles are the same. But it gets you stone-cold drunk 100% of the time. Don’t believe me? Here’s the proof.”

“Ready?” I asked the girls, who remained seated. Watching over the proceedings in wide-eyed wonder.

“Ready as we’ll ever be.”

Sophia, Chase, and Billy lifted their shots.

I raised mine to be greeted by the burn of singed nose hairs. Not daring to know what possessed him to bring over this vile poison, I shut up tight and braced for impact.

“Aspro pato.” Niko said cheers in Greek.

Our shot glasses clinked.

As if distilled from the tears of a phoenix, or the grapes of Dionysus himself, the intensely fragrant and fiery spirit sparked my taste buds before dousing my innards with gasoline, sending signals of agony to my screaming brain. My throat closed in on itself but I forced it down nonetheless.

“Did you siphon this from a diesel tank?” Billy gasped, searching around for something to chase the burning sensation with. But nothing mitigated the firewater’s wrath.

Everyone followed suit to find chaser. Except for Niko who calmly breathed out after another long pull off the bottle.

“Might be the best batch yet.”

And here I was worried about Lefty’s potential actions. What a tragedy being pushed to drink alcohol to the point of numbness by a family who provided it. I’ve learned long ago that following the advice of your elders could wind up being more detrimental than good to one’s well-being. No one was better at exploiting your weaknesses for personal gain than those who raised you.

Chase answered Niko with a loud belch.

“Excuse me,” she said. Her ears reddened.

“Oh my, and who’s this lovely lady?” Niko reacted to this interruption as if noticing the girls for the first time.

“Are you brothers?” Chase asked us flat out.

Niko rocked on his feet as Chase centered into his drunken view, dumbfounded by her. But not for long.

“You could say half-brothers. But only from the waist up.” It was the shine all right. Niko wouldn’t dare to talk to a girl otherwise. But with liquid courage flowing freely through his veins he was in his element where every one of his jokes landed.

“Now that you’ve formally met Niko,” I began. “I think what he’s trying to say is we’ve heard that before.”

Sophia was intrigued.

“Twins like us!”

“So, who’s the good and who’s the bad one?” Chase asked the more serious question.

“That’s for you to decide.” A deviant smile spread across Niko’s face.

Having all convened in front of the TV, our talk progressed as we took rounds of shots. Everyone obliged except Niko who preferred pulls straight from the bottle.

All I had to do now was ensure glasses were filled and let the shine do the rest.

Every so often Sophia let out a quirky laugh that only added to her easygoing appeal. I also noticed, while she elaborated on more personal tidbits, that she consumed a lot of alcohol, even by our skewed standards, and tore through drinks fast enough to outpace even myself.

Lefty strolled back. Talking nonchalantly as if mid-conversation with God knows who and a newly cleaned bong dripping in his hands.

I froze with horror as it unfolded. Before he could load a hit, I lit into him through grit teeth.

“The one thing I asked you not to do.”

“Shit, sorry, I completely forgot, honest.”

“What’s going on here?” Sophia said, starting to connect the dots.

I came clean with an excuse for the bong which caused her and Chase to laugh even harder.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You smoke too?” I felt exasperated. “I never know when I should say so. One doesn’t casually bring up their drug use. Recreational or not.”

“Not to mention a drug dealer.” Lefty pitched in. Before I could react, they set on me again.

“Is it true?”

“I can help out friends in need. Yes.” I ended. My cheeks flushed.

“We know who we’re buying from now.” They laughed again.

I almost waltzed over to plant a kiss on Lefty’s forehead. But I reached for my smoking paraphernalia instead. Which so happened to be located on the other side of Sophia.

Then the unthinkable happened.

“Can we maybe partake?” She asked.

“I’ll load you up first. Thanks for cleaning the bong.” I snatched the bong from Lefty who sank dumbfounded into his seat. “And have as many as you’d like.”

I laid it on a little thick knowing this common link made it worthwhile. But first I had to give the true disclaimer: “I should also mention that we load snappers here. We also spliff our bowls—but I could load you straight green if you’d like? I only need to grind up another nug.”

“Spliff bowls?” They asked, intrigued.

“Tico. Mokey. Mole bowls. Doo doo bowls. Poppers. Whatever you want to call them.” Lefty said, not even bothering to conceal his agitation.

“Does it matter?” I shot Lefty a dirty look.

He merely shrugged.

“Here’s what I’m working with if you need a visual aid,” I showed them my card.

“That’s not even close to enough spliff,” said Billy, showing them his own. “What ratio are you working with?”

“Fifty-fifty. All you need is a bit to take the edge off, beyond that is filler.”

“Pssh you all spliff like pussies,” Lefty butt in next. “I take plain tobacco rips all the time.”

He proceeded to demonstrate it by loading the bowl purely with tobacco from his cigarette. He began to sweat and violently cough as soon as the vile yellow smoke reached his lungs.

Sophia and Chase merely looked at one another. Their eyes wide open.

“What do you think?” One asked the other.

“I think I want my own snap.” The other one answered.

“Me too.”

“And spliffed.” They both said at the same time.

One look at each other and they broke into hysterics again.

“Sorry, this always happens with us.”

I mused over how laughable my fears once were while grinding up a large enough nug for all of our bowls. I thought I’d be driving these girls off and they partied like we did.

I could only admire how well this was going. Lefty and Billy spouted their typical one-liners while Niko spilled over with personal anecdotes, oftentimes repeating them. I even got a couple words in edgewise while cracking the occasional joke to tie off another’s thought.

Another couple rounds of shots and the girls nestled deeper into our personal lives. “So tell us how you know each other?”

“We grew up together. Going back to Sunday school. Except for Billy. He’s a remnant from the Delta house.” Lefty said, leaning over for the bong again. Both girls looked at me as if to validate the claim.

“More or less. We’re from the Greek community. But I didn’t know who Lefty was until my senior year.”

“Greek community? As in the Row at the university?”

Lefty scoffed. “We’re talking about the old country.”

“Niko too?” Chase asked, gazing up at him with her lips slightly parted.

“Of course! You should see my Greek dancing.” Niko said.

“Greek dancing?” Sophia and Chase asked at the same time.

My cheeks flushed crimson. “There’s an annual festival at our church where we put on costumes and dance like clapping monkeys. But not anymore.”

“Speak for yourself,” Niko turned up his chin.

“We love it! That’s so awesome.”

“How about you?” I said, twisting the questioning back onto them. “Have you been friends for a while?”

“Basically. We go way back.”

“Yup. We’ve been friends for like, forever.”

“At least since junior high.”

“Back when Sophia was a blonde!”

“Oh shush, they don’t need to know that.”

I attempted to wrap my head around what she was saying. “That’s not your real color?”

“Nope. If you must pry.”

“And you’ve always dyed it? Sounds like too much trouble.”

“You saying some trouble isn’t worth the hassle?”

“Oh no,” I backtracked. “Only that I’m sure you’re just as fine natural.”

“Yuck. I hate it. Everyone always seems to treat you differently being blonde. I would permanently change it if I could.”

It was hard to fathom her being hung up on physical appearances. But unsurprising given that society’s influence reinforced many unhealthy views of perfection.

“So, Niko,” Chase inquired with two big doe eyes, “You said you’re a dancer?”

“Obviously. It’s not something I brag about. But I’ve been on the cover of magazines.”

“One issue. Different copies.” I said.

“Wanna show us something?” Chase cooed. Egging him on.

“Show you something, huh?” He looked around the room before disappearing into the kitchen.

He returned holding an empty wine glass. Its skinny stem propped between his sausage-link fingers. He took a final swig then poured the bottle’s last drops into the glass.

“How ‘bout I do a trick on this bottle?”

“Please!”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s supposed to be reserved for performances…”

“It would mean so much to me.” Chase batted her eyelashes for good measure.

“OK. If you insist.” He stumbled forward and placed the empty bottle upright on the ground, “But I’ll need a steady hand.”

Lefty jumped right to his aid.

“Not you.”

I stood up and grabbed a dishrag for him to hold for support. Sophia was ecstatic.

“The real trick is to put all your weight square on the balls of your feet.” He placed one foot on the bottle and attempted to stand but it shot out from under him.

“This happens time to time, but believe me, never on the dance stage with a proper audience.”

“Is that meant to be an insult?” The girls goaded him on.

“I was talking more about my support.” He glared my direction.

“Thanks,” I said. Ready for him to finish his routine already.

“Let’s try this again. Right-o.”

Niko kicked the bottle over again.

“Mind holding me a little tighter? I can’t balance all on my own.” After the third failed attempt he picked up the fallen bottle and stormed onto the kitchen floor. “The damn carpet is mucking up my routine. But place it on a harder surface and bingo!”

He stuck out his leg and with a steel focus lowered his torso to meet his outstretched foot, his back straight, he brushed the tips of his toes using his free hand.

“OK. There it is, you can hop off,” I said but Niko tucked beneath his arm to turn a full circle.

The adoring crowd cheered him on as he completed a pass, rose back up and leaped off with a slap of his back foot and a backwards spin to complete the act.

Thinking that I was off the hook I attempted to return to my seat beside Sophia when Niko downed the remaining moonshine in the wine glass.

“Next, the wine glass.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

“Take my hand, malaka.”

With little choice to be had I offered my support once again.

The wine glass trembled under his immense weight as he stood upon it. Slowly, he began to drop to his toes.

Midway he began to uncontrollably shake.

“Ah shit,” He started to pull on my hand.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“I’m getting a leg cramp.”

“Stop shaking. I won’t be able to hold you.”

“OK, I’m coming up.”

But before he could make it up all the way the wine glass slipped and shattered under him. He dropped, splayed out on his back atop the broken glass shards.

Niko screamed in agony. His right arm streaming with blood.

“You poor thing,” Chase ran up to him after grabbing the roll of paper towels from the kitchen counter. “Hold this there and apply pressure. It’s a good bleeder.”

“That’s nothing. You should see me dance on top of a chair.”

“I’m stepping out for a cigarette.” I said, unable to bear more.

“Me too.” Lefty replied.

“Care if I join?” Asked Sophia.

“Not at all.”

“Never mind.” Lefty sank back down.

“Is it OK I step outside?” Sophia asked her friend. “Yah!” Chase answered, tending to the open wound on Niko’s arm by applying pressure with a blood-soaked rag as he explained how the recessed filters of his Parliaments were revolutionary for fishermen because they didn’t get soggy.

“I was hoping we could share one,” Sophia’s gaze locked with mine. “Too bad you’re leaving Sunday morning. Have fun and please try to be safe.”

“Does that mean we’re doing something when I get back?” I asked.

“I was trying to find tickets for the university football game, but no dice,” her bright eyes fixed on mine. “Maybe we can watch it together?”

“We can do it at my house. Watch the game, that is,” I said, knowing I could only feign interest in a sporting match for so long.

“You mean it?”

“Beats cheering out in the cold.”

Her eyes sparkled in the dark night.

“It’s a date,” she’s said, wrapping her arms around me.

Between the good company and liberal flow of alcohol, the worse of my fears had all but dissipated by the time we reentered the house.

We carried on with our drunken revelry. The flowing conversation smoothed over the most belligerent of Lefty’s eyebrow raising comments. And when the girls had to leave, I loaded them each a parting bowl before they pulled us close for goodbye hugs. Niko was left ruddy-cheeked and swooning as the door shut and they drove off together. His mouth pursed as if parched.

Moonlight mingled warmly with the unforgiving frost. The black streets abandoned. Iced over in uncanny silence. Only the scent of their sweet-smelling perfume stayed behind.

Of all my failed relationships, one occasionally came along to fill in the blanks. But as much as I enjoyed her visit, I couldn’t fully relax until it had ended.

Next morning came ushered upon the footfall of stampeding hooves. A painful reminder of last night’s drinking.

That and I couldn’t get Sophia off my mind. Our plans for the following weekend were too far away which made me curse the timing even more. After a furious internal debate, I decided not to push my chances for fear of pushing her away by accident. How many times had that happened before?

This didn’t stop her from texting me later that day so I invited her back over and was soon smoking her and Chase out for the night. Then the following night after that. And so on.

Ski camp remained forever away and my whims were cast aside like tumbling dice.

My plan was to get a nice weeklong break from smoking weed to disrupt my daily dependency on it. Then come back and get a job. Something reputable to pay the bills while I continued down this path of no return. That, and I needed a break from sitting around packing bowl after bowl. Besides, the true silver lining would be ending in the positive after having paid the $1,900 I still owed Coach Price.

The house became flooded with nearly my entire contact list the night before leaving to Park City. Including Sophia and Chase. All of them babbled from one topic to the next in mind-numbing proportions. This was how I planned to sponsor the trip. At three-hundred dollars an ounce.

By the end my supply had been reduced to a single lumpy nug.

The howling wind picked up all night. Too wired to sleep, too exhausted to stay awake, my dreams plagued by every conceivable outcome with not one of them being in my advantage.

A faint scratching at the door could be heard throughout.

5 AM—I swung my legs out the warm bed into unforgiving cold. It was the morning of the trip and I still needed to finish getting ready for it.

Foggy footsteps led me onto the cold linoleum tile towards the kitchen where I switched on the lights, waterlogged, groggy, and non-committal to fully waking. I searched for the biggest glass available; nearly falling asleep again as I stood there until the water brimmed over.

Terrible late-night decisions dictated there’d only be enough time to switch out the coffee filter to brew a fresh pot, pack my old black gym bag with the torn zipper, and smoke my remaining stash. The best way to quit was getting too high for comfort. Knowing that reality would hit me full force later on.

I hitched my bag of unforetold encounters onto my shoulders along with the rest of my ski gear. Helmet. Chin guard. Ski goggles and gloves. Two types of ski poles, specialized ones with an aerodynamic bend in the shaft to curve around the body and minimize drag for speed disciplines, as well as straight ones for slalom with pole guards. Arm guards. And my trusty carbon sticks.

All but the street lamps still slept when I left home. We were told to meet at the park and ride no later than a quarter past six. Anyone even a minute late would be left behind. Coach Price’s orders.

Every effort to make up time on the road got thwarted by poorly shoveled roads, road construction, and the wreckage of a near head-on collision. I was more than halfway there when I realized my freshly brewed pot of coffee remained untouched on the kitchen counter.

When I pulled into the ice-covered parking lot there was a line of three buses left running whose high beams cut through the thick exhaust. Coach Price stood beside the other ski instructors from the program as they spoke. Silhouetted in black against the bus which belonged to the Academy’s women’s program.

I parked my car feeling wired and frazzled already. A month in and I still hadn’t adjusted to the routine or stopped pulling these late-night shenanigans.

Out of mind. Out of sorts. These bitter ruminations brought to mind how much I resented never getting to enjoy my coffee.

My head already rang from the earful I was sure to receive as I approached the idling chromium beast. But Coach Price was too distracted to harp on my arrival with mere seconds to spare.

“Glad you could join us,” he said. “We’re a little behind schedule but I can stow your gear if you want to board with everyone else. We’ve still got the open road ahead of us. If only someone could communicate that to your team captain… ah! and there he is now.”

As he spoke a snow-white Subaru WRX with bluish beams swept the lot.

One of the souped-up editions with a ski rack on top and murdered out black rimmed tires, it had practically every feature of a luxury vehicle. Any parent who trusted that much wealth to the reckless handling of their kid was beyond me. As if being needlessly expensive were prerequisite to any good investment.

“Fashionably late, per usual.” Coach Price said. “But imagine if he didn’t show.”

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

“Thar he blows, way to puke and rally!”—the words rang horribly in my ears with the intensity of tinnitus.

Starting in medias res. The surface layer got viewed through a scuzzy coating of pond scum. I waded in and out of this patchy, sludge-like consciousness. Hunched over in a downtown alley somewhere and surrounded by the faint echoes of loud dance music. My right hand propped up against a freezing brick wall as I stared at the half-digested remnants of what looked like oatmeal pizza. The ground swirling beneath my wobbly legs.

As if I were aboard a ship on a turbulent sea. My thoughts adrift until Lefty’s foghorn voice reeled me back to dry land.

“I hope you’ve exorcised those demons, because we’ve gotta go before that bouncer comes back to kick your ass.”

I squinted back in the general direction of his voice. Failing to focus on the lines of his blurred face. The laughter in return meant Billy had also joined the fray against our livers. I wiped my mouth and stuck a cigarette in it. If only Lefty could do the same.

“I honestly can’t believe you tried lighting a cigarette inside the bathroom only to be caught by the same bouncer later on pissing in the smoking section.”

“He about fucked you up,” Billy confirmed.

I was speechless. In utter disbelief having little to no recollection of such allegations. But it didn’t matter now having already been recorded into the public register.

“None of you could speak on my behalf?”

“And say what? The bushes look like urinals?”

“Or that I’m a drunken moron, maybe.”

“The damage was already done,” said Lefty. Adding: “You should have saw him knock the cig out your mouth. That’s the last time we’ll receive table service.”

I failed to see the humor as their guffaws reverberated down the alley. By the grace of a too-forgiving deity my drunken behavior narrowly avoided having to get facial reconstructive surgery.

Never had I fit in at dance clubs. It was hard enough to imagine me standing there awkwardly off to the side. Slurping down drink after drink with nothing better to do. And the more Lefty went on, the less I could stomach.

“We might be 86’d from Club One but that doesn’t mean we can’t go someplace else.”

“There’s Sugar House Bar,” said Billy.

“We’d have to take a taxi. Too bad Port O’ Call closed down.”

“Quit your belly achin’. Niko says he’s at Tony’s Bar.”

“That’s even farther!” Lefty cried. “Everyone is still at Lumpy’s and it’s almost last call.”

They continued to argue. I could only rack my brain as to what backwards steps had led me here to begin with…

Snail-paced snow groomers held me up at the lodge entrance as I arrived for practice this morning. Impeding my urgency of reaching the main lodge where I hoofed it up three flights of stairs, turning right at the gift shop located kitty-corner and passing the sourdough pizza parlor next to the glass display of chocolates and caramel apples until I reached the banquet hall where all the age groups met.

After bracing for impact, the double doors opened to reveal something worse. An empty room.

Back onto the main plaza.

Where it all began.

The reality of being late passed over me like a dark cloud. Rushing to get there now was futile. I knew there’d be some first day hijinks, but by the time I found the team in the weight room they were already doing their exercises. With the exception of that one night at Drunken Moose ages ago, this was my first time seeing them without their ski gear. Standing there and shooting daggers at me.

That was nothing compared to being in the crosshairs of Coach Price. As if feeling the flaming tongues lick up while tied to a burning stake.

Judgment Day had come.

But such apocalyptic visions vanished just as quickly as they came. Coach Price simply returned to his instructions on how to properly deadlift. I hung back awkwardly for him to finish. Letting the others begin their workouts before approaching him. One of them stole a glance over his shoulder. A widespread grin upon his face.

Retaliation would only incite his satisfaction further. I was fresh meat. Soon to be hung up and bled dry.

Coach Price further contracted his brow.

“Isn’t this lovely? I stick my neck out for you and you repay your thanks with tardiness?”

“About that, my alarm never went off this morning. But I figured we could make up time by skipping warm-ups. I could even stay late if you want—” I grasped for a catalog list of excuses to regurgitate.

“Stop. If you had listened to your voicemail, you’d have known not to bother coming at all. No matter. Since you’re here already I’ll tell it to you straight,” he continued on, loud enough for the whole lot to hear. “Presentation is key. The most important things in life are taken at face value. Whether it’s handing in an essay. Or a job resume. To be presentable, one must consider every aspect from its layout to the design. Try approaching a potential investor with a proposal handwritten in crayon and they’re not going to be signing off on it. Likewise, as your instructor, there’s a code of conduct I expect to be upheld. Like showing up on time, ready for the day. I believe I may have been the only person to put trust in you and I expected better considering you don’t have a foot to stand on yet. And if you aren’t bringing your complete devotion for training than don’t bother. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Coach.” I set down my bag on a bench when he stopped me again.

“My position stands. Feel free to pivot and head back home. You’re not needed here today.”

“I-it won’t ever happen again. I swear.”

“Save the promises. I don’t need them. When you do present yourself again, if you’re late then there’s no place for you in the Academy. There won’t be another warning after this.” He stormed away. The team snickered right behind him.

Although warranted, I never expected to be dealt such harsh terms. I contemplated staying around to show Coach Price I cared. Even if that meant watching from the bottom. If only I could be so pathetic.

But here I was fearing punishment when I got the day off. I tried not to relish in the prospects yet. Lest he resorted to more medieval tactics like the pillory and stocks.

I cast a longing glance at the manicured slopes on my way out. Nothing marked the smooth eggshell surface that their skis would crack come mid-afternoon. I stomped in my ski boots. Seeking shelter from the bitter cold as I slipped inside the lodge bar to regain my composure.

Sports memorabilia including signed photographs of winter athletes in glass frames decorated the dimly lit walls. On the counter a stack of dishes lined the counter. Chairs rested on top of tables. Not a person in sight. But a closed bar wasn’t an option for me.

I hopped upon a wobbly stool and drummed my fingers on the bar top before checking behind it for an alcoholic beverage to put me back at ease—all with the full intention of leaving a few dollars behind for what was taken.

I only began snooping around the shelves under the counter, stretched across the bar top with both legs in the air when a voice from behind froze me on the spot.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

I shot upright. Someone now stood in the doorway. Stamping fresh powder off their boots.

I scrambled for a semi-plausible explanation but words betrayed my tongue as she began removing her ski goggles, hat, and bomber jacket while making a beeline towards me. Packaged in the signature baggy style of a snowboarder with jet black hair sticking out from under a bright purple beanie she was clearly part of the local community.

“Does the bar look open to you?” She spoke again in the same cutting tone as before.

I transitioned not so smoothly back onto my wobbly stool. After being caught red-handed I felt the rush of what confronted me next. Shameless embarrassment. My ears turned a dark shade of reddish-purple. Yet, her directness and forward attitude held a special quality about it which compelled even the dumb to speak.

“Could’ve fooled me. The front door wasn’t locked,” I attempted to explain, unable to turn towards my good side before she stopped me.

“And you thought you could help yourself?”

“I’m back on my side now for what it’s worth, and look. I have money too.”

“What is that? A bifold?” She frowned. Her prickly disposition suggested she wanted nothing more to do with me or my wallet. And having been exposed I became petrified as if struck by a bolt of lightning.

She pushed the jet-black bangs out of her face before disappearing into the back. My clear opportunity to leave. Lingering after almost getting caught was never recommended and she could’ve been calling management for all I knew.

Regardless of the outcome I couldn’t budge. My feet held in place by invisible nails to the floor. I caught fleeting glimpses of her passing back and forth through the doorway.

She soon returned. Her gaze never meeting mine as she busied herself under the counter. To my surprise she withdrew two green glass bottles and set them before us, uncapped.

“Who’s to say this wasn’t why I came? Although, I usually aim for a higher percentage,” she said.

“Fair enough,” I said, “if not slightly brutal and unnecessary.”

“You deserve worse for rummaging around where you don’t belong. I can call my boss, if you’d like?”

“What for?”

“There’s trespassing, for starters. Maybe breaking and entering depending on the angle…”

“My only crime is impeccable politeness so far. Besides, I didn’t think you were one for breaking the rules.”

“I’m not twenty-one if that’s any consolation.”

“My fake ID just breathed a sigh of relief. But isn’t it illegal to serve alcoholic beverages underage?”

“What can I say? I’m a good girl with bad intentions,” she said, showing off her bright toothsome smile for the first time. A grin in which every pearly white fit perfectly.

I thought of adding more to that. But refrained from ruining things by speaking aloud.

An uncomfortable lull followed in which only the vent could be heard blowing hot air above our heads.

She grabbed a wet dish rag out of a bucket and began wiping down the counter.

I hit the beer bottle. Swishing the suds around my tongue in search of kindling to reignite our conversation. Such uneasiness had a way of rubbing off onto others, acting as a strong repellant. But she wasn’t repulsed by my peculiar charm. Rather the opposite. Pausing every so often through her task to glance my direction.

I left her alone until I finished my drink, feeling empty again.

“How was the snow up there?”

“Either mashed potatoes or completely iced over. But that’s alright. Skiing all day is one of the many perks of working for the resort,” she cracked two fresh beers. “And you? Isn’t it a little too early to be calling it quits?”

She eyed my skis propped up against the wall in the entryway.

“Not if your coach kicks you off the mountain before you even hit the slopes.”

She shot me an inquisitive look. Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re a ski racer?”

“If that means showing up late to be sent home, then yes. What about you? You get paid to drink and ski all day?”

“Pretty much. That’s why I love working here. Everyone is like family. But we’ll get overrun with tourists soon enough when the resort opens in a few weeks. We’re getting there. Although, it’s rather hard with someone chatting you up all day.”

“I understand. I’ll finish this and be on my way. Before I go—” I got cut off as the door opened behind me. She quickly grabbed the bottles and stashed them under the bar.

“What part of closed don’t you understand?” She lit into me. Ending with a wink to complete the act.

“Is he bothering you?” A man stuck somewhere between his mid-thirties asked in his best imitation of a deep, commanding voice.

The room turned stuffy by his added presence. Standing there with his chest puffed-out, he was the shortest in the room and his glistening bald head begged to break a rack of pool balls beneath the low-hanging lights. Two beady eyes reflected his cold, managerial tone.

Our speechless exchange reaffirmed I wasn’t welcome. Same as before. “Not anymore,” I spun off my spool. Adding: “I’ll have to return later for a drink.”

“Makes no difference to me. Hours of operation are posted on the door,” she said. Her manager stood close to her side. A hand on her shoulder. His concerned look followed me out the door.

Walking with light footfalls to the parking lot I chain-smoked cigarettes while trying to remember what was said. My interactions with girls were usually clumsy and uncomfortable. The conversation strained. But there was an organic nature to this spontaneous encounter. A marvel of pure chance that spun me in circles faster than tumbling down the mountainside. Now I had twice the reason to return Wednesday morning.

I shifted into low gear to save my car brakes on the way down the canyon. Any momentum from overly hoppy beer was lost upon returning to the valley. Causing me to fill up at the gas station at the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon. The day was clear enough to see the Great Salt Lake which was responsible for sending snow into the mountains when cool air passed over it. Brilliant sunlight poked over the eastern ridgeline. A golden shaft which pointed to a small bar next door where I observed a small group of backcountry skiers exiting the swinging door. Well on their merry way to the bus station with either a pair of skis or snowboard hoisted onto their shoulders.

I soon found myself showered in the hot electric glow of neon. Radiating in fizzy gaseous rings onto the slushy cement pavement. The bouncer hardly bothered looking at me as he checked my ID at the entrance. Canyon Inn was an eye sore from the outside and was about as vacant as my headspace within. Normally, I preferred the security of solitude. But such stillness was unnerving. The mirror-backed wall ablaze with neon beer signs. Its shelves lined with bottles filled a space no larger than my living room. A soft pearly haze played the air without a cigarette in sight. The charm of these dismal dives always attracted me. No cover charge, no lines, with easy access to the pisser as I sipped draft beer from a stein glass with a whiskey shot on the side. The five-dollar special. Seated in a row of empty stools. Popping out every now and then to smoke cigarettes while watching the cars coming and going from the canyon with a sidelong eye. Their hoods and roofs covered in a white sheet of snow trailing behind them in a sparkly glitter which could be followed all the way to mountain tops wreathed in grayish-white cloud.

I couldn’t help but feel robbed. We touted ourselves as being glorified apes but somewhere along the way we got stuck on our path and never cared to deviate. Flies in the web. Trapped forever to a doomed system.

When I pulled into the driveway Lefty’s red jeep remained curbside.

He lay there sprawled out, mid-snooze on the couch where I left him. A sharp poke in the ribs caused him to bolt upright. I sidled in beside him and reached for the bong to satiate the taste thirsting upon my lips.

“Where were you?” Lefty asked, blinking as if still in a daze.

“Swept by a flash flood of whiskey,” I answered him.

“But what about your plans?”

I blew a snake-like coil of sickly yellow smoke.

“Turns out I’m free after all.”

“No surprise there.” He rubbed his eyeballs with the palms of his hands. “My shift got traded by the way and I was (yawn) just about to leave.”

“Down for some drinking?” I asked him outright as he grabbed for his car keys.

“It’s barely noon and you reek like alcohol.”

“I don’t recall asking for the time. Wanna get sloshed or not?”

Lefty scratched under his chin.

“Well, yeah, if you put it like that.”

He always broke down in the end.

“Is the liquor store open yet?”

“Goddamn, you’re an asshole. You always get my hopes up for nothing. I thought you had something to offer.”

“Not when you always drink it all. Let’s go out.”

After picking up a fresh pack of cigarettes we hit an Irish pub on State Street before moving onto the usual suspects downtown. All of which pooled from there after the second or third round of AMFs. Adios, Mother Fuckers.

So with Lefty now joining Niko and Billy arm-in-arm as they headed towards the heart of the downtown drinking district, I turned heel instead.

I was no more than halfway down the alley when Lefty called back to me.

“Yo! Lumpy’s is thataway you drunken baboon.”

“I’m taking a taxi home. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Lefty answered by clapping his hands over his head.

“What you say? All I hear is a big, floppy vagina flapping in the wind.”

Such echoes followed me into the following day along with the pounding realization there went another night down the drain. Set to a tone of unmatched excess as I spent the day laying hungover in bed, thoughts drifting. I daydreamed ways of proving my worth to Coach Price and the rest. Especially her whose nameless face disturbed even the deepest sleep. Like the moon which lingers in the morning. Or screeching sirens which lie beneath the water’s surface until awaking wrapped up in a tangled mess of sweat-soaked sheets.

On Wednesday morning my alarm went off at 5AM. Only a couple hours before I fell asleep last night.

Now I was ready to impress the team.

An icy shudder passed over me. Causing my insides to contract. I lamented making the impassioned call which led to this. More so than having to crawl out the comfort of the covers to greet unforgiving cold of a new day.

Quickly I smoked a bowl before the anxiety got the better of me. A short-term palliative that was like sipping water to quell the burning fires in my stomach below.

The coffee pot brewed while I scrambled two eggs and threw them atop burnt toast. I shoveled my breakfast down with a large glass of tap water before grinding up a nug in the waiting open mouth of the steel-toothed grinder.

Half of a smoked cigarette rested precariously on top of a beer can like it was an ashtray. I emptied its contents into my freshly ground weed.

All of my ski gear was already packed in the car from my last attempt going to practice. Leaving no excuse for me other than to embrace the brisk morning cold. The sun yet to peek out over the mountaintops in the east.

Steering with my knees to drive the car I used the eye drops in the center console which created slick glaciers in my puffy, bloodshot eyes. Being so early, the roads were clear all the way up the canyon. I yawned between puffs of my cigarette and arrived with ample time. With luck, I’ll have another excuse to visit the lodge bar for another chance encounter.

Cast under early starlight the morning was placid, still. Only I had enough caffeine in my bloodstream to keep me buzzing like a chainsaw.

Today, the banquet hall was pure pandemonium. With the youngest skiers running amok and climbing upon the folding tables and cushioned chairs which were primarily used for wedding receptions and large events. Their shenanigans quieted once the U21 team and Seniors took note of my arrival.

Their ravenous stares suggested I had stepped into their den and were on the verge of pouncing when Drake stepped forward. A venomous gleam in his eye.

But as his mouth parted, so did the doors behind me. Coach Price entered the room with the rest of the ski instructors. One by one, they led each group out of the room starting with the youngest.

“That’s enough, boys. Get together and quiet down,” Coach Price began, pulling me close to him. “You’re familiar with some of us already but the time is nigh to introduce you to your fellow skiers.”

He named everyone off starting from the back, and working towards the front: “That’s Chuck with the rectangular cut, and Blade beside him, next we’ve got Rib, Short, Top, the mop-headed one, followed by Plate, Flank, Hanger, Skirt, Round, and the Shanks, can’t forget about the twins, they’ll see to that… and lastly, our star team captain, Drake. But I believe you two have met.”

“We go way back,” Drake said. His smoldering gray eyes backed by a row of sneers.

“OK. Let’s keep it friendly. Although my duty is to foster a competitive spirit, the team is a single unit that works best together. Like a well-oiled machine. It’s only as good as its parts. But I won’t belabor a point you already know. Everyone here’s deemed an adult in a court of law and will be held accountable as one. My approach is forthright because I hate repeating myself, so I’m only going to say this once. You must work hard and train daily to reach your goal. But it’s going to take much more than that to achieve great heights. Now who’s ready to hit the weights? I’ll hang back to set up our new recruit with his racing gear.” The room broke into a thunderous commotion at Coach Price’s closing words.

Drake tapped at his watch.

“Alright, you rogues,” he said, “knock it off already and schuss those lazy asses to the weight room.”

At his lead, they stampeded my direction with a rallying cry. Toting their skis and ski poles like medieval weapons. Their cold eyes fastened dead ahead. Looking through me.

I remained rooted at the spot. Willing to endure the harshest of treatments when I got the opposite instead. No mean mugs, stares, or a single word spoken. I was being shunned like an outcast. A favorable outcome considering my scant experience in this arena.

Was I in over my head? Yes. Most athletes trained for a lifetime in their respective discipline. My off and on experience over the last two decades was a footnote to what the others had dedicated their lives to. Throwing me in the mix was an insult to the entire sport altogether. It would take something special to prove to them I wasn’t a phony or fake and that I belonged here. Even more so to myself.

All I’ve managed to do thus far was squander every ambition by hopelessly appealing to the flesh. Always out of place, I was committed to breaking the mold after a lifetime of lying idle. Rekindling that old flame which had nearly expired long ago.

What I did now meant nothing to the world since I had no place at the top. I intended to sponge up whatever I could before ultimately outed as the imposter I was. Resulting in my expulsion from the Academy for good.

I bumped into Coach Price and his shiny black binoculars right as I stepped out the banquet hall.

“Rise and shine,” he said before steering me down the opposite direction. His words deliberate and calculated like his every step.

I rubbed my eyes. Not only had his previous ire froze over but I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted with even a modicum of warmth.

“Get some sleep last night?”

Already scatterbrained, my head clove in twain from spliff bowls, I scrutinized how the words rolled off the tongue or caught mid-sentence like shards of glass before they were even said.

“Some, yes,” I said much too slowly to mask my braindead response from feeling forced.

“You have a summer’s worth of conditioning exercises to catch up on. The key here is aerobics training. I’ll ensure you never forget your ABCs. Agility. Balance. Coordination. Any questions regarding the competitive circuit will be addressed later on.”

I shuffled along as if my feet were bound by rustling chains.

“First things first. It’s imperative we get your uniform.”

Accompanied by our echoing footsteps, I struggled to think of things to say that didn’t revert back to missing last practice.

We passed the ski rental shop where the distinct smell of hot wax followed us to a row of metal lockers. The dials on their locks were either chipped or so worn you could hardly read the numbers.

He stopped before a wooden closet door with a dented brass knob.

“What size shirt do you wear?” He asked as if we had already done this before, fussing around with a keyring containing an assortment of keys of many different shapes and sizes before he found the right one.

“Medium.”

With the door held partly ajar, an overflow of supplies nearly came spilling out. Including all things related to ski training from training poles, ski flags, and nylon brush markers to endless canisters of base cleaner and ski wax that practically covered over a forgotten ski press. The back wall filled with old homemade DVDs and VHS tapes which were organized by the location and year of their event.

“A few moments, please…” He said before he dove headfirst into the pile. Allowing me to mull over the situation further. All that passion from before was now broken up like waves lapping upon shores of concrete. The tight hallway collapsed as claustrophobia sunk in. What have I bought into? I can ski for fun anytime I want. Was I in too deep? If not, was it too late to pull out? Plenty of others have paid far worse for so human of a mistake.

Coach Price returned with a handful of scrunched-up fabric.

“Here’s a small. It’s a downhill speed suit which will suffice for now. It’s not padded so there’s more stretch but it can be worn for slalom and giant slalom racing along with protective body armor.”

One look at the atrocious article of clothing made my heart sink into my stomach. Worn out did it no justice. The orange having faded to brown, was discolored with bleach stains in anatomic correlation to human sweat glands.

“As long as I can breathe.” I bit my lip as he set the worn-out material on the ski press which, as if alive, slithered away and spilled off onto the floor.

His entire upper torso disappeared again behind the closet door.

“Oftentimes you won’t have to. Here—” And what could top off this weathered stretched-out elastic rag? A bulky, matte green helmet that was equally battered for its short lifespan. “It doesn’t fit too well, does it? I’ve never seen such a mismatched head on a small frame. But it’s the closest fit we got so let’s hope that skull is thick enough for the meantime—there we go. This suits our purposes until we can take official measurements. Of which, we could have been further along if we did this Monday morning.”

He handed me more training gear; a protective, padded undershirt called a stealth, hand guards, booster straps, shin pads, curved ski poles with cone-shaped baskets to assist while in the tuck position, and an old copy of the official rulebook to skim through at my leisure.

“Thanks. I also brought my program fees.”

“Don’t forget about USSA membership. There’s also your FIS license if you’re qualifying for national teams once you build your point profile. It should be noted that bringing someone on without a lick of formal training is quite unorthodox, if not entirely unheard of. I still don’t know whether that was a regrettable mistake or not but what I do know is that we’ll need to whip you into racing shape as quick as possible. It’ll be a tough road ahead. And I can’t ensure you’ll grasp the rudiments unless you follow my methods to a T. Accuracy and precision are key. Never settling for perfection is our modus operandi. It won’t be easy following this rubric. But you’ll thank me once you see the means through to their end. The efficacy of this approach is demonstrable by a catalogue of esteemed winners and medal holders. If you seek the harder path then welcome aboard. I’d elaborate further but time beckons us to move forward. Over here is your locker. My office is at the far end of the hall. I hold hours every night after practice if you ever care to pay a visit. Welcome to the Academy.”

When he had finished, I felt more bloated than his over-stuffed supply closet.

I found the smelly gym in time to join for a painful regimen of endurance cycling followed by interval training of overhead medicine ball throws, weighted box squats, and band walks. Coach Price’s emphasis on flexibility nearly broke me by lunchtime where I was too busy puking what I never ate that morning to stomach a meal.

I had never done so many squats or deadlifts in my life, followed by more dry land training, tight-rope walking, reaction drills. Even worse was Coach Price’s lecture in which, with all the manner of a professorial air, he took up the entirety of a portable whiteboard writing his notes with a black dry erase marker.

Then, with a little extra time after a conditioning test, we closed practice by racing parallels as a reward for good behavior.

Taking my ski goggles off I became engulfed by blinding white light which reflected brightly off the ground. From the moment I buckled into my ski boots an itch began to grow beneath my foot which I couldn’t ignore. And worsened.

Still wearing my old coat, I hid what was worn beneath. Guarding against the dreaded moment I’d be stripped to my race suit. In which, I appeared more absurd than I could ever imagine. Not only a size too small but this unflattering get-up competed only with a horse jockey. Skin-tight spandex was an understatement. It was the type of garb to show every line, crease, and fold you never knew you had. I never knew how skinny I’d become wasting away all these years. Every contour of rib and shoulder blade accented in a piss yellow polyester blend.

Such a loathsome garment elicited an abrasive reaction. The type one encountered when seeing the barbed wire glued to their teeth after first getting their braces installed. Another mismatch in expectation in which you bore witness to the destruction of all you once held to be beautiful.

We staggered like snow drifts across the catwalk. I hung around the back, unable to drop the growing itch from my mind as our path led away from the plaza, up a steep slope curving right which forced us to shoulder skis and poles to trek in a single file up the mountainside.

Hiking up the hill in snow boots siphoned the oxygen out my chest. That, and the itch at the bottom of my boot persisted.

Step by step, I gasped for breath which couldn’t be found. Stepping carefully in the holes made by those in front with the loud crunch of snow underfoot breaking up their running dialogue.

I felt nauseas already. Paranoid at being the topic of conversation. My stomach turned as I considered what pained me more: being on the group’s terms or my unwillingness to accept them.

Up above were two identical courses with a vertical drop and twenty gates. They trembled without a breeze. Dotting the white slope in blue down the left side, and red down the right. I tried ignoring the itch I couldn’t reach by stepping into my ski bindings with all the grace of a hippopotamus on stilts.

When I skied down the main-piste to the beginner lift, Sugarspoon, over tumbling mounds of moguls to meet Coach Price who was already mid-speech.

“Those in back, crowd in so I can see you. OK, the plan is to race in alternate pairs. I want you to get to know our newest member and encourage one another with constructive feedback. There’s no limit to what we can accomplish together. Alright?”

Everyone answered in unison.

“Wonderful. Now get up the mountain. I’ll see you at the bottom.”

Drake waved me on in an open invitation to rematch. His cohorts spoke in hushed whispers. No doubt conspiring about his shot at redemption. Not that it mattered much. Odds were completely in his favor. I didn’t stand a chance. An upper hand he commanded like any competitor who touted their abilities to secure a position at the helm.

Yet someone happened to be up for the challenge. Someone reckless and willing enough to throw all caution to the wind.

Unable to bear the tension any longer I gave them exactly what they wanted: more fuel for their gripes and jeers. The removal of my coat revealed all in its faded glory, proving too much for Drake who fell backwards onto the snow with hands over his face as if blinded. His laughter crackling like a wood fire; easily pleased, eager to burn.

Being placed on full display bordered on tragically comical. Or was it comically tragic?

“I see you brought your Elan SCXs,” he said, back on his feet. “The preferred ski of a generation dead and gone. Sign him up for the Cannon Club already.”

My confusion passed unheeded amongst the ensuing uproar as the team started to ascend the chairlift in pairs.

Overwhelming dread creeped in. Seizing hold as my thumping heart leapt into my throat.

I sucked in deep. Drawing each shallow breath. Whatever happened now would be the first step of a long, harrowing journey towards honing my craft.

“Need the lift slowed down?” Drake called back when my turn came to board the lift. His tone frigid as the icy slopes which were still to be marked for the day. I flashed back a thumbs-up with my middle finger as an empty chair rounded the cable line.

Sweet solace at long last.

I was by myself for the first time all day which afforded the best companionship one could ask for. A lit cigarette in my mouth as I dangled over snowy treetops which bordered the terrain park’s halfpipe. Maybe a little too trusting that the handlebar wouldn’t let me fall. And as I got lifted from out of the tunnel-like caverns of my mind I forgot all about the hostility and screwed up faces waiting for me on the other end. Up until I reached the platform to get off.

It was a short distance down the bald-faced mountainside to the learning area. Positioned on a near vertical slope it offered a panoramic view of the picturesque resort. To my surprise, none of the others were there and thinking nothing of it was about to light another cigarette when there came a whooping sound as a dozen skiers burst out of the dense limber pine and poured down the sides of the bowl.

The leader skidded to a stop hard enough to kick up loose powder onto me with his downhill ski. I brushed the excess snow off my skis as if not taking notice. Without Coach Price around our dialogue picked up where we last left off. Hostile and venomous.

“What are the chances?” Asked one of Drake’s lackeys after they had formed a small semi-circle around me. The voice undifferentiated from the pack behind their matching ski goggles and helmets which made it impossible to tell any one of them apart. Only Drake stood out. Unsurpassed by his condescending tone and towering height.

“Good question. Let’s see,” he mused, his serpentine mouth coiled and ready to strike. “Someone with no rank versus a known record breaker?”

“Impossible.” A second voice answered him more brusquely. His face a soggy teabag which had seeped for too long.

“Oh, stop being such a wet blanket, Chuck. Let us humor it for the time being.”

My blood began to boil. Nothing sounded better than to crack his nose out of alignment. But I had to take these blows to earn their respect, with likely far worse still to come.

“It’s happened once already,” I blurted out before biting my tongue. But the damage was done.

“Lightning never strikes twice. You’ll learn that shortly.”

“I give it 12-1.” Said one twin. “More like 12,000-1.” Said the other.

“If only those were the stakes last time,” I said. “I’d have put some money on it.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“You underestimate my wealth.”

“Nope. Only your merit.”

His supporters stiffened up behind him. The twins flanking on either side cracked their knuckles loud enough to hear through their padded gloves.

“If up to me you’d never step into a pair of skis again. Let alone race with us. You don’t have Coach up here to save your ass now and you’ll answer to me as your captain for however long you’re around.”

“Too bad that’s not up to you now, is it? But as our team captain, you’re in charge when he’s gone and I am going to respect that.” I replied coolly. I knew I was getting to him by following the rules which would only further work in my favor.

“Let’s make things perfectly clear. I don’t like you and nobody wants you here, so I’m tasked with the privilege of expelling you from the Academy by any and every mean necessary.”

“Can I hear the abridged version, please?”

“We’ll see who’s joking at the finish line,” he ended it there. His voice dripping with malice.

Even before he had slithered off with his train our impending rematch hung over me like a big, black cloud. Finding any peace of mind would be impossible now.

Parallel runs began all too quickly. The thought of performing on the slopes constricted snakelike around my chest whenever the next racing pair readied themselves at the starting line. The reassurance of not being in their place lasting only as long as it took for them to become tiny specs at the bottom.

Those who already finished hung out with Coach Price. Eager for the main event.

I stayed in a constant state of unrest. The race course tallied by impending follies in which I was bound to commit a multitude of mistakes.

I met my racing partner for the first heat without even a glance his direction. The mountainside unfurled before me in a blank sheet marked by poles alternating blue and red. With eyes squinted, I discerned the faint markings and worn grooves of prior runs. My strategy was to blindly follow their paths in the hopes of finishing on my own two feet.

I tried finding my starting stance when I happened to look over at my competitor. “Ready?” Drake blew a kiss at the exact moment we got the signal. Go.

Off to a slow start I bungled my chances already. As if the brake got pulled well before wheels were set into motion. I hoped to pick up speed however I could from there in crude, haphazard turns with an eye on Drake approaching the second gate where I swung too widely heading into the third.

Having lost precious time already I hurried along by crouching low enough to bear-hug my knees with poles tucked tight and digging trench-like holes into my armpits. Skis vibrated and hummed on the snow in haywire zig-zags as I tried not to heed the shiny pink dot on my periphery. The gates hissing by—halfway to the ninth gate I hit a hidden bump in the ridge which caused me to catch an edge and I was hovering off balance over the smooth slope until landing hard on the vertical grade.

The impact sent me careening with my left ski raised and right ski down as I caught the next gate. The twisting force of my contorted torso wrested my ski boots free from their bindings, and I was sent front flipping for twenty yards or so before sliding to a standstill, face down in the snow.

Flattened out, I cursed not having a broken bone or an injury bad enough to require ski patrol to take me away. I uprooted myself and hiked up for my scattered belongings. Snapped back in. And picked up right where I left off. Only to be met with a round of menacing jeers from below.

“Now that’s stalancing. If only he knew the square position.”

“Let alone the general stance.”

“It all makes sense now,” Drake chimed in, wiping his watery eyes with his ski glove. “He must’ve thought this was Nordic Valley.”

Their laughter echoed across the canyon along with Drake’s loud hacking noises until Coach Price stepped in: “Shouldn’t you be back on the lift? Oh, and Drake, we’ll have to chat about leadership qualities.”

Coach Price pulled me aside: “First off kudos for finishing what you started. Even after straddling the gate. The fact is you would’ve been disqualified in a downhill or super-G competition in which skiers may not continue after a fall or stopping. Now for your critique—it should first be mentioned that bluntness has the sharpest point when appropriate, for which this is warranted—we both know that wasn’t a great run. Everyone straddles the gate. But there was no equilibrium. That symmetry between internal and external forces. It’s critical to note a rotating ski unchecked by equal force, say your upper body, throws off your balance. Like whenever you initiate a turn, holding an edge depends on both the angle and pressure applied. Remember: strong, sharp turns and a tucked body on the downhill stretch—and don’t be afraid to really dig in. You either make your mark up there or get written over by the next pass. There’s still a chance for redemption on your second run. Try again.”

Only I didn’t get it on the next run. Drake won the heat and advanced.

Knocked out in the first round. I could only watch as those left in the running dwindled down. Offering a brief period for me to recover. But the loss had reduced me to nonexistence. Order had been reestablished amongst the team. For whom I was nothing less than nobody.

The tone was set from there. All that was supposed to come natural and easily didn’t and my once entrusted instincts frustrated me at every turn. It took several races for me to win a round and even such a feat was bittersweet. Having to face Drake for a subsequent rematch was an inevitability which stuck me like a thorn. A lingering, constant source of dread.

I spent the rest of the day desperate to make up for it already being half past. My failed performance only nourished the seed of doubt I sowed deep inside. No matter how much I pushed these fears aside, they returned like the rotting carcasses of beached whales. I was a hack. A broken instrument, useless as a leaky vessel. With nothing but an unimpressive scorecard to show for it. Doomed by enlightenment. The setting sun marking its grueling pace.

Each run didn’t end without a movement analysis by Coach Price to access the skier’s ability. Which was more or less a brutal critique always delivered with the dashes and strikes of a red felt-tip pen.

This all came with the repetitious drilling of things like “stop lifting your head” or “only lead with your shoulders” or “always act on calculated impulse” to his oft-told phrasing of “make correct moves to channel the flow, not work a-gainst it”, which after hearing his funny pronunciation of against enough times I felt disemboweled of emotion entirely.

It was jarring to be held to unnerving truths and undergo such intense scrutiny of my every action. My prior existential crisis now felt redundant and diminutive as I struggled to crawl out of the primordial ooze I was stuck in. Nascent, and infantile.

Drake, on the other hand, carried all the grace of a natural born performer. A talent for whom consistency came effortlessly whereas I couldn’t slip into first gear. He operated on all cylinders whenever put to action, and deftly handled obstacles with technical precision and with an almost divine execution. None came close. He was undefeated, unmatched. Excelling with the best runs every time until the bitter end.

As an unbiased observer I witnessed his prowess firsthand. Anyone who watched him became enthralled by the mastery of his control. He was dauntless; a true paragon of his craft with all the proper embellishments of a proficiency unmatched.

Who was really to blame for my discontent: the known savant or a no name amateur? I was stale and tasteless by comparison. His gifts being hand-selected by the grace of good fortune. It was no contest.

In the final heat of the day. Drake nearly faltered to allow Blade an opportunity to win when he bested everyone’s time on the second run by almost three seconds. Everyone swarmed their vaunted team captain. Bustling excitedly over his lauded talents and raising him to new heights.

Only Coach Price, rosy-cheeked, and with a rare smile showing on his face, stood above the commotion.

“Here is a prize model, the shining example for those of you still struggling on their turns. So the majority of you. Already anticipating the pivot, he glides on the edge of his working ski. Maintaining dynamic balance he’s poised for the moment. As if absent of thought when measured by the clock. A rare virtue only the great possess. Drake included. Make use of him while he’s with us. Shadow his every move on the race course. Look for the common thread to find the pattern. Yet, there’s always more to learn. Even for our top racer.”

“And I was skiing out the womb,” said Drake.

Everyone laughed simultaneously at the silver-tongued showboat’s latest quip. Coach Price’s darling could do no wrong and even he knew it.

“With that lovely image in mind, we’ll close the day. Same routine Friday. Sun up to sun down. And it’s only going to get harder. We’ll soon have four to five conditioning sessions per week. Our main focus is eccentric strength training. Which brings me to the last matter of discussion,” the team began to chat excitedly at Coach Price’s eagerness to share his exciting news with us. Which for a manic perfectionist like him, anything related to a competition was the closest thing to a vacation he’d allow himself to enjoy. And his face lit up like a Christmas tree as he delivered the news with a shiny bow on top.

“OK boys, let’s settle down. It’s nearly that time of year again for what you’ve all been training for. We just got the call confirming Carbonado will be hosting the Western Region Open.”

The team exploded into cheer while embracing one another. I even got some inadvertent back pats during the outcry of approval. But I felt alienated from any such involvement. Even as I stay tuned to understand its importance. So used to being out of the loop I was constantly on the verge of not knowing what I should. I also distrusted the magnetic positivity of their rejoice.

Since joining their club, I hardly thought about the competing aspect of this vocation. The notion alone caused my anxiety to bubble up as the whole reality surfaced. My body felt overheated. Yet I was cold all over. The spandex race suit clung uncomfortably tight and itchy to my perspiring skin.

Such strain proved unbearable for my weary legs and I sunk upon a mound of snow. Downcast.

“You should be proud. That’s all your hard work in divisional races paying off. Don’t forget the regional ski camp in Park City is only weeks away. We’ll begin on-snow training after Thanksgiving weekend to prep for qualifiers. Let’s set a precedent before the race season begins. Momentum can shift at the slightest wind.”

I tried listening to Coach Price but I was too exasperated from running full steam without any fuel to do so. I stood there as if frozen to the ground. Casting a scornful gaze with eyes bent upon the mountain. My primary source of hell. Left unconquered for another day.

On that high note, practice finally ended.

Voices drifted off with the rising squall which was blowing in. I lifted my head to the windswept peak. Once a source of comfort, it pressed down upon me with an immeasurable weight.

I started to cramp physically and mentally. Uncontrollable fire welled up from the bottom of my lungs. A few hacking coughs helped dislodge the mucous buildup to clear my throat.

I took these extra moments alone to reflect. I had to prove to Coach Price I belonged here like the rest. Although nobody on the team was advocating for me, I felt good that no matter what happened from this point forward I wasn’t afraid of falling flat. Which I had done so often that I was beginning to acquire a taste for it.

Swirling storm clouds in the sky hovered over me. Low-hanging, and menacing. Swathed in thick, black billows that rippled across the sky without a sound. From out this cloudburst came a heavy fall of blue snow. Bright as lightbulbs.

A single fluffy flake lighted upon my nose. Suspended for a crystalline moment before melting in an instant.

“See that?” Coach Price stood beside me. His voice startling calm as some traces of humanity broke through his stern exterior now that the day was done. “Fresh snow is burying your tracks. The mountain is a graveyard of failures, forever mounting. All that white makes it possible to turn a new leaf. Come next practice you’ll get the chance to revise today’s marks. And again, the day after that. Elevating the ritual until you’re sharp enough to carve strokes out of solid rock. We always get to rewrite our beginning. It’s how history books are written. A single sheet of text; rewritten over throughout the ages. Today’s sunset is tomorrow’s sunrise.”

Despite the comforting sentiment of his words, the wriggling worm remained. Writhing, lodged within my Adam’s apple as I gurgled on how to reply before he left.

Attempts to console my frustration couldn’t excuse such a poor show. Where every lousy run outdid the last one. I ruminated over each pass. Smoking cigarettes until they burned hotly in my lip. Like after smoking that first one, you’ll never return to the experience which first got you hooked.

While some fulfilled their legacy in volumes, I was an illegible smudge smeared across a blank page. Held hostage upon the shoulders of giants.

I had never felt so exhausted in all of my short, insignificant life. After a full day of strength and conditioning, every muscle was fatigued. Spent. I needed time alone. To reset. Begin anew.

And all I looked forward to was a relaxing night at home. Except now I needed to make up the rent money used to pay for this prestigious program.

Time to earn back my dues.

More than a few brave souls were willing to risk driving in the snowstorm for another high. Who could blame them? I returned to the comforts of my home in the same desperate rush to lighten my load after a grueling day and my chronic intolerance to company was quickly remedied by a few bong hits.

Before my soggy socks could dry, the living room had been reinstated to the smoky saloon in which I normally dealt. Most customers stayed around to try their purchase. Their eye-bulging subterfuge swelling up their lungs as their visit extended long past the bong’s rotation. What I loathed most, even more than holding asinine business hours, was the burden of forced conversation. Which was tasking enough with a complete stranger. Living room dialogues often parroted the same discourse. Cannibalizing topics that lost flavor with every chew.

But whether it was the growing storm or dumb luck, no one lingered long enough to overstay their welcome. One exited, another entered. Trading green for green in a turnstile operation in which, I quickly earned back most of what I lost this morning.

I had collapsed onto the couch after what I believed to be the final customer left when a fusillade of knocking threatened the door hinges. “Come on in,” I called back without the energy to bother rising again.

“Ay what’s good?” Billy stagger-stepped across the threshold. Already smelling like a microbrewery.

“Where’ve you been?” Lefty asked me with the accusatory tone of a mother who had waited up all night for their kid to return home.

“Out.”

“I know that. Thankfully, we were around the corner at Batter’s Up putting some beers down until this storm blew in. We called over a dozen times and damn near slipped through the back window to make sure you were OK.”

“Glad you could show restraint.” I drew attention to this admission to avoid answering the question. As if holding onto some shameful secret I couldn’t talk about.

“Not my idea,” said Billy, holding up his hands.

“Lefty, we’ve been through this before.”

“Which is why it never happened. Scout’s honor! And if it did, I wouldn’t have told you, but I didn’t, so I didn’t. See? But I haven’t had a chance to smoke all day.”

“That’s what you’re haranguing me for? I sold you enough last night to get through today.”

“True. But I haven’t had access to a bong and you know the only way I’ll smoke is with a fifty-fifty ratio. Weed to tobacco, that is.”

“Why should I give a damn? I’ve smoked out of aluminum cans, plastic bottles, a lemon, you name it, if I was in dire straits. What makes spliff hits out the bong, sorry, I’ll rephrase that, what makes smoking spliff bowls out my bong superior?”

“Maybe because,” he trailed off in search for a reason. “I lack understanding.”

“And imagination, apparently.”

“Is there a difference?” Said Billy.

There I was again. Ground up in the same circular maw. Its silver chiseled teeth shimmering under the ceiling fan light.

“Allow me to be forthright. I won’t always be available day and night. I’m not the sole purveyor of your pipe dreams.”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

“A forewarning to get used to it. That’s all.”

“What else could you have going on?”

“That’s my personal business.”

“What crawled up your ass and died?”

Lefty got answered by a subsequent knock at the door.

“COME IN!” I yelled before setting my sights on Lefty and Billy. “It’s been a long day and I’ve hardly sat my ass down—come in already! Holy hell, all I’m trying to say is I’m not at your beck and call twenty-four fucking seven—excuse me, can I help you?”

It wasn’t until they stood in the middle of the room that I paused to address my visitor whom I didn’t recognize. Looking like a youth from a misplaced generation, he was a cardboard cutout of the pervasive hippie aesthetic still plaguing our nation’s schools. Strips of fringe dangled freely from his shirt sleeves. He had shoulder-length hair held back by a leather headband. His parted bangs revealed a soft pink, almost vacant looking face.

As a general rule I didn’t open up for anyone I didn’t know. This applied to any passerby who happened to be strolling by. Such as vagrants, door-to-door solicitors, and LDS missionaries alike. So I couldn’t reconcile letting a total stranger into my house and with no time to hide the bong or jar brimming with weed or digital scale or several hundred dollars in cash laying in plain sight on the coffee table I jumped onto my feet.

“Do you know this person, Lefty?”

“Nope.”

“Billy?”

Billy blinked behind his glasses.

“Not even a little.”

“What can I do for you?” I tried blocking the coffee table from view but he looked as stunned as the rest of us.

Unmoving, he remained frozen there. Sponging up his new surroundings.

“Kristy invited me,” he said. His reply came from far off as if shrouded deep as the fog within his eyes. Momentarily, they cleared. Fine-tuning to the present before glazing back over into complacency.

“I don’t know who that is. You should leave and I suggest you never come back.” I said flatly. My intent to cut swiftly and to the point was undercut by a shaky voice.

The uninvited guest merely nodded with blank approval and kept shooting askew glances around the room before asking: “Wait—are you messing with me?”

Growing weary of his failure to recognize the mistake I spelled it out: “No. Nobody can help you here. Get out. Now!”

Without another word about it I ushered this unfortunate happenstance right back into the snowy night from where it came. His facial expression muddied with confusion.

The poor fellow must’ve been more shaken up than I was as he, slightly confused, wandered down the sidewalk. I hung around to watch his departure as he stopped every couple of houses to glance hopelessly about before trudging on into the unyielding snowflakes. Taken by the winter storm.

“Good riddance.” I called out into the night, and about slammed the door shut when an old, run-down Mercedes-Benz pulled up behind Lefty’s parked jeep.

Out hopped Niko whose footfalls crunched up the porch steps.

“Who was that?”

“I’m never unlocking that damn door again.”

“Knock on wood it stays solid.” Niko withdrew the glass handle from its brown paper sheath and tapped its bottom on the coffee table. A maniacal flash in his demeanor.

Somehow, he always knew what to say.

This prompted me to throw an arm around his shoulder as we entered the house.

Rank bitterness set upon the wind. And upon the heels of this grayish brume came a cold front. Building storm clouds whited out the night. Swelling and contorting as they expanded: impregnated with worsening conditions which stirred up the heavens with an arctic wind. A swirling blizzard of sidewinder snowdrifts, shifting directionless. The temperature drop was deadly, and having to go anywhere was a backwards process that curtailed you before any potential progress could be made.

Practice days always came too soon.

A splitting migraine heralded each new morn as I arrived to the resort two bong hits deep with seconds to spare. Looking like I just rolled out of bed before throwing on some clothes. Habits my fellow teammates honed in on whenever Coach Price was out of earshot. It was no different than any other social situation. Once an outlier, forever the odd man out.

And for good reason to. They were proficient skiers and my competitors on the mountain regardless of our shared affiliation.

Mornings strung together as I picked up the pieces again with the still slumbering sun. Blindly putting them together knowing fully well they’d fall apart later that night. Long days got traded for shorter nights as both ends of the candle burned to their wick’s end. Lack of sleep snowballed from there along with any chance of making up lost progress. Even once dragged out of the confines of my bed I never fully left the polluted haze of a growing inversion back in the valley.

On top of flexibility tests, movement fundamentals, strength training, and aerobics conditioning, Coach Price’s lectures were hours-long training seminars on critical subjects like the seven phases of the athlete development system.

Disconnected and elsewhere, if not absent altogether. Artless. Before every run on the mountain was like looking down a blank expanse fraught with infinite ways to fuck it up. All of which got highlighted by Coach Price who scrutinized my every movement to a fault. And I took heed of every word, painful as they may be.

Unable to properly frame my ambitions, the toll of grueling physical labor soon bled into my personal life as apathy slipped into antipathy. Apart from practice, I rarely left the house. Cribbed and withdrawn. Hidden from the world. Yet never quite alone. My walks around the block increased in both frequency and length. At first, they were a means of working out a goal I was unable to accomplish or something Coach Price said at practice. Quickly they became part of my daily routine. A ritual of sorts.

Between joining the Academy and the constant demands of clients and friends, there was yet to be a peaceful or uneventful night alone to myself. Only the same tired routine of drunken debauchery with the boys until they broke up and scattered like roaches in the dawning light. Other nights for potential rest got hijacked whenever Niko showed up on my porch step. Given time off at random, his unannounced arrivals were as unbalanced as his half-staggering steps as he toted an already half drank bottle. Lefty came along next, leaving me with little choice but to imbibe before Billy came to help finish the rest. A joint effort that settled in wispy streaks of ghostly vapor. Swirling our senses. The quick succession of shots interrupted only when retreating outside to smoke cigarettes.

My earlier frustrations got put to bed by a host of distractions. From Billy digging around the kitchen cupboards to Niko and Lefty bickering over who played on which game controller.

I always gave in. My discontent countered by the shortage of numbers on the clock to spend complaining about things. A privilege lasting up until the next day which illuminated the little changes taking place as I careered headlong into self-destruction with my three vices. Drinking. Smoking. Skiing. And by each weekend I wanted to shut out the world around me. Receding further into myself. But I had to recognize my hand in creating this culture. I’d forfeit it all if not for needing to pay the bills and habitually smoke weed. We were a collective of miserable souls who suffered together through shared conflict.

Pensive, discouraged, I ruminated darkly over days no brighter than night. I couldn’t help from obsessing over my relationship with the Academy, social life, and overall inability to fit in whatsoever.

Throughout this entire inclement period, whether sleet or snow, I returned to the mountain. Week after week. Bound to repeat bad behavior as if a student in adversity with a penchant for abuse. The struggle to develop myself further became a discipline far more comprehensive than having a technical grasp on the bong. I didn’t miss a single practice and Coach Price made damn sure we ended up in skis to end each day. Despite the toiling effort, it felt good getting back into the swing of things, and after several practices I became more accustomed to Coach Price’s non-stop drilling. Without school or a job or anything else to tie me down I focused purely on my skiing. Which, slowly began to consume the days and every other aspect of my life.

The cogs turned while the days passed. As with every cycle nearing its end. Blown away, forgotten.

No more than cigarette ash loosened to the wind.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

Welcome to the wasteland.

Bleached beyond blinding, the city was entirely covered over and whited out from yesterday’s unforeseen blizzard. Streetlights, rooftops, trees, like the sprawling littleleaf linden next door; all half-buried in fresh white snow. Being out for a walk in the blistering cold with my hood up, I found the pale sunlight shone too brightly. Sunny, yet cold as hell with an all too friendly chill.

My nose instantly swelled to an over-ripened tomato. Nostrils stuffy. Filling my lungs with crisp air which agitated my throat worse than the cheapest rye from the bottom shelf. I’d have returned home if not for the black dog pulling me onward with sharp tugs.

Yesterday was like a dream I hardly remembered. Not only did I race the best skier of a local club, I won. But despite the winning result I knew it as the pipe dream fantasy it was. A fluke. Some cruel act of nature that set the bar at a height I’ll likely never reach. It was hard to imagine racing on the competitive circuit and it was surreal having been offered a spot. Strangely, what kept me from joining was the reason why I balked at every opportunity presented to me. I was scared of facing the disappointment from having zero potential compared with the world’s best. Mostly I felt ashamed pursuing a passion no one knew I identified with. I also felt tired. Tired of a world only interested in what I could never do for it. Now it was a new day. Most of which had already been spent. Cast into oblivion. Holed up like a hermit whose content with having no schedule at all.

Then came the nudge.

Gentle, yet strong enough to shake me from slipping back into the yawning abyss. Its urging swiftly grew impossible to resist as I broke free from my vacant state to find it nestled into the crook of my elbow. I scratched behind the matted ears until the black dog gave a yawn and a stretch by crouching down onto its front legs. The muscular sinews of its rear haunches pitched up as it began leaping around the room in a large figure-eight before landing with a loud thud in front of the door. Drooling excessively.

Such a show compelled me to grab the leash and spread my frustrations around the block.

Allied with discontent. Slow, and deliberate. I glided by like a passing shadow on a sidewalk shoveled one-person abreast. Or a rack of clouds darkening that which was momentarily clear.

Despite the immensity of winter’s white bounty, the busy streets which ran perpendicular to the avenue were cleared enough for cars to pass at reduced speeds. Snow banks replaced sidewalks in a seasonal demarcation where snow and road meshed together in a single white sheet up to the glittering rooftops. Only the pentagonal bolt of a faded red fire hydrant stuck out while unseen birds chirped upon snow-laden trees whose leafless limbs reached out like gray skeletons to the sky.

A few of my neighbors were also out of their homes. Enjoying the break in snowfall by shoveling their driveways. Most of them were homeowners that had been around for decades. None of them knew quite what to make of me. The constant traffic which visited my house didn’t help. If not for the tattoo parlor on Main Street I’m sure the cops would’ve visited me long ago.

If my presence was acknowledged, it went unnoticed the entire way to the stately blue spruce at the corner house on West Temple in which I had to bow my head to avoid contact with its silvery-blue needles. I looked to the left, and I looked to the right; each direction showed the same view of a rundown street lost to overuse and decay. The property value having plummeted to where the more condemned bungalows were flipped and repackaged into multifamily units. The new construction beside the drainage ditch was an eyesore by comparison and no worse than tree stumps begging for removal. But this was expected in the name of development. Like the senior apartment complex being erected from out of the rubble.

One never knew exactly what they’d encounter in a walk around the neighborhood. Where an empty pint of Jack Daniel’s, bottle of Corona, and unfinished cigar left behind in a snowbed told a story. There were also the regulars who pop into the scene as if reoccurring characters in some unfolding drama. Like the woman dressed in rags who pushing her shopping cart brimming with junk to rummage through garbage cans left on the street. Clearly on a mission for scraps of aluminum and tin. The unoiled wheel of the shopping cart squeaking endlessly.

At 1700 South a homeless drifter crossed the train tracks heading west. Starting off his day right: a mugful of wine, a tannic varietal perhaps, while puffing long, wispy smoke trails into the wind from a hand-rolled cigarette.

Down the block. Past a park with an abandoned playground stood the baseball stadium which sported a recent change in ownership. Its ticket office shuttered for the season. Beneath which, sat a heroin junky no older than myself propped up against the brick wall. His belongings laid scattered all around. A canker sore of society. Like a localized abscess with a scabbed face and dead, glassy eyes. Incoherent and nodding off on a bed of used hypodermic needles. Eager proboscises awaiting to taste warm blood every time he hit a home run into his vein.

A couple right turns and I circled back onto Main Street where the fire station always had its garage door open. Not much further down lay a small contingent of cold, stiff bodies strung out across the sidewalk on the curb. Their nervous eyes swollen red. A few of them had exposed cuts or half-healed ones. They varied drastically in age and strangely the younger ones looked the most worn out. Slack-jawed and docile. One of them sat upright with the assistance of a shopping cart to support him and picked apart his bloody red knuckles. Across the busy intersection stood a school with reflective windows and a high fence around its perimeter. Trash lay scattered in front of the snowed-over green where fresh footprints told stories of children at play. Days of my youth came flooding back. Back to when I still believed in Santa Claus and a functional system that held the social fabric together. I used to long for such ignorant bliss. Now I firmly rejected it.

If a strict doctrine was the lifeblood of a community, social institutions like school programs were its beating organs. Where children were conditioned to be confined in their classrooms while the principal acted as warden and the faculty like guards. An accurate depiction of my twelve-year stint in the public school system. Strict regimented schedules merely accounted for kids while their parents were too busy at work. One doesn’t fully grasp this authoritarian agenda until furthest removed from it.

I passed the rundown motel which provided vacancy for rooms infested with pests like cockroaches, street rats, vermin, and other undesirables. Their hungry eyes red or venomous yellow, peering from the dark. Watching. Waiting. Next came a strip of homes often conjoined with unviable commercial space amongst a closed restaurant or two with neglected storefronts which still bore the name of their defunct businesses like headstones to break up the few that thrived. Such as the used car lot or sleazy all-night massage parlors which blemished the surrounding streets like clogged pores. One of which, always had a sign out front advertising ‘New Girl’. Another building seemed to be a different shop each passing season. Sometimes changing overnight. Currently between owners, it was an empty husk like the many others around it. Dead and devoid of life. It came as some surprise when a rogue pigeon broke out the rafters above. Despite the show of life, many of these developments were open-mouth graves with stories of their own that they’ll never get to say. Forsaken, and left to crumble. Into dust. Forever lost in the hustle.

Shifting moods every block, I stayed in my solitary lane. With icy gutters lining both sides of the street. I came upon a cluster of dive bars in which fish-eyed drunks could be seen half-falling off their stools through doors propped open. Drawing in the neighborhood drunks and floozies like flies to a bright fluorescent light.

Everyone was an addict. The drug of choice may vary, but that subcutaneous itch had carried more than one poor soul through the long hard years. If not to an early burial. There have always been burnouts, downers, and abusers in society, and whether getting your fix sucking from a glass pipe, downing drinks at your neighborhood waterhole, running marathons, shooting lines, writing a book, playing the lottery or stock market than you were addicted too. Plain and simple. Same as religious fanatics with their faith and fitness freaks their daily exercise routine or obnoxious marathon bumper stickers. All ritualized behavior no different than sticking a shared needle into an open, festering wound. The difference being social norms which, when flouted, were the fulfillment of all those who were wasting away and discarded the hand they were dealt in favor of playing for high risk and no reward. We all walked this cracked strip in search of elusive glimmers. You don’t have to travel far from home to see the human condition was far more fascinating than a suburban family crowded around their plasma flat screen.

It was the freaks, lowlifes, and degenerates who spoke truest to the nature of our human condition. Where the American dream had been warped more into a living nightmare which only got rivaled by the suburbs and the rise of cookie-cutter townhome apartments and condos while streets which were unmaintained were constantly in flux with the recently evicted, squatters, weathered drifters, and every other tragic sort of human calamity who were anomalies in their own right. All in various stages of rejection from the system that bred them. Belligerent burn outs with bloody track marks and uncontrollable nods. Or the occasional crack addicted street waif. Holding up a blackened crack pipe to her bosom like a penitent votary to her faith. Satin blue clouds swirling in her soulless raven eyes. Her spindly, slender frame suggested that she’d eat the flowers off rose bushes and weep its prickly thorns. They were the societal refuse the city failed to address or hide. Downtown, the public parks were becoming overrun and Rio Grande Ave was reduced to a piss and shit-soaked strip of pitched tent encampments. Its denizens full of blood-shot, festering eye sores. Ulcerous, living carbuncles. Unable or unwilling to hold stable jobs but had made a career in hustling one day at a time. Unrestrained, yet prisoners of society. Drug addiction and homelessness ran rampant while the police worked overtime in exceeding their monthly quota in issuing speeding tickets.

Living in the bowels of the city revealed the ugly face behind the mask of our highly-evolved species in a way the tailored suburbs never could. Where people eschewed the proper diction and decorum of what’s deemed acceptable in favor of something more primitive yet, honest in culture. And it was offered to the public twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Every wide, tree-lined avenue which ran perpendicular to Main Street looked about the same as mine. Except for Boulevard Gardens. By design, these quaint Tudor-style homes had their driveways and yards swapped where the shared strip in front got divided by two paved walks running parallel from end to end. Their distinguished quality held a certain esteem despite some minor wear which only added to their charm. Regarding its origins, I’ve heard plenty of accounts. But the hearsay always reached the same conclusion. During summertime it was a lush emerald spring colored in radiant pops of purple, orange, and yellow with marigolds and tulips bordering the rainbow strip. It was meant to be the ideal community. A plot for families to thrive together if any still remained I had no idea. Wooden or chain-link fences separated every other backyard. One of which, contained half-a-dozen chihuahuas with foaming mouths. Flowers no longer decorated the cracked, snowy strip and hardly anyone bothered maintaining their yards.

After a ninety-degree turn I hit the Terrace Apartments. An old rundown building notorious for having a firetruck and ambulance in front of it several times a week. It was currently undergoing a cosmetic facelift with scaffolding that was as empty as the swimming pool featured in its center. Several homes throughout this stretch were equally dilapidated. Broken up by rows of unpruned rose bushes. Their foundations cracked and roofs sunken as if swallowed by earth and on the verge of collapse. Some were converted into small businesses like an auto insurance office and the tattoo shop.

Dead-center in this residential zone a church was erected. The prick of its pyramidal spire pointed towards the sky. Its parking lot demarcated by an enclosure of untouched white with a paved drive providing access from either street. Institutionalized dogma which was spelled out in gold lettering on red brick faded to brown. Faith was a superficial construct regardless of how well you dressed it up. Having been uprooted from a community I once believed in, I matured to find how little individuality got accepted by the whole. Likeminded communities agreed to disagree while arguing the equality of their unwillingness to compromise. And even after experiencing that early loss I continued to entertain the group-think banter I’d been accustomed to.

The poor man’s freedom and rich man’s burden were both lies which sold the truth short. Forget the twenty-first century ideals of progress chased to no avail. The glitz of a thriving economy was merely a coverall for its many hideous byproducts from low-income housing to rampant homelessness and illegal activity. So long as the privileged can worship in their Sunday’s best, week after week, there were no qualms what happened on this side of State Street. A sad reality from which my existence was far removed. A constant that translated into my fear of always being alone, and deserving it. Was I undeveloped? Or yet to tap into a greater potential I couldn’t comprehend? I gave up finding a path of natural progression long ago and become jaded in just about every expectation.

A marked dearth of life carried across this dismal stretch. Except for the market and deli on Grove Ave which sold the largest sub sandwiches I’d ever seen. Despite the occasional traffic the street rang with an uncanny stillness that carried to the intersection of 2100 South. There the stoplight made you wait forever to cross the street. While stopped, my attention got drawn to a shrill, erratic knocking which stuck out over the car traffic. Like strumming the wrong notes to a chord. I looked all around for its source when a fuzzy movement on the telephone pole drew my eye. I craned my neck for a better view at the determined woodpecker trying to catch its lunch. A symbol of life’s failed efforts lay right before me. Up until the dumb bird took flight to the next telephone pole.

The green light signaled it was safe to go. But the woodpecker’s pecking still drilled into my mind. I pondered the irreversible repercussions of humanity’s industrious nature. How the machinery ate up every resource in the name of prosperity for an imagined economy. A system working by design for those atop the pyramid who kept the machine’s insatiable appetite fed. Gnashing, snapping, constantly in search for more blood, sweat, and tears to fuel it. What could be farther from the truth? A bi-monthly check that barely covers the hours invested in it? There must be some compromise between capital gain and a purposeful life. Peck. Peck. Peck. The woodpecker pecked, again and again. Nothing felt natural about the constant roar of semi-trucks and vehicles. All regulated by traffic-control systems that locked everyone into the same stop-and-go network as they went mindlessly about their daily circuit. My distaste for people followed along like a shadow forever lurking on the periphery. Its wolfish snout always to the ground.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

It was an industrial zone for several blocks. Warehouses and business offices. With a few residential homes interspersed throughout that were too stubborn to leave. The intersecting side streets led to one dead-end after another towards the west. Each vista appearing bleak in light of names like Commonwealth and Utopia which ended abruptly at the train tracks.

The scarcity of other souls made for a little slice of heaven during the weekend. Save the incessant pounding and ringing of construction which made total escape impossible as industrial pollution blotted out the sun, casting the city further in its shadow.

Any further thought got drowned out by the shrill teapot hiss of a passing train. Across the trash-strewn tracks of the Central Pointe station platform which served all three lines could be seen a busy strip mall. Packed with gray buildings. Each of them dismal lifeless shells despite the constant flow of customers.

I continued on until I hit the freeway overpass which ran past the water tower. Underneath it was dark and uneasy with the rumbling of passing semitrucks above. The black dog came to a halt, tucking its wiry tail between its back legs. No matter how much I tugged from the other end it wouldn’t budge. Its head hung low and eyes steady. I turned back and crossed the street instead. Through the blackened snow. Down a narrow passage that led behind backyards lined with rusted metal fencing. A broken ribbon of yellow tape quivered in the harsh breeze.

The narrow channel eventually opened up to a wide expanse that was barren except for the half-buried heaps of forgotten railroad equipment where two tracks met at an impasse. Built on a historic railway, the new light rail was intended to connect with the existing one, running east-west. But as with many city plans, funds either dried up or the project was halted at a broken crossroads of unused railroad ties and spikes.

Having reached a terminus, I sat upon a rocky mound which stuck out of the snow embankment. The black dog tensed up as I unhooked the leash from its collar. It then bounded off to sniff around and stuff its slick wet snout in every nook and cranny. Filling them with hot breath. Scavenging. Always digging without knowing what for and appearing far more youthful than ever as I dragged on a fresh cigarette. Eastward; an ocean of black shingles rippled wave-like all the way to the white-capped mountains separating our city from the rest of the world. The opposite direction offered a vast panorama of more mountains, stretching out for miles until the open-pit mine that slowly devoured chunks of the Oquirrhs as the nation’s second largest copper producer. The drill wounds of this man-made atrocity were even visible from space. These mineral rich mountains were the primary reason early settlers stuck around before their wagons reached the coast. Embedded within was a rich resource for a variety of ores. The value of which far exceeded the California, Nevada, and Klondike gold and silver rushes. Along with the refineries in the north, this provided favorable work opportunities for many first-generation immigrants. Instead of the boom or bust cycle which affected other mining towns in the 19th century, the fledgling state capital soon began to flourish and prosper. Starting from Capitol Hill, profits helped design the city’s grid system, schools, parks, and hospitals for workers and their families. A line which once pushed all the way east to the Wasatch Mountains, pointed the only direction left with land to develop. Which was why the upper to middle class moved further south, the new frontier for a development boom. Gradually extending the bounds of the imaginary line which separated them from those stuck on the west side and the further from the mountains one looked, the denser it became.

For being so small and geographically removed from the surrounding country, Salt Lake City behaved as if it were encased in a gigantic bubble. Despite political tensions and global atrocities committed on the daily none of that existed here. No wars were being fought and moral sentiments were equivalent to a healthy economy in which casual disregard for others was sustained by buying the latest and greatest commodity to be sold on. No mind the high monthly lease payments. Nothing said prosperity like a new model with faux-leather seats and a retractable sunroof or private swimming pools which sat lonely beside weather-beaten basketball and tennis courts. Our compulsion to collect and to hoard was a practice dating back to the caveman, and modern consumerism created a paid service for nearly all things imaginable. All for the price of a small monetary fee.

The valley crawled with unceasing activity. Like a sprawling caterpillar commanding its shuffling feet to go both directions at once. Above it, a ghastly black ring hovered over the city, and steadily growing. Blunt peaks which spewed pillars of ash to blot the horizon.

My mind rattled worse than a railroad junction with derailing lines running in every direction.

I soon grew weary of the dismal sight and flicked my cigarette butt. It comet-tailed into the fresh snow and nonexistence.

I returned with my head cloudier than when I left. Being a homegrown product to all I despised even my strongest convictions were set upon beds of quicksand.

Leaving the house was a stark reminder why I never left it. But knowing what the forecast held, this pelting sunshine wouldn’t last long.

I didn’t consider how much ground we covered until my return. The black dog sauntered right behind, panting. Its stamina shot and, weary with exhaustion, it collapsed into a snore beside the couch where it remained until reawakening for another play.

More pensive than before, I clutched the bong for a little pick me up as milky smoke clouds shot up the chamber straight to my head and rocketed me out of the stratosphere.

Having no work or classes to attend to left me with the same schedule: wake up late, somewhere in the mid-afternoon, recovering from another day’s hangover by smoking countless bowls only to repeat the process of drug-induced convalescence. If the mind was too stoned to know how it feels, the rest followed. Or at the least you forget to dwell on it. Negative side effects included lethargy, apathy, loss of ambition, general malaise—all broken up by bouts of fogginess.

It wasn’t until darkness set in that the tongue could negotiate with the eyes to stomach the sight of alcohol again.

For the time being I was nice and toasty—spacing out on the couch like clockwork. This could be the day to sell the rest of my supply. The day to quit my thriftless extravagance for good. To commit worthwhile deeds in an otherwise uneventful life.

But why not extend misery a few more days? And come Monday I’ll put my stagnant hopes into motion.

An empty cupboard prompted a quick run to the liquor store.

The house frowned back as I reversed out the drive. Recent snowfall gave the sunken roof the unsightly appearance of long white brows and a grizzly beard with juniper and rose bushes sticking out of it. Old, but not without its charm.

No more than a block away I received a text from someone asking to pick up. But they’d have to wait.

Nostalgia hijacked the wheel so that I drove north to the Avenues. A stretch of neighborhoods beside the university campus where I used to live for a couple months. Only one block from the liquor store on E Street. The car engine spit and sputtered while the car clicked and clacked like a wooden rollercoaster ascending its rickety track. I patted the steering wheel to help coax it up the hill. I could always roll it back down if need be. Bottle in hand.

Liquor runs with a fake ID always felt like an epic quest. I only got one in the first place so that I could buy tobacco products in high school. Yet, I could’ve enlisted in the army at the tender age of eighteen. I’ll never forget my first visits to this tiny overcrowded building and how paranoia got compounded by trying to remember the phony address and dates in case they were called to question. Making for one hellish experience in which it was imperative to know which section to locate your poison before nervously waiting in the dreaded checkout line.

Now, that magic of sweating bullets until you could escape unscathed had all but disappeared. Becoming replaced by mundanity to the extent such a transaction was no different than buying a quart of milk from the grocery store. A reality I lamented come next spring.

There was a constant flux of customers entering and exiting through the automatic doorway. The ones who left either carried out cardboard boxes full of wine bottles or single brown bag purchases.

Once inside it felt too lonely griping alone. Weekends helped to forget how miserable our weekly routines were so I sought the best company for mitigating the strongest tempest tides.

“Ela, malaka. What’s gravy?” The gruff voice answered on the other end of the line.

“Still asleep, Niko?”

“Fuck off,” Niko said. “My dad gave me the day off for once.”

“That’s nice of him. Did you clean your bedroom, or something?”

“More like sheet rock and tiling all week.”

“What are kids for other than free labor? It’s the traditional model.”

“I don’t mind. Except when you accidentally slice your hands laying down the pieces.”

“Wanna chill for a bit?”

“I don’t know, I’m pretty tired. I’ve been working seven days a week the last seven months. I’d like a day just to catch up on sleep.”

“Aren’t you sick of your parents’ house?”

“You just want to do something. I’m comfortable on the couch.”

“That’s the problem. Luckily, I got a bargaining chip for you and it says 35% alcohol by volume.” A brief pause followed before Niko’s reply: “A Saturday night special. What you thinking?”

“More for less.”

“Nothing bottom shelf. Please.”

“Fine. But you’ll never know what you’re missing,” I pressed.

“There’s a reason it’s so conveniently reached,” Niko returned. “Don’t stoop that low.”

I selected a semi-cheap handle of honey whiskey from the middle rack.

“There’s a ten-dollar breakfast, right here.” I turned the bottle over to read the fine text with a squinted eye. “Or is it lunchtime already?”

“We just need it to be strong. Nothing extraordinary.”

“That won’t ever wrong you.”

“Be right over.”

Except for the poor women receiving unwanted advances from the security guard, the line passed fairly quick and painless.

A middle-aged woman with heavy-set eyes called for next in line.

A disheveled man staggered forward. His hair turning gray and his skin as weather beaten as his patched parka. The billowing folds nearly swallowed him whole with each step to the counter. “How ‘bout a pint of Rosie with a skirt,” he asked. His voice a mixture of gravel and broken glass.

“Hi darling,” the cashier reached beneath the counter. “Isn’t it too cold for that?”

“As it ever will be.”

He grabbed the bottle with a hand more crinkled than the brown paper bag it was in.

“Next!”—She addressed the line.

The cashier picked up my fake ID off the counter before scanning the barcode on the bottle. “You look so young,” she said. Her mouth a straight line which hardly opened when she spoke.

“So I’m told.”

Taking care to avoid the opposing flow of paying customers I made a speedy escape. Feeling refueled despite the empty tank.

Alcohol provided an oasis for any environment.

I got to spend a brief stretch bottled up before my drinking buddy arrived. No longer than thirty seconds through the door Lefty arrived. Then Billy. Both of them staggering together and followed by everybody else who wanted to pick up their daily dose of reality. Within the hour the living space was crammed past capacity with every cushion, stool, crate, and possible seat in use. Some sat perched upon the armchairs of couches. Others had to yell to be heard from the outskirts while the bong made its rounds.

The house was officially open for business. With those leaving only to be replaced by a revolving cast who wanted nothing more than to sit and smoke while the cannabinoids sank in. How many hours had been wasted staying available for everybody’s interpretation of what constituted a good time to drop by and pick up could never be known. Yet, as much as I hated to admit it, I enjoyed having the company regardless. Even if the sticky green leaves were what mostly held us all together for days which blazed away in a curling wisp. Add the comforts of home and good company to shoot the shit with, I was more than inclined to visit the freezer where I stashed the honey whiskey. Its frosty bottle steamed at the hotness of my touch as I poured a stiff drink.

But the boys never settled so easily.

“What’s that?” Lefty accosted me as soon as I returned from the kitchen with a glass of whiskey mixed with a splash of flat leftover cola from the fridge.

“Honey bourbon.”

“You fixed one just for yourself? What are we? Second class citizens?”

“Help yourself. As usual.”

“I think I will. Nothing like a libation to top off a hard day’s work, not that you would know about that.” He sneered back, already on his feet.

“Don’t forget mine!” Billy barked from across the room. Bong in hand. His open mouth blowing out smoke when a loud shriek pierced the air. “I’ve always been partial to American whiskey.”

“Why’s it in the freezer?” Lefty cried. “You never put brown in the freezer. For shame!”

I shared a chuckle with Billy and Niko.

“Would you be so kind to fill the ice cube trays while you’re at it?” I yelled back at him.

Lefty could be heard opening the cupboards and slamming them shut.

“Aren’t there any drinking glasses in this house?” He continued ranting on.

“Not clean ones.”

This reminded me of the heaping mound of dishes taking over the kitchen counter and sink. Yet I hardly even cooked. Let alone ate.

“Fuck it.” Lefty called back. “This one’s clean enough for me, although, I’d recommend setting time aside to clean up this pigsty. Not only is it unbecoming but there may or may not be rotten food in the fridge and it smells. Just saying.”

He reentered the living room. Tinkling glasses in each hand. The handle of liquor held underarm. He bowed before Billy: “Your drink, my liege, the finest Glasgow can offer.”

“Even the mad know scotch is from Scotland.”

“You must be unaware of which Glasgow I speak of.”

“Which could it be?”

“Glasgow, Kentucky, of course. That’s the key.”

They continued to banter. Like a king with his knave. In a classic match of humor versus wit.

“How are you so prone to err?”

“How you make air. Nary a sound.”

“With everlasting spirit, you cloy. Is it habit?”

“Like the monk’s hood.”

“Blunt it already—I tire of the idle riddling.”

“Hand me a cubano and it’s a wrap!”

Billy swirled his glass before taking a hearty sip.

“I thought I asked for a drink? There’s hardly a dram in here.”

“Fill it up yourself.” Lefty lorded the bottle over him.

“You good for nothing lout,” Billy snatched at the bottle. Making several attempts before his anger roused him to his feet. Lefty dropped the bottle and cowered on the couch. “That’s what I thought. Stay down and keep sipping it like a master sommelier.”

“As long as you’re whining, pour up another.”

The comedy ensued as the bong made the rounds—I took a hit, passed it to Niko, then to Billy, and back to me again. Repeat.

It was to be a night like any other. Except the burning call of boredom couldn’t be ignored. In which one looked for any jolt of pleasure to pass the weekend.

While staring forlorn out the window as if to place blame on the sun for its timely movements, Billy, the most hardboiled of the batch, began to crack.

“So what’s our plan?”

“There’s nothing to do,” yawned Niko.

“We’re doing something now,” I added. Already playing devil’s advocate. But Lefty was impervious to reason: “No. We aren’t. And, it is Halloween weekend.”

“So what? Must there be an agenda because it’s Saturday night?”

The three of them nodded in agreeance. I’ve long come to expect no public favor in my opinion.

“A great way to blow your paycheck.” I tried swaying them again, working from a different angle.

“You’ve got to have a job to make that argument, bud.” Billy said, the only other one there who wasn’t working. No need mentioning my side hustle which paid the bills and made nights like these possible.

“Weekends are for recuperation. Which I can never seem to do.”

They all set off at once.

“It’s a goddamn holiday for crissakes!” Lefty cried amid the rabble. “And we’re not talking about trick or treating for children here.”

“We can’t do nothing all the time like you,” Niko said, far off in the corner. Lost upon a nebulous zephyr.

“Forget the money. These are life experiences on the line.”

“Good point, Lefty. Weren’t you telling me you can’t find fulfillment by staying in? Let alone be entertained staying at the house.”

“Watching the three of you is a sitcom in itself.”

“Except you don’t even pay for cable. It’s a wonder we even bother with you.” Lefty spat. He swiveled to face Billy and Niko on the other side. “What say ye?”

“Don’t care as long as we get fucked up.”

“Billy?”

“I was meeting a lady friend tonight but I could blow her off.”

“Fantastic!” Lefty remarked, awe-struck. “You can send her my way after, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, no. That’s not going to happen.” Billy said, going so far as to offer an explanation. “It would be an insult to her. No offense.”

“Can we make a decision already?” Niko’s patience wore thin.

“I’ve got some ideas…” I further antagonized the situation.

“You lost that privilege. But you’re coming out with us regardless. We just need to decide what and where that is,” Lefty trailed off. I reached for the bong.

Humming slightly with eyes closed, Lefty gyrated his hips before both eyes flicked open. Bright glowing orbs which appeared lit from the inside. “How could I forget!”

“What?” We asked with growing curiosity. But he strung us along by taking a hit from the bong first.

“Get Creepy is tonight,” he exhaled, shrugging his shoulders. The suggestion roused sufficient interest in the others. I found it revolting. Something about preteens masquerading around a 16+ event didn’t appeal to me.

“I haven’t disappointed my father in a while.” Niko reached for his cigs.

“Tickets are only twenty-five bucks,” said Lefty. As if this aided his cause.

“Actually, it says that day of show pricing is thirty-five.” Billy said.

“And don’t forget the five-dollar service fee,” I added. “I’d go to a strip club if I wanted to waste money or time.”

“Have you been to this rave before? Sounds like a new life experience to me.” Lefty spewed the ancient idiom responsible for all adolescent stupidity. I was clearly comfortable with discontent. So why change the formula?

Instantly I began to protest.

“Let’s think about this—

“Hold up—how big of a favor should I do for us?” The rest of the room took one look at each other before bursting into laughter. Lefty stood there fully resolved. His face contorted into a deranged smile.

Billy spoke for the room.

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it already.”

“What if I could offer ecstasy?”

“I’d have to see it to believe it,” I said. But Niko had a more practical response.

“Who can hook that right now? And don’t tell me Sober Mike.”

“Let’s just say someone I knew from DeMolay owes me big time. The one I was telling you who gets his weed shipped in coconut oil.”

First it was my bottle. Now my night was becoming hijacked. I had enough. “I don’t recall. Who is he again?”

“It’s his good friend who will be helping us. Goes by El Niño.”

“This keeps getting better,” I shook my head. “I don’t even want to know what you’re owed for.”

“You know I’ve never dropped E before,” Niko added, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip as he made for the door. He should consider himself lucky he hadn’t been exposed to the rave scene in high school like the girls he was intimidated by. Once an underground phenomenon, the beautiful people now fueled a burgeoning industry in which they could act like children. Replete with a pacifier. Get Creepy was simply the seasonal costume-themed rave inspired by all the usual haunts of Halloween night.

“I can’t drink here night after night like you. I need to get out. Spread my wings.”

“Here, here.” The other two cried, pounding the bottom of their glasses.

I had no choice but to resign to the enjoyment of my company. “OK, I’ll go. But only if Lefty pulls through on his end.” I planted this tiny seed of doubt in our plan before it fully took root.

Lefty was already glued to his cellphone. Furiously set to the task.

Restless, we waited. Trading swigs from the bottle as the minutes passed. The lines on Lefty’s face deepened.

Half an hour later I was practically laughing over the incessant nagging from Billy and Niko each time he had nothing to report when pressed.

“We can always get drunk in the parking lot and dance to the music.”

“Don’t be dense, Lefty,” Billy denied him outright, followed by his reasoning: “You better not be wasting our time.”

Well played, I chuckled to myself. He can’t get enough pills for six people with the event only hours away. I almost felt bad as he laid back onto the couch in a show of bitter defeat. But I shouldn’t have. His cellphone buzzed and he stood up straight. His flushed face screwing up the more it got pressed into the tiny screen.

His beady little eyes scanned over the text as he typed out his response.

“Just need to cross my t’s and dot my i’s and… sent!” Smitten with his sway over the outcome he overlooked my glare. I loaded up the grinder with dense popcorn nugs that hardly ground up to very much. Set upon my discipline like an ascetic whose lofty aspirations had reached a plateau.

Lefty’s phone buzzed again.

He jumped in the air and began whooping and hollering around the room.

“Who do you love?” He asked through steepled fingers. A counterbalance to the seeming benevolence of his deed. This was his chance to shine. And he beamed with the intensity of the sun.

“Got it?”

“Of course, Niko, my boy. Was there ever any doubt?”

“Uh, yes.”

“It’s only a phone call away for me, like I’ve always said.”

I rubbed my greasy palms on my pants. Making note of the pulse in my wrists.

“It’s getting late. Can we trust this kid?”

“He can hook pressed pills—but only while they last! It’s on, fellas!” He burst with excitement. Niko and Billy were also pleased with the last-minute turn of events.

“Do we even know where he lives?”

“A couple miles northwest is all.” Lefty held his phone to my face to ensure the futility of any excuses. “See. Not too far.”

“Who’s driving?”

“I rode with Lefty.” Billy said.

“And my backseat’s full right now as Billy well knows.”

“Niko?”

“I’ve only got enough gas to get home.”

“I guess I am,” I reached for the bong to load a parting bowl.

“Great! Let me drain the main vein before we go.”

Our impromptu exit forced the last of the remaining stragglers out with us.

We began to reverse out into the sidewalk when a raggedy blur caused me to slam on the brakes.

“Look—there he goes!” Lefty slapped Billy’s shoulder. “Old Crump.”

Billy craned his neck from the backseat to get a better view of the old man who appeared at the pointing end of Lefty’s finger.

“Don’t you mean Father Time?”

Through the rear windshield could be seen a decrepit old man with flowing white hair so bent over his face was downcast. He wore nothing more than rags as he blindly pushed through the slushy street gutters with his walker. He lived around the corner and from what I gathered, all alone, holed up in a crumbly brick home with a settled foundation which slowly got consumed by a lifetime of collected junk trashing the property. He rarely surfaced and seeing him now in freezing temperatures with snot running out his nose to freeze in whiskery bristles held my prior frustrations at bay. Even as a car hummed by near inches from his padded elbow, he remained unperturbed. Blazing forth into a cold world that moved far too fast. Time was kind to no man. And he was a testament to that fleeting light at the end of the tunnel. For that reason alone, I couldn’t sit idly by.

“Don’t talk shit or I’ll turn this goddamn car around!”

“What are you defending that dotard for?”

Someone had to, I thought. But I bit my tongue. No need mincing words with those yet to plumb the depths of bitter loneliness and despair.

“Pull the plug or the trigger if I ever get that bad.” Niko said with a long drag on his cigarette.

Next came Billy’s two cents: “If you get there. I’ll be living comfortably somewhere in the Caribbean with all-inclusive amenities. Living out a life well spent.”

“We’ll be long buried by then.” Lefty sounded off.

“Speak for yourself. They have retirement homes and hospice once you can’t wipe your ass.”

I kept checking the side mirror as I drove.

“No one’s wiping his ass, that’s for sure.”

Their ensuing laughter caused me to brake check an unbuckled Lefty who rocketed face-first into the dashboard.

We sped off in a sputtering blur of chain-smoke. Set upon our mission with the inside of the cab far too loud to hear music or any of the conversations. Yet both happened simultaneously.

Our directions took us onto the spaghetti bowl which connected the three major highways, and looped a faded green water storage tank which read City of South Salt Lake with Center of Industry in smaller block letters below. I-15 took us north to one of the sketchier neighborhoods laying adjacent to downtown. The low-income housing broken up by patches of undeveloped land with abandoned warehouses scattered throughout.

Lefty directed me using the coordinates given to him until the scattered network of streets seemingly had no relation to the city’s grid system.

We crept along a road made icy from melted snow. Gliding smooth as butter on a heated pan in the afternoon sun. Hitting repeated circles and dead-ends before arriving to our destination. A street marked by a lone signpost with no sign.

“In the words of this city’s founder, this is the place,” Lefty said. His right arm hanging out the passenger window. A thin wisp of cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

From out of the cloudless firmament the low sun winked upon parked cars in flaring metallic glints. The neighborhood was bustling already with those getting ready for the evening and the only available spot to park happened to be right in front of the house with the cop car parked in its driveway.

I put the car in neutral and yanked the handbrake.

If we tried not to attract attention by our arrival, every head soon turned our direction. As if anticipating trouble before it even hit the block.

Niko fidgeted in the backseat. Even Billy picked up on the tense atmosphere. Everyone appeared on edge. Except for Lefty.

I hopped out with him while Niko and Billy stayed behind with the car. We walked down the cracked sidewalk. The neighbors observing our every movement as Lefty trotted in front, almost skipping along with the giddiness of a schoolboy.

I kept checking for any warning signs upon the peripheries while envisioning every worst-case scenario. Anything with Lefty had its hiccups and carried the danger of encounters with law enforcement to getting robbed blind by sketchy second-rate dealers.

A small group crossed the street behind us. Causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. I straightened up, which didn’t do much to bolster my wiry frame. Lefty was either too oblivious to see or couldn’t be bothered as he unlatched the chain-link gate to a shabby, rundown residence.

Our hook waited for us in the front yard. A hooded figure with dark wells under his eyes and baggy clothing hanging on a formerly bulky frame which now had zero percent body fat. If he was older, it wasn’t by much, but El Niño’s facial acne contrasted sharply with his aged looks by creating scarred pockmarks and craters. His sad, sunken eyes and dilated pupils made him appear less specter-like when viewed from up close.

“Ahoy-hoy!” Lefty broke the ice, his right arm extended. “You must be El Niño.”

El Niño nodded. He produced a bundled-up plastic sack from inside of his sweatpants. Lefty handed him the cash right in broad daylight—chief witness to the crime was his elderly neighbor to the right rocking upon her porch. But nothing about her demeaner suggested an open drug deal happened before her thick black Solar Shields.

With the deed done, the neighborhood lost all intrigue in our intrusion. The group caught up with us on our way out of the chain link gate. The tallest spoke with El Niño while the others hung back. One of the youths wasn’t even old enough to drive.

Seeing them do the same thing as us made me feel childish and ashamed. Although I never sold to kids, some dealers treated them like an ATM machine for their parents’ money.

It wasn’t until safely back in the car that Lefty poured out the baggy of electric blue pills, handling them in his cupped palm like a gloved jeweler. I could barely get the car out of neutral before he exploded. Red-faced, his voice raised as I accelerated, nearly popping the clutch while shifting between gears. “That kid fucking shorted us! Unless… but there’s no way…”

“What do you mean shorted?”

“We don’t have what we paid for, Billy.”

“Surely you checked in all that time it took.”

“Did I count the bag? No. I thought I was brokering an honest deal­.”

“You ding-dong. I really want to strangle you sometimes.”

“Second that.” Niko yawned from the backseat.

“And here I was supposed to be getting a favor,” Lefty tsked through clenched teeth.

“That’s OK. We’ll take it out your share,” Billy continued. “Hope you learned your lesson.”

“Can we please turn around?”

“Nope.” I stared forward.

“It’ll just be a second­-

“No.” The car rang out in unison.

“Easy for all of you to say. You each get three pills.”

“I’ll take the loss,” I said in the hopes of moving forward.

Whirlwinds spun in my ears to the chorus of an erratic thumping in my chest. Symptoms which would last until we were back on the interstate. Tuning out the others, I drove in a fog. Ominous, dark, it hovered. Snaking the median as oncoming cars vanished along with traffic lines and the road altogether. I changed lanes as talk turned to the night’s potential unfolding. I briefly contemplated pulling the handbrake at top speed. I couldn’t invest in romanticizing scenarios that will never happen. My imagination conjured up undercover cops in unsuspecting vehicles following us instead. Paranoia reached its peak upon hitting a pothole which caused me to drop my cigarette in the crack of my seat. Veering left, veering right. I panicked—swerving into other lanes with each overcorrected pull of the steering wheel whenever I tried to reach for the flaming butt stuck between the car seat and door. Even Lefty tried steering so I could shove a hand in from the opposing side but to no avail. Eventually the chemical smell of burning upholstery subsided along with any efforts of bracing for the larger impact.

We returned with two 12-racks of amber bottles and climbed the snow-laden stairs to be greeted by the familiar reek of stale smoke.

Four beers cracked open in near unison.

“Perfect. What’s next, gentlemen?”

“Glad you asked, Billy,” Lefty perked up with newfound vigor. “There’s the matter of our Halloween costumes. Once again, leave this to me. I brought a box from my parents’ house for this occasion.”

“Yeah right, I’m not playing dress up,” Billy seethed.

“For your information, it’s from a professional theater’s wardrobe. All you have to do is wear it. This can’t be your first rodeo with this age-old tradition.”

“You mean pagan customs masquerading under a Judeo-Christian guise? Six years of Catholic school absolves me from participating in such plebian affairs.”

“Great! That’ll better my chances with the females. Who’s going to fuck with someone who lacks the common decency to dress up?”

He snorted back in defiance. “I’ve done fine thus far as myself.”

“C’mon and humor the unexpected of this holiday—let’s engage in the mischief together. It’s about stepping out of your comfort zone. Otherwise, you won’t have any fun.”

“In that case,” I said moodily. “I’m in costume already.”

“Now that’s the spirit!”

Lefty retrieved a dusty cardboard box from the trunk of his car which was brimming with matted wigs, costumes, cobwebs, and other Halloween decorations like two giant rolls of orange and black streamers.

Costume themed raves were always a popular excuse to be scantily clad for others to gawk at. All the preparatory thought required beforehand was far more exhausting than just being yourself. I had no desire dressing up for careless acts of exhibition. Yet I tailored myself to the crowd by consulting masks of every shape and variety; a green alien, what looked like either a hideous ogre or bald troll with a drooling lip, a howling wolf man, fake reading glasses with an oversized plastic nose, a black hood, face paints of every color; plastic vampire fangs, chopped silicon fingers, a bloodied hospital gown, a gorilla suit, a sombrero and cowboy hats, bits of old costumes to piece together a new one in endless combinations to suit your fancy. Dressing up was a common practice in every social scene whether you were willing to admit it or not. Daydreaming all through the week about being somebody you weren’t while the residue of what occurred in that feel-good state leaked into personal lives despite it being completely blacked out.

The sun began to set. Its brilliant golden light casting long, dark shadows through the western window. Monstrous shapes that danced on the living room walls and which plagued me the most.

I didn’t know what to expect. And every outcome was a nightmarish one. But if one must do regrettable deeds, better that they make it on the peak of euphoric highs. Funny how I opposed the rave before, but now with a tiny bag of blue pills I found myself favoring its course. The intoxicating allure of promise wasn’t found bottled on any shelf. But once swept up by lofty aims I found myself in rare form: trading the usual for the extraordinary by entertaining the most impossible fantasies to be conceived. Even Billy got into the spirit after finding a plastic hook, curly black wig, eye patch, and clip-on golden nose ring, all completed with the crooked gait of a rum drunken pirate.

Lefty, donning a pilot hat with aviator sunglasses to compliment the four yellow stripes on the shoulders and sleeve of his uniform, had difficulty getting the attention of the room until Billy tapped a ruby-ringed forefinger against his beer bottle. Announcing the witching hour had come at last.

“Can’t wait!” Niko trembled with excitement in nothing more than flimsy gray thermals, a fluorescent orange hunting hat, and an unlaced pair of hiking boots. Unable to contain himself no longer he hooked a noodle-like arm around Lefty and I.

“Sure you still want to go?” I asked.

“There’s a first for everything.”

“Unless never done.”

“Hold up, I’ve gotta smoke this bowl first.”

“Goddamnit, Billy,” Lefty was exasperated already. “You waited all this time bullshitting around? But please, go on. We’ll wait.”

The music venue was located on the outskirts of town. Past the oil refinery to the north and placed upon the desolate strip of salt flats. It was the third incarnation of a destination resort once considered the Coney Island of the west. Built right on the shores of the Great Salt Lake and constructed out of a salvaged aircraft hangar. Even out here the EDM shows were large enough for additional outdoor stages during the summer.

We officially entered the unknown. Rounding the northern end of the Oquirrhs where the city’s FM and TV station transmitters poked up on Farnsworth Peak along with the smokestack on the south side of the Great Salt Lake which pointed a black finger into the night sky.

Soon we left the twinkle of city lights behind altogether.

The surrounding blackness was like a hollow atmosphere impregnated with the vibrations of electronic music blasting from the car’s stereo speakers. We dragged across vast, forsaken stretches devoid of life. Held in sustained anticipation, like opposing magnets, pushing further towards the receding horizon.

Once my sensitive eyes adjusted to the gradient of darkened hues, I could survey a lunar world bedazzled by a bluish blaze of landscape. Nothing artificial like the lights of the city. But a real, natural source.

“Know what?” Lefty belted over the loud music. “We should be hippy flipping tonight. You know, shrooms and E.”

“Sign me up for that.” Niko hummed in his seat.

“Or even candy flipping.”

“What’s that?”

“Acid and E.”

“Even better.”

“What’s wrong with popping pills by themselves?” I asked.

“The problem as I see it is that they’re always cut with something else. So why not mix and match?”

“Do you have these drugs or are you saying it for fun?”

“Of course, he doesn’t have them,” said Billy. “It’s a miracle we got what we have.”

“My friend owed me a favor—” Lefty came to his own defense.

“Yes, we know about Sober Matt.”

“Mike. His name is Sober Mike! Why do I even bother with the tasteless? You haven’t done the kinds of drugs I have.”

“Having a taste doesn’t mean you know the flavor.”

Lefty changed the subject by distributing the round, blue pills around the cab.

“OK, it’s time for everyone to take their first two.”

“Why now?” I asked. Inclined to hear the reasoning. Everyone became an authority on taking substances they knew nothing about which left you with disparaging methodologies in achieving the “perfect roll”. Some recommended double dropping. Others insisted on a specially timed sequence to stagger the pills so your roll lasts longer. Like one-hour intervals versus the moment the first wave broke­—and the absurdity goes on. After a lifetime of hearsay with zero credibility, I’ve concluded no one knew what they’re sold on and offering any feigned expertise was a surefire tip off. If I’m doing it than it would have to be on my terms. Always.

“Because you have to double drop on the way to the rave and take your third pill once you’re through the door. If you got it, of course. I’m sure somebody’s holding inside.” He quickly glanced over at me. “Ready?”

“Why not?” Billy failed to stifle a wayward yawn.

“When are we supposed to take them again?”

“When I say so.”

Niko stuck a balled-up fist to his mouth. “Too late.”

“Not like that! We’re supposed to drop them together so we’re synced to the same cycle, you artless cretin.”

“Hey, I resent that.”

“Now we all have to take them. Thanks.”

Niko shrugged his shoulders and sparked a cigarette.

Lefty gave a celebratory cry. “Then it’s decided. Down the hatch!” With a knowing wink he swallowed his two pills whole.

The chalky blue pills appeared harmless resting in my hand. Each no larger than hard candy. It was hard to imagine its contents could transform one so drastically but already being past the point of no return, I downed one pill and stuck the other in my sock.

Lefty licked his lips and laid back in his seat, cellphone in hand. “Let’s read about the drug I just took. Light blue with darker blue specs. Edges, smooth. Hmmm blue apples.. blue buddhas.. blue bunnies.. no.. Aha! here we go, blue M&M Pokeballs,” he began, trying to build some excitement, but strangely, I wasn’t interested knowing what each stamp meant or why it had a round shape. Whenever playing methamphetamine roulette I left it all to chance. “…with a 5:1 MDMA/caffeine ratio these pills combine for a speedy roll with smooth, chalky edges lasting upwards of eight rollicking hours—goddamn, these pokies sound amazing!”

“What’s that?” Niko asked in trancelike fervor, pointing to where the horizon thickened. Chatter ceased as we beheld a growing shiny light. Being the only structure around for miles it was like an illuminated gem studded in the pitch of night. Guiding us like a blinking neon arrow pointing downwards. So blinding and bright it blacked out the neighboring starlight.

The cab became abuzz with excitement. The static replaced by a sustained audible hum.

My mismatched sensations were impossible to abate. Along with the creeping uneasiness which signaled the first transition. That placebo effect stage which anticipated a shift of epic proportions during the come-up. Inside my hollow skull was a lightness, careless and carefree. Yet, insatiable. A sensation that climbed upwards along my spine and rattled between the shoulder blades.

I was stricken by an onset of heightened perceptions and stimulating sensory effects. The world, our night, and the water of the Great Salt Lake glided by us cloud-like. The pre-buzz to something deeper which lie dormant and currently unknown. The teeter-totter between losing it and staying in control as numbers slipped off the clock.

“We ready for this?” Niko dealt successive rounds of blows to the headrest of the passenger’s seat in uncontrollable bursts of excitement.

“Knock it! I’m pulling off my flask here.” Billy lifted his arm, spilling more on his white cotton shirt than into his mouth.

“May I?”

“That’s your shot on my shirt.”

“Want me to suck it out?”

Billy handed the hip flask to Niko in the back. I stayed silent. Gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. More wide-eyed than ever.

Drawn in like moths towards an electric flame, we took the off ramp and followed the arc of red brake lights to a parking area lit up by streetlamps which shook like barren trees on a windless night.

The parking attendant directed us all the way to the far end of the lot. We drove against a neon line of ravers, who in one long procession appeared in all manners of dress from spooky skeletons and hideous monsters to famous politicians, along with a myriad of other mythical beasts including a motley train of goblins, ghouls, and fairies with sparkly glitter wings amongst other malevolent spirits and mischievous sprites who made use of the night. Holding neon glowsticks with bobbing heads and faces painted to abstraction. Insectoid eyes bulging out of their cloth masks. Their white, pink, and dark flesh shivered freely from their latex or lacy constrictions. Glittery with dewy dribble in their sweat-soaked fervor.

Mouths agape, everyone’s prospects were foretold at once. Overtaken by an ambrosial sense that gripped you by the nostrils.

We found a parking spot in the far corner nuzzled between a horribly parked sedan and a white minivan full of passengers passing around a handle of vodka. Their teeth grit into unnatural grins.

Enraptured by the rush of hot blood in our veins we got flushed with the others. Flowing directly into an alluring cesspool of sin. Where viscid textures stroked our thoughts until turgid once we joined the back of the line, bloated with anticipation and the arousal of intermingling sights and scents which possessed us with mixed desire.

The congested building radiated sweltering heat. Its cavernous entryway swollen from receiving everyone like exclusive members through its wide double-doors in a soft hiss of escaped steam. The Moorish Revival style of the concert hall resembled a bizarre prison-like structure topped with golden onion domes in each corner and looked too alien even for this desert landscape.

Our teeth crunched in eagerness as we bought our tickets for admission only to sweat it out through the security check. We chain-smoked cigarettes to bide our time while Lefty talked loud enough to aggravate anyone within earshot. Without a gun or weapon all I had to worry about was one tiny piece of contraband hidden in my sock. I advanced with my pockets emptied out and arms held high. The security guard turned me around for a pat-down, then released me back into the flow. No curves. No bends.

Abandoning all hope, we entered the gold painted dome.

Cold, stiff, we penetrated through the worn smooth doorway in a loud sucking *pop*­ and made passage through an ultraviolet tunnel. The fierce beat pounding in our rattled chests. Leading us straight into a large open room in which the domed ceiling perspired from every exploited route of transmission. Perforated walls quaked with the added pressure of compacted bodies. Throbbing like an exposed organ. I labored through each humid breath. Gulping the musky air which grew thick with unceasing entry. Ravers thrived in the frenzied shift from freezing cold to unbearably hot and stuffy. Vivid strobe lights sparkled with snare drums set to the backdrop of a mechanized drone. Multi-colored lights and lasers showered the stage in a misty curtain that caressed the contours of our feathered vision. The walls breathing. Blooming with resplendent whirls of damask patterns emitting weblike from unseen fog machines. Sucked by the sway of an amorphous clusterfuck which throbbed to the pounding bass, I traded limb for claw for wing in effort to break through to the other side where a red velvet staircase led up to the 21-and-older section. Affording the best view of the stage and its monolithic twin-tower speaker system.

“We slipped right in, just like I said so,” said Lefty, putting on his aviators which became a permanent fixture for the night. “Better lace up or prepare to be blown out your socks.” He dropped his last pill. Followed by Niko and Billy.

Too distracted by the synthesizers buzzing the base of my skull I took extra time. But the building enjoyment was enough of an argument to let the drugs take full effect. Lefty beamed as I picked out the hidden pill from my sweaty sock and trying not to focus on the added grit, I tilted my head back to allow its direct passage down the hatch. Before I could look up again the others had taken off. Their entry into the rave’s bloodstream cast in pale roseate light.

We permeated the moving body of ears, eyes, and limbs by prying open new holes until losing myself completely in an entanglement of broken parts; a black wig with a gray-white streak, removable vampire fangs, skeleton gloves, fake ak-47’s with plastic ammo belts, yellow police badges and handcuffs, red bandanas, colorful silk kimonos, Cleopatra eyeliner, an Indian headdress covered in feathers, bloody claws, glued-on moustaches, neck bolts, an arrow through the head, Medieval cowls, peace sign medallions, afro wigs, polka dotted ruffs with red round noses, horned Viking helmets, monocles, mummy wrappings, cat ears, chainmail, green tights, gold crowns, plastic scythes, crucifixes, mermaid tails, peg legs, leather biker jackets, and witch hats. No more than ghostly apparitions. All chimeras of iniquity. Fully immersed by the senses I reached out for Niko but found someone else’s arm. Lefty and Billy were nowhere to be seen. Somehow, I had become separated. Stuck in the middle of this mass. It was too dim to make out any of the faces and the deafening din of feel-good electronic music rendered hearing obsolete. Ebullient oscillations flashed in sunset streaks of yellow-reds and tropical green-blues—mixing mashing mincing the prisms of light until losing their definition altogether. The sultry air perfumed with the body odor of sticky flesh. A noisome stench which invaded the nostrils. Groping blindly, I wormed through loose pockets. It was impossible to tell exactly what each hand fell upon, sometimes it felt like an arm, or a full set of hair but occasionally one landed on a shoulder, offering a supportive hold to propel myself along. Being alone was typically a desirable position but it now haunted me in the throes of my shifting experience. I was unable to release my grip from this vicious cycle as every subsequent bass line got answered by an unrelenting jackhammer beat, threatening to split me open on a molecular level. I was forced to shuffle lifelessly along from one spot to another, only to repeat the process all over as tessellations of smokey light spun around me in high pitched circles. Coming from a single organ.

Neuron firing increased. The dial had been turned to its maximum, increasing the levels of each neurotransmitter within the synaptic cleft where its messengers communicated.

Breathing in soupy air, I already felt heavy with exhaustion, my chest cavity sunken as I underwent mercurial shifts. Fluctuating in temperature between boiling hot and frigid cold. Hot, cold. Hot, cold. In endless agony which lasted no longer than a minute. This infernal furnace further stoked more than my rising body heat as a molten lava rush of hot puke rose up and splashed against the back of my cracked throat. Having no desire of letting it out right there on the dance floor, I forced it back down with a grimace.

The crowd lifted me upwards only to swallow me whole again. Chewing me up, without ever spitting me out. Teeming, the room swelled. A strange, uncanny world which bewitched both senses and sight.

Mesmerized. Enthralled by the rhythm of mindless repetition. Propelling forever onward. Acting purely on impulse. Like a floating pair of eyeballs caught in a trance. Covered in a film more scuzzy than cheap pornography. Stuck on sticky surfaces while never accessing the center. Steered by an appetite of decadent stimuli which confounded the senses. Clamorous poppy tones that disoriented every pleasure in unison. No longer could I locate the 21+ section from the emergency exit. The green arrow signs dissipating in mentholated puffs from screw cap vials that affronted the nostrils as my dry tongue worked like mortar and pestle in my mouth. Grinding teeth into a purling paste. Movements stuck in syrup-like consistency as the gilded dome above exploded. Millions of microscopic cracks came crashing down in perfect synchronization to the stage backdrop where the DJ pushed buttons to the wonderment of a hypnotized mob. The stage drop suspended in an entrancing glow. Lights flashed in sour green apple and cotton candy saturation. Sparking heartfelt memories in hot electric arcs by running velvety static fingertips over chafed, dry skin. The material plane reshaping itself in concentric kaleidoscopic fractals that melted upon unresponsive faces. My shutter frame vision captured the scattered ambience of luscious strobe lights and bright aromas. The ears struck by one saw-toothed wave after another. Always rising in a swelling upsurge until the perfectly timed moment the ever-building beat drop­ped—causing the swaying body to quiver in violent climax. The terrible release of an orgiastic overload swept over, my senses pounding. Their peaking crests tasted like freshly shoveled dirt on the back of my tongue. Crumbly, as newly laid sod. I was otherwise invisible. The mere shadow of a substance. Caught in the darkest corner while noting what transpired like an unseen observer. A nameless, blank mind attached to nothing. Bouncing in accordance to whims that left me stomach sick by the endless emissions. I carried on. Stuck in transition. With the motor left running inside. Auto-pilot autonomy. Unable to stop or rest the arches of my aching feet. Any previous doubt as to whether I was rolling was no longer a question. I was in the throes of one of the heaviest sensations I’ve ever felt, drug-induced or not. But contrary to the drug’s name and reputation this was no euphoric release. Being helplessly trapped in the circulatory system of a grotesque, manmade atrocity and looping aimlessly around in fried circuits. I had no means of escaping this lush petri dish. This open, bubbling hotpot of shared infection was more than a curse. It was manufactured, quasi-hippydom with no revolution in mind or vestige of political agenda. Only the soul sucking alternative of surrendering to arabesque patterns of shiny lights and soul-sucking positivity. Youth culture evolved in accordance to its voracious appetite, desiring nothing more than to devour all—including itself. As cravings increased, I yearned to feel numb and cease thought altogether. My body hung limp. Raw, and coarse, feeling like an overused sex organ tapered to nonexistence. Skin was a scuzzy layer covering bare bones. Filthy, dirty, and covered with everyone else’s fluids but my own. Disillusionment slipped to disinterest and disinterest to utter disgust at the gross display of self-indulgence.

Turning away from the hissing synth pad I slid magnetlike through the sticky membrane, languishing until my focus, feeble as it was, anchored itself onto an irradiated merchandise tent which sold neon glow sticks from traditional handhelds to tennis ball orbs and blinking rings fit for every pierced hole imaginable. Looking past the sheer carnivalesque veneer—I retreated to the only place available. Desperate to regain some composure.

I found myself holed up in a bathroom with loud lights. Locked in with the stench of a clogged toilet. My insides churned before a glowing urinal brimming over with somebody else’s stomach contents. Iridescent brown fractals revolving in a porcelain disco ball.

It wasn’t until I stepped away from the urinal that I caught myself in the mirror. The near unrecognizable image reflected my likeness in a vibrant array of striking detail. Hair slicked back with gel and a comb. A plastic set of vampire fangs and fake blood trickled from the corners of my mouth onto a light gray V-neck.

Even with my pulse set to the trigger of an electronic beat the trappings of the living dead never looked so real. With a striking bone-white pallor. And my, how convincingly lifeless the eyes looked. Their wide pupils showing all that had been lost in dark black pools. An expression similar to encounters with ghosts. Exactly when I transformed into this instinct driven, hollow form was unknown, but this frame was like looking through the transparent pane of a shared affliction. Everybody else looked the same. Shallow eyes. Faces of alabaster. Each reflecting an equally horrifying look. Illumined under the tremulous flicker of fluorescent lighting that exposed every conspicuous chip and crack in the stained yellow tile.

What had it come to? Such a visceral reaction was like biting clear to the marrow. I felt out of place in this monstrous carnival of excess. Ridiculous even being bathed in someone else’s sweat.

Such salty sentiments pervaded throughout. But failed to match the priapism of euphoria I first prescribed to when donning this costumed disguise.

I exited the bathroom feeling nowhere close to what I bought into and beyond jaded already. Even with so much at my disposal to potentiate what I wanted from this experience it had turned into an over-embellished headache. I came too late to this banquet of the senses. Where the tanned coconut skin of girls got defiled by the grubby fingers of stout, toad-faced men nearly twice their age. Hundreds of gaping mouths without enough oral fixations to suck on.

Their heaven. My hell. And with all the pulp squeezed out long ago only a hard pit remained.

Old soul. Inexperienced flesh. Time was a scrambled concept. The serotonin antagonists flooded my poor, drug-addled brain as I got caught by the tide of sweaty limbs with even sweatier faces. I made one excuse after another to keep from having fun. No sensibilities left. The only mitigation to my misery was diving headfirst back into debauchery.

The remedy: pop another pill. Like snake-oil palliatives taken with a grain of salt—no mind the bitter aftertaste. Again, I began my desolate search for what I didn’t know how to find. I stuck to the walls. Exploring the side channels thoroughly to find the seedy inner folds where he stood in a corner half-naked and with both hands fastened to hips. No more than a living wax sculpture despite the statuesque stance. His emerald green felt top hat paired with a sequin cane ending at a rhinestone point. Three sphinxes, beautiful to watch, dangerous to touch, clawed up his black satin pants with glossy acrylic fingernails as if he were some raver guru. Most shocking of all was that he used to be my suitemate at the dorm’s last year. For what he lacked in girth he made up by his staggering height. His chest bare and showcasing a ram skull tattoo which spanned shoulder to shoulder. Powders and chemicals were his preference and I used to exchange sacks for whatever he had at the time. Like a large batch of ketamine found in the dumpster of the university hospital. We called him Jonesy because he was a drug addicted bio-chem student with a slight stutter. His emphasis was on chemical feel-goods and most of his higher-education was devoted to the compounds he coveted. Our brief acquaintance was civil considering the frequent visits from campus security about the strange smells drifting in the hallways but I approached in a way that might disarm him. The sound of my voice grating against my ears.

“Hey, Jonesy. Who are you supposed to be, the MadPimper?”

Jonesy stared straight up. Stuck eye-level with the sky as he stared dead ahead with a dozen pill smile plastered upon his face.

Anticipating some contempt for using his nickname, I tried making contact again by grabbing hold of his shoulder.

“’Scuse me, don’t you bother him,” the kitty-cat in front spoke fiercely. Her cheeks painted like red berries.

“Yeah, and his name’s Adonis.” Added a second one who chomped on her bubblegum lollipop with banded braces on her teeth.

Given that I could hardly recognize who stood before me, I started to question whether I even knew him at all.

“Rowan. That will do,” he spoke at last. Rolling harder than a landslide of tumbling boulders as he spoke in a soft, hushed voice. “And the name’s Odin.”

The sphinx retracted her claws. “Isn’t he dreamy, Holly?”

My mouth dropped as if she had asked a riddle.

“L-last p-pa-place I thought to s-see you.” He slipped into his familiar stuttered speech.

“Me and you both, Jonesy—I mean, Odin. Strange trickery crosses our paths this eve. Can you help out?”

He glanced side-to-side to ensure we weren’t being watched while the whiskery felines playfully clutched at his bulging sack.

And here I expected to peter out until the inevitable come down.

“Perhaps,” he scanned me over with lidless orbs, a crooked smile on his face.

Such casual retorts were inflammatory in my present condition, causing me to grab hold of him again.

“For God’s sake, man, tell me how much already?”

He mulled it over as if not already set on a price.

“I’ll sell you entry to Valhalla for t-t-twenty a pop,” he said. His breath like coffin nails.

That was double what we paid earlier! He must’ve read my expression which compelled him to break down the foundation of western capitalism.

“High demand drives higher prices. Tell you w-what, since we have history, I can go down to eighteen—but no lower. H-Hazel,” he addressed the third sphinx laying comfortably in the back. Dressed in tiny strips of angora. “Hand over my pouch.”

She only did so reluctantly. Her wooden eyes divining my intention.

But I was unwilling to barter with him further and rejected the offer altogether. In my experience, happiness never came at the price of a pill.

My interaction with Jonesy only served to dampen the trip further, and with no intention of falling back into that web-like trap of sticky limbs I stayed on the periphery. Wandering the outskirts. Watching the mindless flurry of those who enjoyed themselves to the point of heaving exhaustion. And carry on.

Drifting. Minute after excruciating minute drew by as if being poured from an easily clogged bottle. Damming the flow.

I couldn’t breathe and sought fresh air on the smoking patio out back. There, lungs pumped nicotine back to the brain. I burned that moment of fleeting elation with the rapidity of each cigarette until spotting Billy and Niko huddled closely along the balcony railing besides a shivering, shirtless Lefty.

Spirits newly lifted, along with the gray veil blocking my vision, a smile appeared on my face as if always there to begin with.

Lefty’s face was split like a wood block chopped repeatedly in the same spot. His snaky arm coiled around me to pull me closer.

“Happy to see you,” I said. And I meant it. What a relief it was to reconvene with the boys. Even more so sharing their eye bulging complexion. “What happened to your shirt, Lefty?”

“I puked all over it.” He rubbed his hands together to generate warmth, positively beaming. “Afterwards, I took one look around, said why the hell not and threw it in the trashcan. Where you been?”

“Got a little lost back there. How you feeling, Niko?”

“I’ve been chain-smoking menthols like candy,” he said in a thick pearly plume which blossomed from his throat

“Lemme get one?” Billy dropped mid-conversation with some stranger to shoulder his way over.

“Your turn.” Niko pointed to me before blending in with the wall.

I couldn’t get pissed if I tried. “Guess who I ran into?” I handed the pack to Billy who traded one lit cigarette for another. His face avocado smooth.

“Otis, or whatever?”

Lefty and Niko laughed.

“Yeah, we saw him.”

“That little scoundrel tried ripping me off.” I still couldn’t shake my disbelief.

“He’s a loser. But those girls with him were mighty fine…” Billy’s words trailed off with his eyes.

I sucked in hot smoke. Attempting to fill my hollow chest with its carcinogenic fumes. Held it in. Exhaled. My breathing pattern as the cigarette burned down to the cotton filter. A quavering column of ash. Slowly burning out until I lit another cigarette.

It was never enough. My life being lit like a short fuse without any explosion at the end. A spectacular dud.

And to think I even entertained the notion of meeting someone special tonight. Nothing magical was going to happen like I had secretly anticipated. Which only became more apparent as the roll wore on. As usual, the only one to have any luck talking to a pair of sexy nuns and a cute zombie field nurse was always the least interested. Billy. A disparity which never reciprocated for the rest of us who blended in amidst the chaos.

What should have been a feeling of liberation, dropping every inhibition and living only for the moment was merely another ruse. The crux of why I never accomplished what I aspired to do in the first place was that I paid so much attention to past experience with hardly a thought given to my unforgiving future.

We tossed our butts over the balcony railing and reentered the cataclysm of pink flesh, rubbed raw, and starting to blister and break.

Together again. An icy electric chill caused the taste buds to scream. My saliva being saccharine sweet enough to taste sour. An insoluble compound of opposites.

I held onto glow sticks I couldn’t remember acquiring with a death grip. Their phosphorescent swells flaring like air traffic beacons.

Hours fell off the clock. Dripping like coarse grains of sand. Along with any of the highlights concocted by my chemically altered brain until the migraine-inducing music stopped.

The once masterful rhythm abruptly lost influence over the mob of marching feet. Turning every face pale, white. Wiped blanker than their over-privileged existence as if the mirage all but vanished. The show being over.

Overhead lights switched on, repelling everyone away from the drab-colored walls into the unforgiving cold like scattering insects; crawling, fluttering, scuffling with broken feelers through the sweat-dripping orifice of the only exit. The former entryway.

We left in a desultory fashion. Feeling flaccid, limp, and wrung out like dirty, used washcloths. Every limb left in a weakened state while we sought another monotonous beat to pump our chests.

A couple dehydrated casualties lie outside the still pulsating gateway. Either propped up against the wall or passed out on the slushy concrete looking more chewed up than their pacifiers with more cops than you’d want to see on standby to ensure the crowd moved along.

The bristling silence only broken by intermittent car horns and the starting of engines.

From there it was a wormlike blur of salt flats and techno back to the house where lights were neglected in favor of a strobe light plugged into the corner of the living room which scattered shimmying flickers about the house. Plugging us back into wide-eyed mania.

Lefty locked eyes with mine from across the room before he beckoned me over to him. A wild smile spread over his face like that of a diabolical jester.

“I’ve got a confession to make,” he said, now wearing one of my sweaters and handing me another pill on the sly. “I ran into Jonesy on the way out and I knew you’d want another pill. This was his last one. Who knows you best?”

“Almost better than I know myself,” I said, my eyes half-watered their regards.

“Ain’t that the truth! I just want us to have a good time.”

“I know. It was a little rocky at first, but it all worked out in the end. As it does. Wanna split it?”

He gobbled his half with glee after retrieving a butter knife from the kitchen. “Love you, man.”

“Love you too. That will never change between us. Thanks for making this happen.”

“My pleasure.” He wrapped up with a bow.

“This is where the love’s at,” Niko edged over towards us. Leaning with all of his weight as Lefty pulled him in.

“Are you joining, Billy?”

“I’ma smoke this bowl instead.”

Our drug-laced enjoyment may have failed to generate a heartfelt buzz, but we stayed up late trading our experiences of innocence lost while chewing sticks of gum to shreds. Becoming a melted puddle of voices over the mechanical looping grind. With no intention of ever falling asleep.

In the end, as vexing as it could be repeating the same thing, it was no small sacrifice to know that nothing was worse than faked authenticity.

Thumping bass lines rattled the house. But its foundation remained solid through the night. Even with all the madness locked up inside I was smitten by a warm sensation, trickling from my brainstem down to my toes. My skin tingled as if an army of fire ants trooped over it. The only way to enjoy this sensation was by distorting reality to abstraction. Casting off the regular to become shrouded with foreign garbs and surroundings. Accompanied by smoking countless spliff bowls to even out the roll.

When Billy suggested we watch the sunrise we each grabbed our cigarette packs, all the remaining beer, and the bong, to greet the new day out on the porch. Scattered about the front yard we chain-smoked cigarettes while talking loud enough for the neighborhood to hear.

The sun proved slower than anticipated, prompting Lefty to grab us blankets from inside. Pink spikey mountains against an ice-blue backdrop contrasted sharply with the drab gray which smothered the still sleeping city. Skinny, leafless tree limbs reached upwards. Locked in a permanent stretch.

Bright starlight faded into an unseen symphony of chirps conducted by daybreak. We fell silent at once. A distant train horn was all that could be heard along with the fall of Niko’s feet on the pavement as he started Greek dancing. He hadn’t stopped moving since our return. Held over by the sway of a shared rhythm.

I stared up along the mountain ridge. Anticipating the coming spark which would ignite its broken spine. But this process was not as simple as the flipping of a switch.

Again, the train horn rang through still air. Again, again, and again. Sounding off like a signal of sorts for how my thoughts had turned. Turned to my Elan SCXs collecting dust in the closet. Turned to living like a piece of furniture while I grew old with decay. I was finally coming to terms with my discontent. Right when insufferable night got broken up by a fiery blaze which made the rooftops diamond-encrusted under the new sun.

Daylight crept over the blackened crest, burning brighter as it illumined the darkest corners in a radiant flame, cradling us with torchlike fingers until the firmament was alight. Along with it came a blinding roll­. Like a gushing fountain spilling forth to reveal every hidden crack and crevice.

“Those beautiful colors are made by pollution, you know?” Lefty’s offhand remark was too off-putting for my liking.

Blame the dopamine-fried synapses in my brain, but I envisioned myself upon the summit with nothing but the cool breeze. Although the lingering doubt remained. It hinted that one might be able to unlock the deeper aspects of life. If they only worked hard enough.

With more days to live through than potential pleasures I had no desire to waste away on cheap thrills while leaving a life’s calling untended. And ever since my run-in on the mountain I kept returning to the biggest fantasy. Pursing what I loved most. Something which could only be achieved by stripping myself free of every friend, distraction, and inhibition alike.

From out the ashen remains of this drug-fueled chaos, I was reborn. I hadn’t pulled an all-nighter in years and forgot some of its hidden splendor. Smitten with a warm, fuzzy elation that broke into cold sweats, trickling like icicles, while fiery sensations shot me further into a feverish, sleep-deprived delirium.

With an open heart, I embraced the sunshine pouring forth which broke up the gray eastern sky with a white moon visible in the northwest.

We’d been tuned to the same frequency at last. Along with it came a sense in which your very being was palpable. Where you were alive. Everything coalescing into one of those rare experiences where your existence was truly felt.

There may be no universal favor or conspiracy working against me. But choosing an origin point was simple. Like turning a page in the story.

The train horn ringing clear as day.

Only hours later—burned out—my brain felt like an elastic band about to snap. A cold, sharp shiver coursed through my body amidst hot flashes. The drawn shades left me in total darkness as I thrashed beneath the bed covers. Staring at the ceiling. Unable to sleep.

I sank even deeper. Blackness closed round the edges of my consciousness. Except it never fully snuffed the spark of my ever-burning passion. I always seemed to turn away in the face of adversity—like how I handled the coach’s invitation to join Carbonado’s ski club. Or the Academy, as it was called.

Lying awake already, no dream could distract me now from what needed to be done.

Bluish light emanated from the soft glowing TV screen. Flashes of technicolor animation on a muted screen. Illuminating a fallen army of beer cans and bottles spilt on the coffee table along with the granulated, peppery debris from two overflowing ashtrays. In the midst of the worst comedown of my short, puny existence, I waded through the aftermath of last night’s wreckage with hubcap-sized pupils to find the bong and slip away from the mess I’d have to later clean.

But there weren’t enough bong hits to account for my clouded decision making. Or conceal my idle reclusion which clung onto me like stale smoke. Living behind this smokescreen in vain attempt to be hidden away in obscurity.

Whenever the vapors had cleared, I was that leftover stain. A festering, fungating wound haply infecting whatever it touched.

Wildly indulgent. All I wanted was to marry that passion buried deep down inside with my own means. To become a wholly different beast. A new breed. The likes of which had never been seen.

And being more than ready to break the mold I was cast from I couldn’t pass this golden opportunity by.

I ached from head to toe. Unsure exactly what to do after picking up the phone. As if trembling in the driver’s seat, my foot on the gas pedal. I dialed the number on the card handed to me on the mountain what felt like ages ago.

I paced back and forth. Deliberate as a pendulum. The phone pressed into the tender cartilage of my ear. I started to plan for the dreaded possibility of having to leave a voice message. They never translated over the way you wanted them to and I possessed the unfortunate affliction of not knowing when to end them before trailing off in unnecessary digressions from the point.

The call rang out in reassurance this wasn’t meant to be when someone picked up on the other end.

“Hello?” The deep voice persisted—distant as the bottom of a well at first, but reverberating louder by the decibel.

My arid, strident throat collapsed. The driftwood tongue inside of it crumbled to dust and leaving me, the caller, with absolutely nothing to say.

If I hung up now, he’d only be calling back so I creaked open my unwilling mouth to allow the rest to spew out— “Uh yes, hello. Mr. Price?”

A long pause ensued.

“Speaking…”

“OK great, I got the right number. We uh, met at the resort the other day,” the word vomit continued to rise.

More silence.

“I hope I’m reaching you at a good time. Something’s been weighing heavily on my mind. It was an error on my part to turn down your offer. And I, uh, thought about it and wondered if you still had an open position? I was the one who raced Drake, by the way.”

“Oh, I remember. I wondered when you’d call. I just thought it’d be much sooner.”

“Erm yes, I promise to play nice with others. Please, give me this one shot to prove it not only to you but most importantly myself.”

“Listen, there was never a slot available. You can’t simply come and go as you please. I work only with the best this valley has to offer and require full discipline coupled with your unyielding dedication. If you’re up for the challenge of being pushed to your maximum potential, I’ll give you a chance.”

“No problem considering how tortured I’ve been over how we left off,” I began to find my words. “What’s the next step?”

“As I said, you are subject to no different than the rest of your teammates and I expect to see you on the mountain tomorrow morning at 0600. Get some rest tonight. It’s going to be a long day in the weight room. And don’t forget those skis. We try to squeeze in a couple runs to close practice.”

“Can’t wait! Thanks again, Mr.—

“That’s Coach Price to you.” He corrected me with a noted absence of warmth. “I didn’t dedicate the greater part of my life to this discipline without earning my honorific title.”

“Erm—my apologies, Coach Price.” I added for good measure.

“I should also mention team fees are due in full tomorrow. November 1st—consider them your dues—they officiate your status with the Alpine Ski organization once paid. I’ll grant you an extension until next week.” Before I could even ask, he answered all my burning questions: “Eleven hundred covers every cost from food to your official ski gear. Anyone representing AST is expected to look the part on the mountain. This does not include any future trip expenses for camp, tournaments, etc. We currently train three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, Friday. See you next week not so bright and early.”

“Got it. When was that again?”

“The team meets six o’clock sharp in the south dining hall by the stairs. You can’t miss it.”

My head rang well after the call ended. I somehow went from mulling over the potential of recreational racing to signing up with a competitive ski club.

All without a chance for rebuttal.

Even with this remedy for all ills I felt like the same raw nerve as before. I prepared in advance to doggy-paddle through tempests with no island in sight. Always uncertain of what came next. Skiing had always provided me a solitary experience no other could match. Which meant there was more pressure than ever to apply myself in a way that was rewarding. Or I’d only have myself to blame.

The black dog sensed my nervous energy and raised its head up to return a melancholy gaze before sinking back into its slumber. Zoning out, I patted the coarse matted fur on its hunched shoulders until its black eyes gradually shut.

Despite the glowing opportunity to train with the Academy nothing had changed. The house was in shambles. And I’m yet to return calls to the family with the manacles of past regret keeping me chained to the blatant refutation of every convention. Both of my parents were masters in their respective fields and our relationship remained amicable up until I totaled my car on Christmas break my first semester of college. I wasn’t even under the influence but had so many prior speeding tickets it resulted in a suspended license. And fearing I had been lost to the grips of my drinking and pot dependency they moved me to the dorms from which I was promptly kicked out a week shy of summer vacation. I got a kidney stone. Lost weight. Had your typical bad first experience trying to live with friends before settling into my one-bedroom rental.

Now there weren’t enough drugs to fumigate my skull. Becoming exhausted just waiting for a meaningful event to occur I soon relapsed into the usual comforts of charring lung tissue and pooling my liver right as a dejected Niko showed up with an unopened bottle of scotch.

Day burned to night. I buzzed well until bedtime where the gravity of my recent commitment hit me like a concrete pillow. Equal parts excited and nervous, I was determined to end my desperate searching via rote discipline. Boldly starting a fresh new page to a narrative in which I ascended to heights unknown. However unlikely that might be.

Tonight’s bud always blossomed into tomorrow’s doubt.

The following morning I woke up swathed in a blanket of sweat. My esophagus burning as I filled the toilet bowl with the contents of my stomach. After a couple dramatic dry heaves to ensure it was all out, I raised up from the bathroom sink and washed my face with lukewarm water.

Already trapped in a heady haze, which came accompanied by an overwhelming sense of some pressing matter, I was tightening the sash on my robe when I tripped over a slumbering body in the middle of the walkway.

I hopped over howling, yelling obscenities while holding my stinging foot in both hands.

Niko was still there from last night snoozing on the living room floor. I hobbled over to the couch where I tossed a few scrawny nugs in the grinder right as Lefty came waltzing in the front door.

If he wasn’t pounding on it at the crack of dawn, then I conveniently left it unlocked for him.

“Niko’s still here?”

Lefty gave the snoring log a kick.

“Don’t you have work soon?”

“Whah-hh?’ Niko bolted upright with a sustained yawn before checking the time. “Aww shit, I was supposed to be at the restaurant an hour ago, my dad’s gonna kill me.”

“Thank God someone was up. I’m battling the worst hangover and needed to medicate.” Lefty said.

“Hair of the dog?” Niko suggested, already unscrewing the cap of a mostly finished bottle of Scotch.

“I’ve gotta work today,” Lefty backed up to the wall.

“Pour me up,” I said. Niko poured into the same sticky shot glasses we used last night. Spilling onto the table in his hastiness.

“Bottoms up.” (clink) “Another?”

He poured the shots. Then was out the door. Smacking his lips with a fire in his belly. Again, I was struck by a pressing engagement I couldn’t seem to remember.

“Got anything going on today?” Lefty asked, almost haughtily. The implication stung. Still, nothing came to mind as I loaded up a bowl to smoke.

I checked my phone and nearly had a heart attack. Not only had I slept through my alarm but it had been switched to silent mode. Already there was a missed call from Coach Price. Along with a new voice message I never heard.

I jumped to my feet.

“Gotta go!”

“Something going on today?” Lefty didn’t bother hiding his incredulity.

“Right now!” I frantically scrambled to collect my ski gear scattered about the house. My head began to hurt worse than my thumping hangover.

“You don’t have anywhere to be. Not like you have to clock in somewhere.” Lefty’s chuckling followed me out of the living room into my bedroom.

I paid him no mind as I rifled through the contents of my dresser drawers with shaky hands—shoving ski goggles, a pair of thermals, and a mismatched pair of gloves into a black gym bag with a broken zipper.

It would be another rough start without breakfast. I didn’t have time to smoke another bowl. But I did so anyway.

“What could you have going on?” Lefty pressed. His curiosity piqued.

But I was already outside with the door shut before another word could be said. Speeding towards the purple-hued mountains.

I made it about halfway down the street before realizing my ski boots got left behind.

Coach Price would have some words for me. But how many four-letter ones remained to be seen.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

“I’m a jinn of magical abilities far beyond your simple level of understanding. I have no desire for petty introductions or engaging in small talk. In order for me to be fully free from my shiny prison I shall grant you three wishes of your choice.”

The Slave thought to himself aloud.

“All I ever wanted was true happiness. Having been in servitude to my master my entire life and have only observed happiness acquired through the accumulation of wealth. With that being said I believe I can achieve happiness through only one wish, and that would be un-measurable wealth.”

“Ha!” The jinn boomed with laughter. “I could never grant enough wishes to make a human happy. Nonetheless, your wish shall be granted at once! When you’re ready I’ll be awaiting your second wish within the lamp.”

At once the Man found himself in a beautiful dining hall. The large room kept lit by panes of colorful stained-glass windows and supported by tall pillars lined with filigree of gold and silver. The Man instantly recognized this fancy hall as the one he had served his master Zihad for years, but now he was seated at the table. On a pillowed throne and dressed in a silk garb. Suddenly a dozen servants entered through the dazzling archways with platters of food and full pitchers of wine. Among the servants was Zihad himself who the Man made an example of by beheading him with a cutlass before all.

The King quickly became recognized as the richest, most powerful person and dictated his political authority over his nation. He married the most attractive woman from the city and stuck her current husband on a stake to officiate their engagement. The King lived for many years partaking in all of man’s pleasures like a gluttonous swine. He had three sons, each of which he spoiled with the privilege of gifts and being fitted with the softest threads.

Soon, old age began to plague the King and his sons began to plot against him for his fortunes.

Deeply distraught, he returned to the lamp which he had stashed away long ago not thinking he would ever need it. The cool lamp felt heavy in his feeble, wrinkled hands as he rubbed it with his sleeve. Once again, the jinn emerged from it to grant his second wish.

“It was only a matter of time before you’d be back,” the jinn laughed.

“Truly I thought my wealth would finance happiness but this I found to be false indeed!” The brittle King exclaimed, moonlight lighting every wrinkle of his leather face, “Now I have the wish that shall grant the solution I so desperately seek! My second wish is everlasting health and life.”

“This shall be granted at once! Remember: inquire for me within when ready for your third and final wish!” The jinn proclaimed and retreated back to the confines of the lamp.

The King felt the ache in his joints disappear. The weight lifted from his shoulders. The mirror on the wall reflected a visage that was more youthful than he’d seen in years. He could run faster, jump higher, and spar longer than his own kids who were at their prime. His people were amazed, if not frightened, by his defiance to gracefully age and revered him as a spiritual figure and prophet. And with all his newfound spare time he read many books and became educated on the matters of men until building a library for himself.

The more knowledgeable the Wise Man became, the more he noticed the two great follies of man. Avarice and war. He tried teaching against these wrong ways of life but learned the people only perceived his message as powered by wealth.

The Wise Man continued on for many generations. Living longer than his kids, then grandkids, and attended all of their funerals with a cascade of saltwater pouring from his eyes. He attempted starting new families several times but ultimately could only live with them until their deaths.

At last, the Wise Man felt as if he could not bear one more funeral and returned to the lamp. Which, by now, had lost most of its luster. After fumbling for it in his robe, he rubbed it for the last time. Then broke down in sobs.

“I have lived for fifty generations and watched every bloodline die.Furthermore, I’ve studied every text ever written and become wiser each day with life’s experience. Yet now I know that man’s pleasures are bound to a cyclical system that can never be satisfied. So, for my last wish I ask to no longer live in pain and misery.” The Wise Man said, knowing perfectly well this would finally be the wish that led him to true happiness.

The jinn floated there with his arms crossed before him.

“Aha—finally, a wise wish indeed! And fitting enough to free two immortal souls in one day and I shall grant that at once!” The jinn exclaimed, and with a bright flash of light the bedroom was empty, save for a rotted corpse. A rusty oil lamp clutched in its hands.

© 2026 [R-Complex Press]

Share

R-COMPLEX 001

Black Diamond Jed Doggo

4.92MB ∙ EPUB file

Download

Download

A supreme failure. Years in the making. Black Diamond isn’t about skiing. It’s about mountains, valleys, and all that which lies between. Step into a winter wasteland. A 20-year-old faces a crossroad being stuck between finding another job or continuing classes at university while weathering wasted nights with friends, the demands of being a small-time drug dealer, and just about every cultural norm. In a decisive moment spurred by a competition with an up-and-coming ski racer he answers his inner call to greatness by picking up his skis. Getting himself well over his head in the process by training with Coach Price for the competitive circuit. Already late to the game he starts to address his performance from the presentation to its execution. Neither of which come naturally due to a slew of bad habits and behavior. It isn’t until a new ritual is in place that any change can occur.

Black Diamond is a testament to the pursuit of self-transformation. Whether one occurs in the end of the story matters not. The essence of change is in the process and the willingness to see something through even if there’s no podium finish. The glory for any competitor comes when they’re placed in the starting position. In that fleeting golden moment before a run where anything might be possible. Where all you can rely on is the culmination of your effort, discipline, and training. The totality of an experience—both the good and bad—that defines one’s life after they found the courage to fail. Again and again. Until they get it right. Or not. If Jed Doggo’s debut novel accomplishes anything, it is by giving a gentle nudge, if not the repeated prodding, to realize one’s true potential and pursue a dream no matter how far from reach they seem. Especially if there’s no encouragement to do so. Or the results fall flat. All one can hope for is to make a name for themselves doing exactly what they love.

Chapters: I-XII, 578 pages

MISSING THE MARK - JED DOGGO

R-COMPLEX 002

Missing The Mark

139MB ∙ EPUB file

Download

Download

Missing the Mark. A 33-page chapbook of poems, photographs, and a short story from inside the mind of our reclusive rockstar. Psychedelic hell for the entire family. To further navigate Jed’s vision of “Paradise Lost” for the modern era is a map of the Miltonic Universe on the cover along with sacred imagery collected from his travels.

Fertile soil to plant the bud from which the mystery rose. ~*~

UP NEXT:

R-COMPLEX-03 PIERCE THE VEIL: COLLECTED ESSAYS - JAMES CLINE

R-COMPLEX-04 NAKED MUSE - JED DOGGO

Share

Missing the Mark. A 33-page chapbook of poems, photographs, and a short story from inside the mind of our reclusive rockstar. Psychedelic hell for the entire family. To further navigate Jed’s vision of “Paradise Lost” for the modern era is a map of the Miltonic Universe on the cover along with sacred imagery collected from his travels.

Fertile soil to plant the bud from which the mystery rose. ~*~

Spring 2026

© 2026 [R-Complex Press]

Share

Share

Time. That interminable worm. Whose indifference to all that it consumed kept open its toothless mouth as a series of unrelenting snowstorms swept through the week—whitewashing the whole city. What began as mild flurries kicked up into strong winds accompanied by heavy snowfall. I spent each day more reclusive than ever. Shut in. Somewhere between cribbed and confined. Even amidst company. The sluggish hours crept by in a slime trail with no end. Mornings began the same. Crawling stomach-sick out of bed and feeling my way towards the living room for a couple bong hits to mitigate the daily routine of dealing with the same people. Transacting nothing of value to prevent them from blending together. Last weekend remained a blur. Including the party. I barely remembered leaving, let alone getting home. I later learned Lefty found me stumbling along the Van Winkle Expressway in search of one of those 24-hour greasy burrito joints for some late-night drunchies. When he rolled down the driver’s side window, I merely recited my order to him: a bacon and egg breakfast burrito with red hot sauce. And a large horchata to wash it down. My apathetic fever lasted well until Thursday evening. Which happened to coincide with the cessation of snowfall altogether. A mountain of snow had piled up to the windows. The ground glossy and glistening like newly shed skin. Bleached to the point of blinding. This change in mood afforded a nice opportunity to bundle up with a fifth of whiskey, (it was time too, for it nearly went stale along with these thoughts of mine which, amongst others, took me adrift to distant shores upon the edge of consciousness itself…) where I awoke late-Friday morning on the couch to the TV playing and all the lights left on. The back door blown open, allowing a couple inches from the prior night’s offering to stack up on the bottom steps. The split between half-drawn curtains caught my eye as a ray of sunlight poked through—lighting a coffee table cluttered with loose trash likely stuck with dried spills already before touching my forehead with its sharp point. Illuminating the motes of dust which spiraled lazily in its bright beam. It was the end of another week and I was confronted with the same perspective as the day before in my sequestered state. A vantage I’ve become much too accustomed to viewing. In the bathroom I shivered at the touch of cold tile. Water pipes groaned as I cranked the shower valve hot enough to warm my bones. I basked in the steamy vapors. Letting the humidity coat me over along with the mirror and walls until scalding water met bare skin. I suffered through it knowing I’d lose heat soon enough as it cascaded from a broken showerhead stuck somewhere between sputter and spray. Cleansing far more than a week’s worth of filth. A hint of change was there. Nothing felt more refreshing than a hot shower to reset the scales and start new. Clearing all past inhibitions as if they were forgotten. Lukewarm water hammered my crown, washing away the dirt and negativity alike: all that which weighed me down, along with the growing fear I wouldn’t ever have any control, scrubbed from my bony contours then rinsed away to spiral around a clogged drain in sudsy, black ringlets rising past my ankles. I stepped out the shower a new man. Cleansed. Renewed. Fresh as the ozone smell following a rainstorm despite using a dirty bath towel to dry off. Afterwards I squeezed a flattened white tube to spread a scant layer of chartreuse toothpaste onto the stiff nylon bristles of an old toothbrush. Clockwise; I brushed off the previous night’s flavors caking onto my teeth. Sea-white foam filled their yellow, coffee-stained cracks. I brushed even harder to counteract the neglected dental work which threatened to bring ruin to my gums—and was that a wiggly molar? I spat in the sink. A thick, bloody wad which didn’t want to go down the drain. I raised back up to encounter that grim reflection I hardly recognized anymore. The steamy mirror streaked in droplets which dissipated the hazy veneer to reveal a gaunt, skull-like face. Grave in all manners of appearance. Its facial expression fixed and complacent. Papery skin pulled taut and delineated by a dark jaw line and arched cheeks beneath deeply sunken eyes that blinked blankly in their sockets. My apathy laid bare in every emotion. Cheeks were unshaven and scruffy. Uncontained as the curls on my head. Overall, it fit the countenance of thriftless action, and of one who reveled in the spoils of time well spent. The despair of which purpled oblong circles upon the white canvas of an already sullen pallor. I continued to examine the vaguely familiar mask of flesh. The steam fading. With a smile I could imagine my likeness plastered across magazines and high-definition TV screens. If not for the mark which caused me to detest the image even more. A red explosion of tiny blood vessels like a gun blast to the left temple. Vanity was merely superficial and I was angrier with having considered it than the actual reality. Done with that, I threw on some loose-fitting clothing which hung awkwardly off my wiry frame and settled back onto the sofa. My stomach clenched. An all too familiar squeezing twisting writhing of that reptilian parasite which had returned to prey on my equally famished innards. I felt like a stock character stuck in the subplot of another’s narrative. I sat there racking my brain over how to begin the next chapter without knowing how to end the current one. In lieu of a mythic origin story, modern man’s jaded attitude was a reaction to life’s daily drudgery. If only I could take command of the script. Ink lines in my own chicken scratch writing. Having faced enough adversity in adolescence, one either learned how to swim or risk floundering in this free-for-all septic tank of human waste. Take your pick. I yearned to reach out and take ahold of the wheel. Speeding out of the fast lane where I’d been idling. Even if that meant assimilating with the rest of society on my terms. I’ve always despised institutions and basing your whole identity on them. And my contempt was only a placeholder for something far more shadowy in nature. I would have to confront my fears head-on in pursuit of the only consistent love I held. Even if left unseen from the outskirts where I reside. Humans desired to belong. But I already knew I’d never be accepted into the club. Let alone wear their uniform. Like slaves to the hourglass. All to live out a glorified existence propagated by a base instinct to compete in an imagined global economy controlled by corporate interests. The result was a glossy decal which distinguished the few who benefitted most from the system. One only had to peel it off to see through the chintzy facade. However vain it might be, one had to be recognized by the world to be born into existence. Maybe after hitting rock bottom, I’d finally pull off the greatest act ever seen. And in this yearning to present myself for all to see in its entirety I realized the only inspiration derived from my paltry life came from a single source. Skiing. The one thing I enjoyed doing. Therefore, a leap of faith would be necessary to join the contest. If not a fatal plunge.

Now I just needed to learn everything there was to know about ski racing.

I searched in my bundled coat on the floor for my pack of smokes and the flyer I happened to remove from the Drunken Moose all those nights ago. It made perfect sense. Masters league racing afforded the perfect opportunity for adults of all ages to compete. Chalk it up to one instance where smoking might have saved my life with signups later in the afternoon.

I sparked up a cigarette and seized the new day by checking the weed jar. Empty! That meant I had to reup too. After wasting much valuable time wondering whether I really smoked so heavily I scrounged around the coffee table for a stray nug or pinch of shake to keep my pounding head at bay. Probing with outstretched fingers while I ripped the insides of the coffee table apart until they lay spilled out onto the carpet.

I knew I was low, but not entirely out. I checked the jar again. Hard to imagine it held a quarter-pound mere days before. Now only a thin fuzzy layer of crystalline dust in the grinder’s catcher remained, twinkling in the late-morning light. I sunk to embrace this only alternative. A tobacco plug covered in scoops of kief would tide me for the time being and work to unknot my nerves. Until they retightened again.

After the slappy I became smitten with a head-splitting migraine. Like the result of repeatedly hitting concrete.

Along with the near-constant anxiety of dread eating away at me, the prospects of trying out something new hammered my already shot nerves. And not having weed to smoke was the cherry on top of the shit cake.

Lingering, anxious thoughts hovered specter-like over me while I considered abandoning my efforts to spare any future embarrassment. Curled up with a blanket at home. Alone and content. Yet, yearning for more. This wasn’t how I expected the events to unravel. But I had to try something. Something different. Something new. While still in the heat of the moment and motivated to start a discipline. If forced to endure this existence—devoid of every daydream and fancy borrowed from any book or movie—than I’d enjoy it mostly out of spite. No rulebook. No calculated strategy. No longer eking by while I went through the motions. No. I would no longer play it safe. Passive and silent. For once I wanted to make noise. Holding the reins to ardor unbridled. I wanted to rumble the earth. Topple tall mountaintops. Rend the sky apart.

Not like I had anything better to do.

I was committed to taking charge. No longer driven by uncertainty. Forget living a life of quiet desperation. It was about time to establish my story. Whatever that was.

And who knows, maybe, just maybe I might luck out on this gamble.

I glanced at the flier again. It was already a quarter past noon with less than an hour for me to get to Carbonado Ski Resort.

Hit by the fast rush of dopamine—I nearly got knocked over in anticipation. My out of whack digestive tract flipped acrobatically about, turning, twisting, tight, as I contemplated every possible outcome. None of them favorable.

I gathered my ski gear while the coffee maker was set to gurgle.

Like usual there was nothing to eat in the cupboards. A full thermos of black coffee would have to do. The taste of which was so bold it slapped the lips off your face. Prompting me to light a cigarette in parting.

Out into the cold world. Unhinged—I opened up to a much brighter and sunny day. Sunlight reflected brightly off cars and rooftops and every snow-laden tree bough beneath the blue streaked sky. My vision gradually adjusted to the staggering brightness as I used an arm to brush off my car which was buried like a shiny diamond within a snowy mound.

Driven back to my skis again I had the impetus needed to act upon. I half-expected a black cat to run across my path, or a flying crow to blot out the sun. Even the most auspicious sign would’ve been a foreboding omen for this wound-up ball of knots.

The past routine of settling for satisfaction had proven to be merely a short-term release without gain. A crutch for putting off greater responsibilities. Which I was always on the run from with the fear of failure nipping right at my heel.

Somehow, someway. Today would be different.

It had to be.

Except my outing required a quick detour first…

Every path to the upper east side was plagued by stoplights. I was fucked for time regardless and accelerated with cellphone in hand, searching through my contact list. Yes, I relied on dealers. Which placed me at their mercy for whenever it came to supplying the product. I was in the bad habit of cycling through several hooks to leverage the profits of one to pay off the debts of another. Unsure what my current standing was, I called my regular hook. Hoping by some miracle he’d be available this early.

With a throbbing pulse in my veins, I sped from one traffic light only to slam on my brakes at the next. Seeing red at every green as my route got impeded by a geriatric couple jaywalking across the street. Each obstacle along the way prolonged my growing fear: either he wasn’t home, or even worse—but no, I couldn’t bear the thought of that.

Not only were most dealers serving themselves but they liked being as inconvenient as humanly possible. In my case, they either won’t stop blowing up your phone or had the uncanny knack for disappearing when completely dry. Worse yet, were the times having to wait for your dealer’s dealer to pick up. Sometimes they were all dry at the same time. Resulting in depression-like conditions lasting for weeks on end. Due to their unpredictability, I’ve known a revolving cast throughout my tenure; a border smuggling pilot turned police informant, along with two older dudes I met valet parking who grew coral on the side, and let’s not forget the return missionary who didn’t start drinking and using drugs until his mid-20’s as if making up for lost time. The only shared trait was their peculiar habits. Like one living in a downtown apartment building who was too lazy to walk down the stairs so he dropped his keys from his fifth-floor window. Or my last dealer who was a purist and absolute snob with his glass by refusing anyone to spliff and changed the water out of his bong between each hit.

I tried calling again. No answer. In moments such as these I was less of a supplier than a full-blown addict. I ended the call by throwing my phone onto the passenger seat floor. I bet he wasn’t even out of bed yet. On a good day he was hard to reach, and when he did pick up his calls they ended as quickly as they began. Already being so close I could still drive by and knock his door down.

Each sip from the thermos did little to calm my livewire nerves. The piping-hot concoction burned my lips, irritating the back of an already scratchy throat. I took another heavy swig while swinging slightly too wide onto State Street. The white van I almost cut off in the lane next to me laid on its horn.

To avoid from stopping at another red light I wrenched the steering wheel to the left, slicing through two lanes of traffic to merge into the left-hand turn lane. More horns blared behind me after this maneuver but they didn’t resemble police sirens so I gassed it onto I-80 East. Last thing I needed was another speeding ticket. But given the hour, time was of the essence to make it up the canyon. Good thing most working cops slept in.

My contact lived in a peaceful suburban home amid a tangle of upscale neighborhoods on the east bench of the Wasatch Mountains called the Cove. I wound through homes with dormered windows and snow-covered roofs and white eaves located on what was deemed the good side of town. Where snow-laden pines hung over steep, curvy streets. Their saggy twisted boughs scratched the roof of my car ever so slightly. One could easily get lost in the labyrinth of dual turns and dead ends but past experience guided me well. Left turn. Up to the top of the hill. Right. A second right. Through the dip I paid no mind to my undercarriage loudly scraping, following the bend in accordance to a route well worn by memory all the way to Thorny’s.

I arrived there in record time and left the car engine idling curbside. The quiet suburban street felt exposed as I tried concealing my panic in broad daylight. Meeting the good, wholesome neighborhood with criminal vigilance. This wasn’t taxable wholesale goods I was after. All I could bank on was Thorny’s mom to be working and out of the house.

Thorny made his abode in the basement. Which I accessed around the side of the house. Briskly, I stole across the backyard. Hugging the wall to avoid detection. From there I crept warily each snow crunching step.

I found the back door ajar. I was about to tap on the window until becoming paralyzed in fright when two terriers charged out yelping and begun nipping at my heels.

Moments later Thorny stood there blinking in the sunlight with a sparkling blue eye. A dirty mess of blond hair filling the doorway with a twitchy nose poking out of it.

“Sup, turtle bean?”

“Sorry I don’t have much time,” I blurted out before I had the chance to conceal my intent. To which, he responded in his usual lackadaisical manner.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he disappeared into the house. He reemerged seconds later. “Coming in?”

“You knew I was coming?” I sighed in disbelief.

“You called me.”

“More than once.”

His bedroom opened longwise. An almost tunnel-like underground dwelling lit predominately by ultraviolet light from a rectangular fish tank filled with a delicate ecosystem of colorful angelfish and tetras with rainbow stripes that was slowly overtaken by algae and snails. Frankincense and sage failed to conceal the odd smells with piles of drug paraphernalia left wherever it was last handled; strips of blotter paper in the couch cushions, a gnarled bonsai tree neglected to the point of being deadwood upon a shelf cluttered with otherworldly trinkets and knick-knacks, scented candles, burning incense, and his collection of crystals and other colorful, polished stones to compliment the mystical ambiance. All this scattered amidst a baffling array of smoking devices he collected over the years like a modern-day alchemist. From fuming glass obelisks to handblown percolating alembics of every variety along with his dab rig all displayed neatly lined on the shelf. The ever-enigmatic Thorny, a superstitious type prone to throw your white lighter out of the car during a space cruise through the neighborhood, drew inspiration from burying himself in useless junk. Seeking wisdom in long-overdue library books he regarded as grimoires with broken covers and many dog-eared pages either ripped and torn out or hung loosely from their split spines.

“You caught me in the midst of some deep navel gazing,” Thorny spoke about as slowly as he moved, drifting across his bedroom with a fleeting yawn. “Real heavy, intense work. Like lifting weights with your mind, man.” A head shorter than the average, Thorny’s bright, rosy cheeks and twitchy eyebrows got framed by a squat face with buggy eyes set too far apart. Take a page from his tome and you’d be part New Age shaman and part purveyor of mind-altering illicit chemicals. A curious mix of jack-Mormon and conspiracy nut, one summer he was introduced to cannabis and transformed overnight from a skater kid the ladies loved to a sexless Orphic sage. Returning from summer break with pithy sacks of arcane knowledge in fold top sandwich bags and a couple grams of kief wrapped up in parchment paper under the heel of his boot. In time he became my first dealer and a mentor of sorts. Selling me dime bags out of his buddy’s run-down Winnebago between classes at high school. Eventually hooking me up with my first half-ounce when I got into the game. Giving me fourteen individually wrapped one-gram baggies.

“Sorry again to bother you like this,” I stopped short after becoming distracted by his antiquated wall clock in which the second hand wasn’t ticking.

“Your clock is broken.”

“Precisely. Only once you seek futility in chronological irrelevance can you be enlightened! Take this marine chronometer for instance, which of course measures sea change. It’s a memento mori of sorts. Straight from the fourth-dimension.”

Thorny sat half lotus on the floor. Beneath the shape of a hanging three-dimensional star formed by two intersecting tetrahedrons. His headdress of dirty blond tendrils nearly dreaded itself and wormed every which way as he ferreted through a mound of turkey bags full of weed trimmings on the floor.

Fifteen minutes closer to my deadline already I didn’t have time for one of Thorny’s doomsday sermons. “Forget I asked.”

Thorny cleared his throat in one bullfrog croak.

“Why so hasty this fine and beautiful morning? It’s bad juju to stress so early, y’know. Ever have your chakras aligned?”

“Not recently. I’ll cut right to it. You’re running a business here and believe me, I want to be making money for you just as badly so I need to pick up. Look, I’ve even brought the money.”

“Don’t you still owe me half from the last time?”

I began to plead.

“That’s how you’ll get paid back. I basically lose money by not selling it.”

“Where there’s crisis, lies an opportunity. But I wish I could’ve saved you the trip over here—I can’t help out, I’m afraid. We can put that money towards your outstanding debt, however.” He brandished a black-and-white composition notebook in front of my face. Its pages scribbled over with so many digits like indecipherable sigils or runes. As with any uncharitable guest who had no bounds I approached the matter from another angle.

“I don’t need the full installment now. How about a quarter?”

“Single?”

“Dub?”

“Any tiny nug would do!”

Facilitating a dialogue with Thorny’s misfiring synapses was beginning to take its toll. He merely fixed me with an inscrutable stare not unlike the broken clock face before responding in a soft-spoken voice as if trapped in pursuit of a fleeting thought.

“Sorry, I’m drifting again… You were saying?”

It took everything in my power not to explode on him. Do you have it or not! What other possible reason could there be for my frantic, frenzied state? Especially showing up before such a nerve-racking event. Another glance at the actual time spurred a renewed sense of haste.

“I didn’t want to completely invade your space—but there must be something you can sell!”

“Go ahead. Take a gander. Leave no rock unturned while you’re at it. It will yield the same result.”

“Which is?”

“Nothing. I’m out.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. Of all the days for him to be dry why did it have to be now?

“When do you pick up?”

He studied the richly woven mandala tapestry pinned to the far wall as he thought it over. I nearly suffered from cardiac arrest.

“Hmm not until later tonight. If not tomorrow. But you’re in luck, I’ve got another item in store, one moment please...” In one swift motion he swung a leg out from his meditative stance, followed by the other.

I bristled all over. Fuming in silent agony while he tinkered with the dial to a wall safe. Its shiny black circular reel fixed upon me with a disinterested eye. My discomfort soon got traded for impending dread.

I stood around feeling miserable until Thorny’s head popped out again.

“Herbaceous!” he exclaimed. His palm opening to reveal an amber glass vial with a black dropper top: “I nearly forgot all about it! Behold the most potent tincture west of the Rockies…”

Having consumed cannabis in nearly every fashion from steam rollers, blunts, vaporizers, and infinite handmade devices sourced from whatever miscellaneous parts were at hand, I rarely encountered a different method of smoking it, let alone a new route of transmission. Past experimentation didn’t so much broaden my tolerance as it refined my preferences. Edibles for example, held a reputation of mythic proportions that never matched reality. They simply put me to sleep. If they worked at all. Granted, I still smoked like a fiend. But this all paled in comparison to let’s say, a spliff bowl splitting open the dome piece.

“An all-natural galenical–sunflower-coconut oil infused tincture to be exact… there’s quite a science behind manufacturing such a pure terpene profile. I’ll tell you about it…” Thorny drawled to the soft ticking rhythm of a thousand clocks… Their second hands lulling me to sleep with each completed circle… then I remembered the pressing matter at hand with the loud spring-wire pop of a cuckoo bird. And before Thorny could get too carried away with the science behind it I acted fast.

As he held up the tincture to the playful light of his lava lamp I snatched it away. The oblong blob in the upright glass tube popped. Dispersing into hundreds of tiny bright neon bubbles. “Sorry…” I said, already half out the door before he could explain the process of decarboxylation. “I’d love to stay and chat but I’ve run out of time.”

“Time’s merely an illusion to which properties are ascribed. Only the will’s incorrigible. I’ll add the tincture to your tab. Oh! I almost forgot to disclose the recommended usage. You’ll find to your enjoyment its much faster acting than edibles. A couple sublingual drops will do wonders to alleviate stress, but try not to exceed—”

Brisk air awakened my senses like an ice-cold plunge as I ran back to the still running car. No detours left.

From there it was full speed along Wasatch Boulevard. The main vein for accessing ski resorts in Big and Little Cottonwood Canyons. It wove ribbon-like past Mount Olympus, skirting a golf course and gravel pit which munched away at the mountainside; all while offering a scenic view of the pristine valley. This was followed by a further climb up Utah State Route 210. Leading me to the large cottonwoods growing near the creek bottoms at the mouth of the canyon. It was still a 7-mile drive after the Entering Wasatch National Forest sign.

That false sense of security from having ingested a drug fleeted with the heightened awareness of clear-eyed sobriety as I nursed the tincture bottle along the way.

It started with a few drops. Which I chased with the last swigs from my thermos to pacify myself like some raging infant. For all the emphasis placed on this tiny vial, Thorny’s portentous words were in vain and fell right on deaf ears. The bottle’s contents were a gritty, chunky solution. No different than chugging lumpy gravy. The piney aroma alone was enough to make you gag and shudder. I wiped the sickly green ring off my lips before lighting a cigarette to quell the ghastly aftertaste.

In a race against time, all I could do was try not to suck down each cigarette quicker than the last one. Holding in the burn to help the seconds tick away faster…

Always late. Such existential dread was fitting for my introduction to alpine ski racing in which I was nearly a decade too late. Such a show felt contrived and forced yet, here I was dragging my ass up the canyon every uninspired lurch of the way.

Being stone-cold sober only increased my paranoia. That along with a thermos of coffee in my veins. My eyes flicked from the green digits on the dashboard clock to the road and back. Clock, road. Clock—fuck! Only fifteen minutes and I still needed to get changed.

Every so often returning to the mystery bottle while aiming a series of expletives at Thorny, myself, and the world in general. Buried somewhere in these hurled insults stemmed the root of my problems. Or maybe the tincture was too old and lost its potency. Or even more likely, Thorny got ripped off to begin with and stuck me with a few measly shots of cheap grain alcohol. Either way, thank you, you swindling old codger.

The vile concoction stripped my mouth of all moisture. Leaving it dryer than a desert heat wave. Long, concentrated drags of my cigarette set a relaxing tone for the drive up as the mountains passed like a panoramic photograph of snow-capped beauty. Their frosted peaks offset the remote housing which gave the comforting feel of leaving that which pained me. Leaving behind a thick blanket of smog in the city.

My bucket on wheels rattled as I gave it a final push past the Carbonado Ski Resort sign at the top. Typical driving time up the canyon was thirty minutes. I made it there with an ample five minutes to spare.

The mountainside was already dotted with black specs on the slope where the flier said to meet. Their fresh tracks left behind in the snow. A breath of fresh air compared to the drab city.

No time to appreciate any of that now I changed clothes in my parking spot. The car seat pushed all the way back to help pull up my leggings.

I polished off the vial. Draining it to its bitter dregs.

I ran onto the large, outdoor plaza in my unbuckled ski boots. My skis clattering against the poles about my head with every bounce.

A dozen or two fellow hopefuls could be seen grouped together on the groomed cat track when a line of skiers dressed in all-black glided down the hillside to cut me off. I barely had time to side-step out of the way which caused the leader to come to a full stop by braking with the outside edge of the left ski.

“Sorry about that,” I murmured, already back on my feet in a rush to meet the others when I got stopped again.

“Wait a moment, don’t I know you?”

By now the rest of the pack had skied up to us and formed an inverted V before me. Their backs to the mountain. Each of them distinguished by matching black jackets with black diamonds crossed by skis on their sleeves. They barred me in a menacing front orchestrated by the one who stood out foremost.

We had a past encounter it appeared. But of what nature remained unclear in the water-logged archives of my memory. The skier in front scanned me over from behind a single red lens. My feigned nonchalance got betrayed by the jumbled machinations commanding my every movement. A jarring sensation in which I was left stalling for words.

He was quick to the draw. His tight-lipped sneer curling as he removed his reflective ski goggles.

“You brought me my skis. How kind. I can send you a photograph as a memento if you’d like?”

The Masters ski racers started to glide down-piste. Disappearing around the bend. One by one. I could’ve easily joined them but got caught up by flashbacks of a high stakes drinking competition against a ski racer.

Some luck becoming ensnared by the coils of this snaky character. But whose misfortune was it really having been fated to meet again? With the hardest part out of the way, I was here already for what should be easy. No mind the hints of doubt bubbling up and the twisted knots in my stomach I couldn’t undo.

“I must hand it to you,” I responded roughly, each word tumbling out less polished than the last. But dealing in a history of high-pressure situations from minor brushes with the law to school officials and parents, amongst other authority types, overcoming a bratty elitist ought to be simple. “You may have caught me off guard—but you’re mistaken if you think you’ll take what you want from this.”

Their talk ceasing in unison to listen to their leader.

“I beg to differ. You may have won the other night at Drunken Moose, I’ll admit. But we swore to race on my terms if we ever crossed paths. What’s the matter? Don’t you fancy yourself a skier? Save yourself the embarrassment now and quietly slink back into nonexistence­. Unless you insist on having it the hard way.”

“That’s a well-worn path for me. And you’re right about one thing. Debts are overdue and the time is nigh to settle them where it counts: on the mountain. Once done, I promise I’ll return to exactly how you found me. Forgotten about entirely.”

Having come this far with nothing else to lose I pushed all-in on the riskiest bet. The seriousness of becoming stripped of my childhood passion hardly mattered now.

The ski racer’s icy words hung in the frozen air with jagged, sharp points.

“Enough stalling. The rest will be told on the slopes. Let’s see how well you perform at my element. See you at the top of Devil’s Jawbone.”

I remained dumbfounded. For him to go out of his way to single me out meant I was viewed as a threat. The stakes being even higher without money on the table. Our sole reputations were on the line. Whether good or not.

Overheated. Spiked beads of sticky sweat dripped down my back. Wetting my inner clothing and making its material scratchy as I began to itch like crazy from head-to-toe. My hair bristling all over as the ski team celebrated to the side as if triumphant already.

Their intimidation had nearly subsided when my opponent stripped off his outer jacket and pants to reveal a skin-tight red race suit covered in spiderwebs. A more conventional fit for racing than my casual snow gear which was either too tight or baggy in the places I’d never grew into. A mismatch in equipment they were ready to point out.

Having never seen his abilities on skis, gauging my potential embarrassment was impossible. He was a natural born skier. Someone who had raced all their life and by that right earned his place as acting figurehead of their ski club. Exactly where did I fit in? I merely sought resolve. To take charge with honest intent as I attempted the impossible. But this wouldn’t be my first drive up the canyon for nothing.

Enough taking a backseat as my life’s ambitions never came to fruition. Chalking up the end result to having no talent or a tiny window being narrowly missed. All too familiar notions which had paralyzed me for years. In the beginning, skiing was more than a hobby. It was what I did and I was no longer ashamed to be recognized like any other shmuck who decided to step into their ski bindings.

While mentally preparing to race I could feel a tightness similar to that moonlit run many nights ago. My brain throbbed with the tension of an invisible elastic band wrapped one too many times around my brain, while bodily proportions felt distorted to funhouse mirror extremes. My skis looked like hourglasses from the top down which made stepping into them a burdensome chore. Like fumbling upon large wooden blocks until the echoing gunshot click sounded off.

Locked into place: the pattern of strange sensations only heightened from there. Both legs being glued to the ground. It took great pains to lift a ski until airborne long enough to drop back in the snow and raise the other with sluggish restraint. My long, spooling thoughts became fragmented and frayed. A broken processor which streamed disconnected chunks of information as I wavered unsteadily. Top-heavy. On the verge of toppling over if not for both ski poles being planted.

Time felt tense. Pulled and stretched tight on all sides. But any further brooding on the matter got cut short by those waiting with arms crossed as their champion boarded the chairlift.

Legs heavy as lead, I cycled through varying panic–stricken states before resigning to contempt­ for this mountain resort and everyone on it.

The surrounding winter wonderland turned into a slushy marmalade so saturated with orange that my glazy irises began to peel. Neural connections were fried in white-hot sparkling pops. My internal organs writhing like constricting pythons while feeling exposed. Deshelled from my outer casing.

Feeling strangely unnerved, I stuck one foot ahead of my nightmarish hallucinations. Shuddering. Clambering. Wrapped by constricting tentacles as I passed through the rotating turnstile which glinted metallically against a chrome backdrop of winking diamonds.

Diablito was a fixed grip double-seater chairlift without a crossbar. I felt awestruck before the giant mechanic behemoth as it gobbled up the coming chairs strung along a steel wire rope and spit them back out the other end; restarting their ascent to the top again. The smooth, swift motions contrasted with my shutter-frame perspective as they spun around like whirring tops. I staggered back from this dizzying sight and tried to assess their speed. The ski team scrutinized my every action from the sideline.

It dawned on me I had been standing in line for quite some time and they must be wondering why I wasn’t on the lift already.

Despite secretly having known all along, these were simply the hidden hijinks of a trickster drug dealer, and I was now in Thorny’s realm of mysteries. His tincture was a sleeper. So much so I nearly forgot having ever ingested it.

This opened up the floodgates to onset paranoia. Filling up my doubts to the brim as the task of riding a chairlift now felt daunting in this uncalibrated frame of mind. The constant flux of movement further skewed my depth perception. The rotation of chairs on the cable line seemed to be coming more rapidly in oddly timed intervals.

What happened next was beyond the limits of my feeble comprehension.

Someone shouted from behind and I decided to go for it. No time to think, I swung one stubborn, unmoving leg after another and somehow my stiff torso followed. Right as another chair came swiveling around, I mistimed the opening to hop on with a slight delay moving forward and I fell out of its sequence altogether.

Half-on and half-off—the metal armrest of the chair caught my bottom, lifting me up off the ground until I landed with a muffled thud. Flat on my back in fresh powder.

So sedated in my stupor I had half a mind to roll over face-first in the snow and remain there, amusing the possibility of being fully encapsulated by ice. Waiting to thaw out millions of years after human civilization had ended.

“Ay sorry bro, thought you had it,” said the lackadaisical lift attendant, not even bothering to extend an arm to help me up.

I scrambled back onto my imbalanced feet, stomping the powdery fluff off my skis and pants as the ski team roared with laughter. Here I was, too fucking stoned to even get on a chairlift which I must have done about a million times. I could even make out the big, shining grin of the ski racer beaming from the lift up above. Bright as the afternoon sun.

One of the skiers called out.

“Quick—somebody call ski patrol!”

Followed by another.

“You should stick to the bunny slopes.”

And another. “Nice salchow. 10 out of 10.”

I gave a little bow for my audience before stepping back onto the platform. Rubbing salt into the wound, the lift operator slowed the lift speed which made waiting for the next chair a painstaking endeavor.

Goddamn it, I was being treated like a child. A beginner having their first day on the bunny hill. A routine which I played out with a cringe-inducing shudder.

I was ready as the next chair swung around. I hopped on without incident right as the lift got cranked back to regular speed.

Riding up the mountain always offered a brief moment of clarity. The perfect window to get your bearings and reset before a run. No longer being in the team’s crosshairs, I could set aside the unexpected chain events and reflect further on this mind-altering state I was trapped in. A phenomenon stuck somewhere between psychotropic and uncoordinated. In jerky surges of adrenaline counterbalanced by the flooded serotonin levels of target receptor sites. I felt like a repeatedly pressed panic button.

But instead of an outpour of dread, I found this situation to be an amusing one. Soon I was laughing alone to myself. My head stuck sky high throughout my slow climb to the summit.

I dug into my coat with an ungloved hand for my pack of smokes. A long, sustained drag ensued. My head seemed clearest when the harsh smoke mixed with fresh canyon air. It was currently so vacant there wasn’t the slightest vestige of a thought to trace back to. An empty expanse not unlike the whitespace on the slopes which was covered by moving dots belonging to the Bush Leaguers. Carelessly marking over each other’s tracks on their crisscrossing descent on the snow-covered mountainside. Their slanting streams flowing within the confines of a bright orange rope which marked the delineation zone of the course boundary.

Tranquility soon came to an end as the length of cable swiftly shortened. The lift operator at the top must have been informed about my little mishap at the bottom because the chairs slowed nearly to a stop right as I neared the landing pad.

Once skis touched snow the full weight of what was to come rested upon my hunched shoulders. I flicked the remainder of my cigarette and skied over to meet my opponent whose smug grin began to skew within my altered mind.

I sidled in beside him atop a steep gully full of dead pine trees and many exposed rocks. A posted sign marked it as one of the most-advanced ski courses. A double-black diamond. Not only was I competing against a seasoned ski racer but doing so entirely stoned out of my gourd.

As usual my prospects of winning were grim.

Every one of my movements felt delayed by an excruciatingly slow buffering speed. Like a sputtering engine misfiring due to faulty valves and gaskets. But despite the odds stacked against me, I’d be damned not to settle the score. Once and for all.

My rival spoke aloud as if everyone below might hear.

“Such beauties ought to be hung over the mantel as relics of what’s come and gone. Nice racing suit by the way.”

“No better than being covered in puke, am I right?”

He tightened his lips after that. Allowing me to keep the bulk of my focus forward. Somehow abating the teeth-like gnawing sensation from within. Ski tips over the expert glade terrain, the world below was configured by unforgiving switchbacks trapped between narrow pockets of aspen trees which made for one hell of a run most tourists went well out of their way to avoid. And for what? What did this rivalry amount to? Despite sharing a mutual passion, there was little to no semblance between us when said and done. His style tailor fit as the helmet molded to his big head. Whereas I stuck out as a mockery to every convention which he faithfully adhered to.

A forfeit would never be rectified in my mind, and I was determined to silence them for good.

Seconds began to drag. The spotlight sun pierced the ashen sky with the pinpoint accuracy of a laser beam pointed right under my jacket collar. Goggles steamed up. An unbearable heat trapped in plastic boots which seemed strapped to hot knives slicing through soft butter.

A lifetime seemed to pass before we got our signal to go. Being well past the point of no return I tilted my bulky weight forward. The rest gradually followed.

We were knotted—tied neck and neck­—each turn crisscrossed we raced until funneled into the narrow chute down the upper pass in a blur each pass laid in perfect meter their feet a chord unbroken and stuck side by side on the moguls

when at the pines both our paths veered within these pockets green all thought became perfectly clear contained by white flashes

I slipped along with no worries, no hopes, no fears, each pass rhyming like in concert performed from memory upon tightropes precise enough to cut without the hurt

back out in the open with the high sun a burning lump to melt the icy slope slammed hard onto the ground each jump when one wobble led me near the end of my rope

the turn came next—we fell back in one motion the barrel shot through hurdles at every cost flitting between the needles in unison no longer it mattered now if won or lost

teeth grit, jaw clenched, jolts taken

so fast my past unshaken

I had forgotten all about racing and against whom and my heart was left beating after completing the run. Legs felt unsteady and slightly wobbly as they touched back onto solid ground. Having not succumbed to a single obstacle was cause to celebrate alone. Talk about a course refresher. The surge of euphoria nearly compelled me to pirouette with both middle fingers up at having made it in one piece. Expecting a rally of taunts conducted by their victorious leader I was shocked to meet a row of forlorn faces instead.

Still riding high from the rush of adrenaline, I turned around right as the crowd favorite finished his run.

His face downcast, the ski racer was unwilling to meet a single gaze as he kicked off his skis to go sulk by himself. Blushing the same shade of salmon as his race suit. The anguish of bitter defeat and utter disbelief stamped upon his brow warded off any of those who dared console him.

With nothing left to say I unbuckled my ski bindings. But the pressure mounting beneath the surface proved too much for him to contain.

“Don’t be too smug about it. We’re no longer adding to our roster.”

I was about to quip back when a much deeper voice answered for mine.

“We weren’t. But to beat our best skier is grounds for an exception, I believe. Making new friends are we, Drake?”

Still stuck mid-leer, the ski racer Teetering from ahigh with both ski poles planted I rolled forward and slid the tips of my skis over the edge until issuing forth from the chute in a blurry white cloud bent low into a crouch with both arms tucked tight and letting go to the free-falling whims of gravity in a direct line down the blank white sheet feeling light as a feather during an ear-splitting bone-rattling mind-jarring gut-wrenching out on a limb descent against the cold wall of resistance licking my red-cheeked face in a flurry of bee stingers upon my downward plummet leading to the very brink of destruction where the slightest slip or loss of control from a badly timed movement at any ill-fated moment would be liable to send me tumbling straight into the doom and destruction that was likely long overdue with whistling teapot alarms whipping the soft tender cartilage of my ears in harmony to a series of swift strokes, and soft swipes, that struck a rhythm to the cadence of double-edged brushes, daubing in accented beats of equal measure, drawing a sharp S-shape down the solitary pitch, a solo dot cutting parallel ribbons in a running to a sequence of dots and dashes, laying each bar in lengthy duration to the pulse of every break and curve, whether a simple swoop or jot, all of which readily glossed over by an emotive verve, a feeling of freedom unlike ever before until I was promptly bottoming out again, my speed gradually slowing as I sank deeper, and deeper, into softer snow before losing it altogether.

I slowly shrunk in the growing presence of an older man with a bald head with a permanent stitch in his brow, silver flecks in his beard, and all the traits of a ski instructor who always wore a pair of binoculars.

“Nobody special, Coach. Just having a friendly little race.”

His instructor was unconvinced despite the reassuring round of nods.

“I see. If you’ll excuse me,” he lifted the intense gaze leveled at his team to address me directly. “You shouldn’t have been pressured to prove yourself today. But­ now that you have—what do you say?”

“Sorry,” I said with a gulp.

“No, I apologize. I should’ve been more direct. According to my time,” their coach held up his watch. “1:01. That’s the Academy’s fastest recorded time for this course, unless my time is mistaken.”

“I’d have never guessed.” I responded lamely, inundated by the unexpected outcome and ensuing show of attention and praise.

But such elation was short-lived. It soon dematerialized into uncertainty as I didn’t know how to properly react to such shows of positivity. Something my body’s first impulse was to reject like an allergen.

“Allow me to introduce myself to our potential recruit here, the Seniors/U21 squad refer to me as Coach Price. Carbonado Ski Academy is not only podium-certified but offers unfettered access to arguably the best ski runs on Earth. Have you considered competitive racing? Granted, there’s typically years of athletic training and development to reach this level, but judging from the fundamental grasp you displayed today there’s enough to build on. Only if you’re willing to learn how to improve with the proper direction, of course. But I’ll cease my babbling: what do you say?”

I was speechless. Drake’s reaction neared that of apoplectic shock.

“You must be mistaken. He doesn’t even have the proper gear.”

“Should’ve thought of that before bringing him by. I’m always scouting for talent. You’d make a mighty fine recruiter.”

“But, but he already missed fall training. Not to mention summer camp.”

“I’m obliged to do what’s best for the Academy.”

Drake was speechless. Their coach turned back to me with clasped hands.

“He’s right, though. Our program is qualification based, not open invitation. Although I know you’d have a lot to gain if you joined us.” He spoke enthusiastically which almost made me feel bad for what I said next. And it set everyone back. Including myself.

“I appreciate the offer and all, but I’m here for the beer league.”

“Perhaps that ship has sailed. Why not train with us?”

“I can’t commit to anything right now. I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

Noticeably shocked, their coach regained his composure.

“We all have a lot going on these days. I’ll leave it at this: I see unharnessed potential in you, but it takes hard work to shape that into success. We can do that together. Give me a call once you’re tired of treading water and we can get you farther than you have ever imagined. Otherwise, I wish you all the best.” He handed me his card.

I attempted to explain myself: “You must’ve got the wrong idea. I prefer skiing the backcountry alone.”

“There’s always time to get what you want. Never stop striving for excellence.”

Still stuck in the clouds. A goofy smile plastered on my face. I remained dumbfounded over the unexpected turn of events. Which, the longer they played over in my head, the more horrifying their prospects became. Here was someone willing to work with me and I threw it all away. Still, I thwarted Drake, a nemesis who now had a name, not only once, but twice!

Such an introduction to the sport was extemporaneous at best. It was a stroke of luck beating another skier to the bottom, let alone making the team. Such good fortune somehow felt out of character. I wasn’t meant to race for competition and any opportunity to be groomed for the big races could be promptly dismissed. And as much as it would further torment Drake for me to join their organization, I knew the potential of letting myself down was much too great.

A dozen pairs of eyes followed me as I took my leave. Their fiery gaze burning me with every step.

Hands shaking, my wound-up heart beat to the tick of a tightly-strung pendulum. I was too nervous for this caliber of attention and no longer felt a shred of intoxication. Adrenaline being a total buzzkill.

Half-awake and half-asleep I sped down the winding road as another cold front blew in, a biting wind on its heels. I thought of being back in the confines of my little bubble. Laughing all of this off over a couple bowls.

Then it hit me with the force of a hundred thunderbolts. I still needed to re-up.

White fluff dropped from an indifferent sky and never stopped falling. Following me all the way back to the valley where I dialed my back-up hook. Such a fickle business required several contacts for when regular suppliers dried up or went on the fritz. His surprising availability was unprecedented, uncanny even. Almost too easy.

Except nothing was so easy with dealers.

He stood over six-feet tall on a skeletal frame. His eyes as pale as his paper-white skin. The Leech was a couple years older and all too eager to wave me inside his home where I was greeted by three dogs at the door. Despite his cool demeanor, The Leech intended to rip you off one way or another by either jacking up the price or weighing out your sack with a finger on the scale.

“Yo, wassup B! It’s been a minute,” he said, running his hand along his nose as he led me down a dark hallway to his bedroom. “What you after today? Half zip? Full zip?”

“I’ll take a QP.”

The Leech sniffed once. Twice. All while he eyed me with a cold, lifeless stare.

“A quap? Tell me you have the flow.” Despite his near-transparent complexion and bleach-blond hair he spoke with all the correct buzzwords.

“I’ll leave it on the bed.”

“Sure you don’t want a half-pound? I can float it for you this time. But I’ll have to charge extra. That’s the business.”

“Maybe next time.”

Standing with his back to me as he worked upon his dresser, I scratched his new puppy, a chestnut Staffordshire pit bull, behind the ears while he grated a prescription pill with a perforated metal strip. “Care to try?” The Leech offered. Always the salesman.

I kindly declined his gratuitous offer.

The Leech bumped one for each of us while he ranted about how it increased his roommate’s sexual performance and worked wonders for him in the bedroom up until his girlfriend caught him taking key bumps in the bathroom. Leech represented what I hated most about dealers. He was single-handedly responsible for getting several people I knew desperately hooked on opiates. Some of which recently graduated to hockey-pucking pills off wrinkly sheets of tin foil. Pill heads. Junkies. All users who sustained their habit by creating future addicts. And wasn’t I doing the same?

After disappearing into his closet for a few minutes he reemerged with four ounces of product in a vacuum-sealed bag.

Picking up new was always a gamble. Occasionally you’ll see dank strains come through. Some with fuzzy trichomes or sticky leaves while less trustworthy dealers were known to freezer-burn nugs to try to make them look purple. There were also times where you considered yourself lucky to pick up long scrawny nugs that were more stem than flower or sometimes smelled suspiciously like pine-scented floor cleaner. Sometimes it was the best smelling shit to grace your nostrils when the bag got first opened but soured once you brought it home. Smelling no different than hay. Which was likely what The Leech handed me despite its official presentation. This was the same person who claimed to only smoke bud from a California cannabis club. But it was my only option.

I stuck the quarter-pound down the front my pants and with a quick goodbye shuffled out into the twinkling flurry of snowflakes. No longer being empty-handed helped me to muse over the trouble it caused. Which seemed so trivial once taken home and weighed out into individual sacks; seven half-zips, three singles, two half-singles, and don’t forget about the quarter leftover for personal.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

CATALOGUE

R-COMPLEX 001 BLACK DIAMOND - JED DOGGO

R-COMPLEX 002 MISSING THE MARK - JED DOGGO

UP NEXT

R-COMPLEX 003 NAKED MUSE - JED DOGGO

R-COMPLEX 004 UGLY THINGS - JED DOGGO

R-COMPLEX 005 EMPTY TUMBLER GLASSES - JED DOGGO

R-COMPLEX 006 PIERCE THE VEIL: COLLECTED ESSAYS - JAMES CLINE

Share

Lefty stood there on the doormat. His bandaged right hand held up to his chest. The white gauze wrapped around his forefinger spotted red.

After letting himself in, he wasted no time in explaining why he wasn’t at work.

“So, I just left the hospital,” he started, but I wasn’t interested in his current plight or its backstory. Nor did I ask for it.

But he detailed all the events that transpired for me anyway.

“I’m busy doing the same morning prep I always do—and was using the meat slicer when this goddamn new server, who’s a real dim bulb if I ever saw one, asks about the olive selection and which regions they’re from while I’m mid-slicing cured meat for the meze­. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times that we offer four varieties. Kalamata, Greece. Nicoise, France. Castelvetrano, Italy. And just as I got to Arbequina, Spain I turned my head to really lay into him when I accidentally shaved off half my finger.”

Lefty held up the mangled hand as proof.

Anger bubbled up behind my forced grin. Yet I rode out his second unwelcome intrusion. “It feels like I’ve heard this before.”

“Because you have. Same thing happened my first week on the job,” he exclaimed, almost joyfully. “This cut’s even deeper. Wanna see?”

“No thanks. You think they’d make special gloves to prevent that from happening.”

“They do. But I hate wearing it and it was all that goddamn new kid’s fault­. Uncultured lout. Must be a Mormon. Or Mennonite. Just look—how disgusting is that?”

He unwrapped the bloody bandage to reveal a chunk of flesh sewn together with glossy black stitches. I reassured him that it was disgusting looking. He then divulged how stupid he thought it was for being told it was unsafe for him to handle food.

“Like I told my shift manager, you can’t get mad at me for coming into work hungover because I’m an alcoholic and that’s a disease and you can’t get mad at someone with a disease. Thank God you’re free today.”

“I mean, who wants a day to themselves?” I was unable to conceal my annoyance over how his convenient mishap sabotaged my free time.

“You talk like you have prior obligations when you’ve got none.”

“Where there’s a will,” I stopped short of completing the proverb.

Lefty took the bong to his side of the coffee table where he plopped down with a yawn. “Wanna load me a snapper? I left my sack in my work locker.”

“Guess I’ll smoke you out too,” I traced the top of the grinder with the hardened tip of my forefinger. Awaiting Lefty to “spice” up his bowl until mostly tobacco with a few green flakes mixed in.

He broke into a sweat as quickly as the chamber cleared, with his exhale completely surrounding him in dense yellow smoke: “Oh yeah, that’s it… right there… that hits the spot.”

Ignoring him, I ashed the bowl piece to clear it. But before it could be replenished Lefty seized my arm with a resounding cry.

“Hold up! That bong water is filthy. When’s the last time you changed it?”

“When was the last time you did it? Last Saturday? You have your answer then. Why?”

“This is beyond piss yellow. That’s why. We are dealing in the realm of shit brown. I can’t even see through to the other side. How do you live by such low standards?”

“It’s taken years of practice, if you believe it.”

“No chance you’ve got rubbing alcohol and rock salt, or table salt at the least? I thought not. Allow me to clean that out for you.”

With the bong ready to go I could’ve cared less but it was out of my hands before I could agree what shade of sewage it resembled. I fixed my disinterested gaze on the TV, over which, could be heard the rush of running tap water.

I stared absent mindedly as Lefty returned with glass that was transparent enough to see-through. He beamed with pride. Holding it up to the light like an artist inspecting his genius after the completion of a life’s work.

Although I hated to admit it, Lefty served his purposes. The bong hits were noticeably smoother and it took longer to recover one’s breath. The added tobacco also held the potential to overpower the weed and leave you clutching at your chest.

My blue exhale turned ash gray before my eyes as Lefty dumped the scraps of my spliff card into his bowl. In a considerably better mood already.

“So what’s on our agenda?”

“Not a thing.” I half-joked.

“Come on. When was my last day off?”

“Last time you cut yourself.”

“But you’ve said all this before and it’s already yesterday’s tomorrow.”

“Don’t you mean today?”

“All the more reason to imbibe.”

“What I should be doing is buying a new door.”

“Bah, nothing a little spackle can’t fix. I’ll pick some up and get on that tomorrow.”

“What did you have in mind?”

A devilish smile overtook his squat face. With hands clasped on his hips he laid out his proposition: “I was thinking a movie would be fun and matinees are cheap. Something along the lines of a shoot ‘em up revenge plot that’s fun for the whole family. Or perhaps a flick to split us at our seams. You know? A rip-roaring comedy. Even tragedies can be just as fun. I haven’t bowled in ages and there’s a bowling alley down Main Street. I’ve even got my old bowling bag and shoes in the car.”

“I don’t want to do anything.” I doubled down, further cementing my position.

“But we gotta do something,” he began to plead before ceasing altogether as I scanned over the local job listings. One eye glued on the TV.

Somehow, I’d manage to eke by without work, education, or any other social obligation to distract me. On an economic level, I was on the bottom rung of society. A rusted rivet, or threaded screw that didn’t need replacing to support the whole. Still, there was some comfort knowing I wouldn’t make a dent in mankind’s heavy boot print.

I was overcast with thought, my stagnant dreams derailed after having been braked full-steam.

Lefty rambled on. From mundane hijinks about living with his parents to gripes about a girl he was dating. I simply nodded along. One bowl after another. The passage of time was a gentle, yet shrill, breeze nipping at your heels. Eventually, Lefty had run out of fat to chew and we became fixtures on the couch. Succumbing to the scheduled programming available on TV which played inaudibly against the background of our shared boredom. Our eyes as red and swollen as mosquito bellies.

I was glad for a cessation in talking and greeted the stillness with open arms. But past experience would dictate such golden moments never lasted long, and ended before I could fully sink into the couch.

“Yuck! You’re not wearing any underwear?” Lefty groaned, shielding his eyes as he pointed to the open gap in my robe.

“Acute observation.”

I tightened my old brown robe at the sash.­

“Nothing cute about it,” he shuddered. “It was like an angry old man. Staring right at me.”

“Consider it a lesson for the unannounced visit.”

“Not that you take any of my phone calls, in any case, do you know what I was thinking the other day? I haven’t been sledding in ages,” he started up again, his eyes watery and unfocused. “There’s this park that I know of with a big hill that’s perfect.”

“No thanks.”

“What about the planetarium? An aquarium?”

“Not unless it involves drinking or smoking by myself—

“How about a drink?”

“That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said so far,” I answered without pause. He had me at last.

“Great. Now will you please put some clothes on?”

I slowly admitted to the futility of my situation. Lefty was not just incorrigible. He could be persuasive enough to talk you into a strip club on amateur night. As if insisting on perverting plans to his own purposes. And today was turning out to be no exception.

“Where to?” Lefty asked once I had changed. At least he let me decide which dive to choose from. Although my only contention in going would be all the goddamned people.

“Any is fine as long as I can drink to oblivion.”

“Coachman’s? We haven’t had their steak and eggs in ages.”

“No beer.”

“Busy Bee?” The name alone conjured up a run-down bar and grill known for their greasy burgers on garlic bread buns. The iconic advertisement on the wall depicted a giant drunken bee with sad, bloodshot eyes holding a bottle of beer, and inviting one to ‘buzz in for a Bud’.

“You know I don’t like skipping breakfast.”

“Christ, you’re a royal pain in the ass. It’s nearly two o’clock. Wait. I got it. Big Ed’s.”

“I suppose I could go for a gawd awful to start my day.”

Lefty was already pulling on his coat with his one good hand.

“Relax.” I stopped him short. “I’ll change into some clothes and we’ll smoke parting bowls first.”

“You got one for me?”

He sat back down.

After depleting more braincells, we stepped out to blink stupidly in the bright gloom of another dismal afternoon. Brown leaves littered the street. The cold seized you by the spine. Each intake of breath piercing like a sharp blade in your chest.

“I’ll drive,” Lefty said, already ruddy-cheeked and blowing hot air into his hands on the walk to the parked red jeep in my driveway. “Want to go in and grab some gloves?”

“Don’t have any,” I lied. “Got a smoke?”

Lefty reached into his center console.

“There’s a pack of Camels in here somewhere… and I’ve got dip. Wintergreen. Long cut. I’m partial to doing both at once. Call it a smip.” Lefty began packing the tin. This was no surprise coming from the only person I’ve known whose mom bought him logs of chewing tobacco from the grocery store and carried around a snuff container at parties.

“I’m good with the cigarette,” I said, helping myself to the pack while Lefty briefly looked around for a bottled water or plastic cup before rolling down the window to spit out a long brown streak onto the asphalt.

He drove into overwhelming brightness with one hand upon the steering wheel. An icy wind from the open window whipping his ears like a ship captain navigating us back towards university campus. The fiery lit stub bobbing between his pursed lips.

With Lefty in the driver’s seat there was no telling exactly where we’d end up. A scenario best nipped early on lest the bud takes root.

But where’s the harm in some afternoon sun?

Within a tiny brick building hemmed in by businesses on all sides we passed through two sets of doors to be greeted by a golden laughing Buddha on the cash register. It was jam-packed inside with wooden booths which echoed with conversation. The bar crammed with the same regulars who eyed you right from the moment you walked in. Thirsty for conversation. Thousands of polaroid pictures from over the years decorated the wall space to a dizzying, almost nauseating effect. Big Ed’s was a staple for misfits and college students alike and offered an all-day breakfast menu, burgers, and the best pot stickers. A student preparing for an exam could order espresso drinks with up to twenty shots and it was also the perfect spot for a pint or two between classes. They even set their clock twenty minutes faster to bypass the state law which prohibited the sale of alcoholic beverages before eleven-thirty.

Big Ed, a tall jittery man with the girth of a clothesline, recognized us right away and rushed over to clean off the table and take our order while his wife, known by hungry patrons as Mom, screamed orders back at him from the kitchen. Only her bushy head of curls could be seen through the serving window.

We both ordered the usual.

Big Ed gave an almost deferential bow before heading straight to the tap.

Hefeweizen was the only option on draft and while our steins filled, like any incessant babbler, Lefty began to deliver his usual spiel. Sometimes it was nice to have someone around to do all of the talking for you. Sometimes.

“What you think?” He asked once finished. But I hadn’t the slightest what answer he expected.

“About what?”

“Tonight’s rager. I’ve only been talking about it for five minutes now, haven’t you been listening?”

“I wish I wasn’t. There’s no chance in dragging me to what I loathe most.”

“What? Parties?”

“Social events, generally.”

“Why act the dotard when you’ve still got your better years to play?”

“They call it an old soul.”

He coughed into his hand. “Your mind may be old. I’ll grant that. Whereas, the body remains innocent and untouched. Liven up, will ya? You’re young, I’m young, and new is always good.”

“Until it gets old.”

“We’re yet to get over that hump. How else would we occupy our sick and depraved selves?”

Big Ed arrived just in time with our steins overflowing.

“Don’t you ever wonder what we’re doing?” I said, waiting until we were alone again. “Wasting weekend after weekend with people we don’t know only to return home and smoke bowls before passing out and repeat it again? What’s our story about and when will it begin?”

“Who says it hasn’t? And the best American stories are short ones. Which is why I play my role to the max.”

“How do you know the story is yours?”

“Once you find your voice.”

“And how does one do that exactly?”

“By tracing it to its origin. Of course, many narratives begin halfway started. In which, they tend to end the same as they begin. But I’m not concerned about advancing the plot as I am a quick and profitable return.”

“Neither of which go hand in hand. That’s the character flaw I’m talking about. Don’t you care to develop yourself into a better person? Wealth and renown are base tradeoffs at best.”

“I’ll tell you something that I’ve said before and will likely repeat many times again so you may never forget. I’ll likely offend you, your family, and your social upbringing—but that has no bearing on my moral alignment. In terms of making money, no, I don’t care what or who it takes to climb over to reach the top.”

This admission came almost as a shock even for me. The ears tend to prick up at hearing outlandish claims and with Lefty it was practically expected of him. As much as I didn’t care for his sunny disposition, humoring him was the least I could do in return for half-listening to begin with.

“That’s a great way to read like an asshole.”

“You must understand my whole family is filthy rich. Except for my folks. It would be an honor to break that spell for the sake of our line.”

“What an unfair pressure to place on yourself. You should marry your passions with financial gain.”

“Or marry into money. I’ll let you in on a little secret, the world wants a character. One’s gotta be willing to make it happen. That’s how the record gets written.”

“Or altered.”

“Now you’ve got it! It’s the last hand writing.”

“Forget the happy ending.”

“Says who? There’s a massage parlor a block away that offers them thirty bucks a pop.”

Another cringe worthy response I’d ask to be repeated if coming from any normal person.

“What? It’s not not true. The privilege of a free market is that I need not feel guilty about it. Also,” he shifted subjects, “I’m thinking of planning a trip. Somewhere on the west coast. Maybe California. I haven’t been on vacation in forever.”

Every so often Lefty had a bright idea. His wanderlust giving him the uncontrollable urge to travel. Where he sought the highs of an imagined new experience regardless of which direction these romantic whims took him. A virtue could almost be found in its simplicity. Going somewhere else held all the allure of an exciting adventure. But from experience of having been in that position myself, it comprised the same tired routine time after time and always failed to match reality with one’s expectation.

Although dismissive from the outset I didn’t lead with my flat-out refusal. That was reserved for later. So, I humored him a little longer.

“Let me guess, you’re willing to drive there like you did Jackson Hole?”

“Yup. And Las Vegas the year before, if you recall.”

“I recall us nearly dying on our drive home through a blizzard in the middle of the night.”

“And who pulled us through?”

“You made the sign of the cross more than once.”

Lefty ignored this last comment.

“Not sure about you but I’m possessed with an indescribable yearning, the type of sensation I can’t explain but will attempt to anyway, imagine every fiber of your being, down to the atom of every cell vibrating with a single message—” For how insane Lefty’s comments were, they had a stroke of cunning. To convince me of doing something he knew I didn’t want to do he crafted what he believed to be an undisputable argument with the promise of it being more beneficial for you. “Just to get away from this unforgiving cold, even for a little bit. Maybe experience something new. Who knows? Let the journey take us where it may. Like two tumbleweeds on the highway, and come to think of it, you haven’t left home in quite some time. How long has it been?”

“On a trip with you? Not long enough.”

That was when his mask slipped off. If Lefty didn’t get his way he was quick to become hostile and pushy in accordance to his confounded nature.

“Now hear me out, because I know you think I’m getting ahead of myself and forgetting to tie off loose ends, but I’ve practically got it planned out already. I bet we can get Niko to come along. Billy’s down for these things too. Always.” He said before I could pull the being broke excuse. He flashed his wallet to show he meant business. But I remained unchanged, knowing I would deal with this passing fantasy like every other.

“You know I haven’t got any money for a trip. Plus, I still owe Thorny from my last reup.”

“I’ll spot you. If time is the issue, we can schedule for next month. That way you can save your pennies while paying off your debt. Win-win.”

“Except I lose in the end.”

“Look, I’m not trying to drag you onto any regular trip here—I’m talking about the chance to make lifelong memories with your best pals! All I need is some gas money and it’s smooth sailing from there. I’ll take care of all the rest.”

“You’re planning to drive hundreds of miles in that rat trap?” I openly scoffed. “Last month you couldn’t even make it back to your house.”

“All fixed now. She’s running fine and primed for cross-country cruise control at ninety miles per hour. I could get there in my sleep.”

“That’s slightly alarming. And where would we stay? What will we eat?”

“Let me finish. I know people here and there who’d be more than willing to let us crash for a night.” He maintained his confident tone even with a slight delay in his delivery.

“I’ve been on one too many trips without a plan. Let’s talk about this again closer to the holidays.”

“Like the BCS championship. Good idea. And right before my birthday too.”

I tried seating myself more comfortably on the wooden booth.

“Or maybe closer to springtime.”

“I’ll have moved far away from here by then.”

I took this last comment as seriously as everything else Lefty said. He had threatened to leave Salt Lake City many times before. The only problem was he couldn’t pack up his home along with everybody else he knew with him.

Our gawd awfuls couldn’t arrive soon enough. The house specialty featured a large heaping plate of hashbrowns with Mom’s house-made chili poured over it and topped with cheese, diced onions, two eggs over-easy, and a hefty dollop of sour cream.

“Anyhoo, back to tonight. There’s plenty of options to choose from,” he continued unfazed, slathering ketchup onto his plate, followed by even more hot sauce. Most weekends were spent chasing that farce of finding where the party was at and more than one Saturday night had been wasted trying to locate a proclaimed hotspot only to arrive long after it had peaked. “I caught wind of some hot tubbing in Park City for some sorority chick’s birthday.”

“Who’s the girl?” I asked after unsuccessfully attempting to flag down Big Ed for refills.

“Chelsea, or Kelsey, I think. Something like that. I’m much better with faces than names.”

“You don’t even know her, do you?”

He broke off into a telling pause. “I don’t know her per se, but my sources say it’s a-go for whoever wants to join. I went to high school with her old roommate and she’s given me, or us, I should say, the green light to come.”

Lefty rarely passed the opportunity to twist another’s words. But I stayed closed off to the notion of social interactions altogether.

I brightened at the arrival of my newly refilled stein.

The more I drank, the better I felt. Except the conversation wasn’t sitting well with Lefty who appeared dissatisfied over the top of my frothy head. He had become flustered by all my repeated rejections and chose his next words carefully, clearly irritated.

“Maybe plugging back into the social pipeline is necessary for what ails you,” he spoke using the same beseeching tone as before which only heightened my disinterest. “It’s healthy to mix it up every once in a while. Meet new faces. Make a few bad decisions. Get a little exposure to what people our age call fun. You should try it.”

“I can make plenty of bad decisions from home. Forget the fun. I’ll stop going to bars altogether once I’m twenty-one.”

He became so animated with emotion his puffy red ears could have spouted steam.

“All you do is sit around night after night. Look at yourself: you never want to go out nowadays and when you do (and I mean to offend when I say this) you’re kind of a drag to be around.”

“Normally I’d crumble before such flattery but your platitudes may have finally lost their charm.”

The place continued to chatter in the absence of talk. He ran a hand through his stringy hair to lay it flat. Then he downed his glass. His lips dying to part before the mug could be lowered again.

“So, about tonight’s rager...”

“Who wants to go to a party where they don’t know anyone?”

“If you happened to be listening, you’d know the opposite is true.”

I lifted my frosty mug, shivering.

“Even worse.”

“What’s there to complain about? It’s a double-kegger so you know it’s going to be classy. That’s your spark right there. Let loose and turn over a new leaf. Maybe even get those dick skins wet.”

“Not interested.”

“I expected better from you.”

“That’s not your first mistake.” I palmed my glass with numb fingers. Ice water trickling in my veins. The only shame was settling for something so easy to attain.

Lefty opened his mouth to add more but I was already so far removed the words subsided. Still, hardly a minute passed before he spat more of the spiteful rhetoric welling up inside of him.

“You’ll just want to go home after this and won’t leave again­. You give nothing a chance. What do you have against those you grew up with?”

What do I say? That I didn’t like going out anymore? That I felt anxious to interact with people I haven’t seen in months—if not years? Strangers who I couldn’t pretend to act like I still know.

Lefty went on: “So you’ve got a reputation. I’ve had my fair share of criticism, but the past is the past. Sooner or later, you have to realize everything happens for a reason and the happier you’ll be for it. But let’s shift gears and order a pitcher to split. Leave the arrangements to me, and don’t busy your little head with such quandaries, you’re in good hands.”

A cockeyed grin spread across his face. I tried to take another bite. But right as the heaping forkful was lifted to my mouth I froze. Buried there in the kidney beans of my chili was one of Mom’s long curly black hairs glistening on the end of my fork.

I pushed the plate aside and pounded my glass before meeting the gaze of my wild-eyed companion as if for the first time.

“Let’s make this clear: the day I’m in your hands you’ll be my pallbearer.”

“You mean it?”

With suds in my field of vision, I further inebriated my suspicions. Having a fresh foamy pitcher set aglow before us.

My mood gladdened by the glass as I slipped further into the rhythm of Lefty’s unceasing talk, lulling me into a hypnotic state; one strand of thought connected to another without end as fresh suds filled me to the brim until I was diving headfirst over the smooth glassy rim.

Perhaps there was some master plan at work all along. A grand design for why shit got shoveled in your face all the damn time.

                                                                    *

WHOOOOOOOOOOOSHHHHHH! In the back of a parked car with a cut straw up my nose. I stared down at a haphazard arrangement of unevenly chopped lines on a plastic CD case. Metallic mouth smacking, all that was formerly encapsulated with ice had rapidly thawed out. I rubbed my unfeeling nose and studied my surroundings. Becoming more confused to find myself seated next to Niko who nodded along in conversation to Billy in the front with Lefty rambling on mostly to himself. I didn’t have stake in one conversation or the other. My outside view being entirely fogged over. I wiped a tiny circle into the window using my sleeve to peer through. Our headlights barely illuminated the monotone gray surroundings of a church parking lot. We were still in Lefty’s jeep although he sat in the passenger seat with someone else at the wheel. Big Ed’s was all but a vague memory bubbling up in murky flotsam. Soggy and nearly indiscernible in its shipwrecked state, a few details shone clearly amidst the rubble of the wreckage. Yet as arms outstretched to reach the golden shores of knowing, the fleeting bond severed without warning at the sound of a neighboring cry. Its source undeniable.

Lefty convulsed in tandem with a fury of repeated footfalls after gumming some of the powder using his pinky finger. His emphatic performance elicited a pure, rapturous bliss from within.

“Now let’s see,” he licked his lips, eyes shut with a hand held to his face, “approximately forty-percent coke and ten-percent speed with a mild cocktail of adulterants; levasimole, ephedrine, creatine, and—hold on, give me a moment to work here, a teensy hint of hairspray. I knew there was a spice to it!”

Held captive in the backseat. Hijacked. What I wanted to say proved too challenging for my unresponsive tongue. The words too rubbery and stuck together to form a cohesive sentence. Realistically, it was a conservative guess that whatever we rushed to put up our noses was at least half-mixed with filler substances.

I continued to reel in disorientation while Billy, who sat against the driver’s side window with one arm resting on the steering column, scoffed at Lefty’s self-proclaimed prowess for narcotic detection. Further compelling him to adjust his glasses and rebut this claim.

“As if you can be so attuned to know its purity,” Billy snatched the CD case away from Lefty who turned right around to defend his olfactory sensibilities.

“Billy boy, that’s because my senses are refined. And that tingling in my body confirms this is fish scale.”

On the surface it all appeared normal. But I couldn’t ignore the growing frost which curled at the window’s corners to obscure my view. Accompanied by a marked strangeness that skewed Billy and Lefty as they bantered on, slowly at first, until corkscrewing inwards and away from each other. Both facing the backseat like it were a front row audience. With Lefty being so contorted his wild-eyed look was more unhinged than usual.

A silvery ribbon streamed from the cigarette in Billy’s mouth. His wide nostrils flared. Their mild-mannered debate bordering on a heated argument when it abruptly ended in a cease-fire as Lefty put his head down to the plate. Affording me the rare opportunity to get a word in edgewise.

“Where the hell are we?” Despite having an open floor to answer the larger questions on my mind that was the best I could muster.

Lefty’s head raised up. “Ooh yeah, that’s the spot right there. What a lifesaver this decision was.”

“Hey Lefty, over here,” I said, sharpening up by flicking him on the ear before he could even look over.

“Ow! What the fuck, asshole?”

“Why are we doing lines in a parked car and where are we going?” As I spoke a big grin began to creep across his face. “Why are you looking at me like that, where’d this even come from?”

“Well, to answer your most pressing question first, we are here because I was generous enough to make a little purchase for us. Welcome back, by the way.”

“I wish I could say that I was mad but I’m feeling pretty great at the moment. With the exception of having blacked out this whole day.”

“That tends to happen when you drink without eating a meal. But the girl always sobers you up.”

“True. Which girl was that again?”

“The white girl, of course,” Lefty flicked ash off his cigarette, continuing on in response to my confusion. “Nose candy? Boog sugar? Yayo? Cah-caine. You should know, you picked up the cah-caine with me.”

“When?”

I could hardly believe my disbelief. If what he was saying wasn’t irritating enough, his emphasis on the first syllable of the substance in question was far more grating.

“After we left Big Ed’s. Before we met Billy and Niko. Ring any bells?”

“I recall going straight home. No deviations.”

“That’s what you wanted to do. But a couple pitchers later I mentioned the services of my friend Sober Mike and you were buckled in before I could start the engine.”

“Weren’t you worried about getting pulled over?”

“No one gets a drunk driving citation during the day.”

This left me with the most burning question of all.

“Who’s Sober Mike?”

“The one kind enough to supply our snowfall this eve.”

“Does he even do drugs?”

“Yes, Billy. He does drugs. Lots of drugs, actually. More than anyone I know. He got his nickname during probation but he’s a habitual drug abuser like the best of us.”

“That sure saves his credibility,” I said. Already coming down with a gloomy disposition.

“Well, I don’t feel a thing,” Billy got into gear after idling far too long beneath a solitary light pole.

Obsidian night shone clear through the windowpane. I hopelessly stared back until my eyes fell upon the CD case as it was passed back to me. I picked what appeared to be the largest out of an array of powdered lines to choose from, an albino slug staring back at me, which once snorted sparked a flame at my brainstem. Off-center, slightly to the right, the burn of rough-cut crystals dissolving soft pink flesh.

I sniffed hard enough to create a suction that shot a phlegmy projectile up and down the back of my throat. Igniting the taste buds pimpling on my tongue. Slowly burning the duodenum as it passed through the esophagus. Each subsequent swallow would be an intravenous dripline numbing my throat. My bobbing Adam’s apple trapped in an unfeeling limbo.

Niko held up a hand. It’s black outline larger than a banana cluster.

Talk quickly got replaced by a shared interest in what was cradled in his other hand: a glass pipe packed with leafy verdure that seemed miniscule in his clumsy grip. He hit greens then traded me for the CD case.

We pulled out the vacant lot. Turning left at the traffic light onto a poorly lit lane covered by a canopy of tall, mostly leafless tree boughs broken up by old mansions with modern architecture. Beneath their shuttered-up windows were deep, dark wells which followed us with the same doleful expression as we passed. Watching.

In the darkness ahead the road forked. “I can’t see jack shit. Which street do we turn on.” Billy cut through the pitch black.

“Turn here.”

“Where?”

“Right there.”

“Turn right?”

“No. Turn left, right here.”

“Your directions are like an amusement ride,” Niko yawned from the back as we pulled onto a private road with no marking.

Lefty drummed to the beat of a song on the radio while the cab nodded along without a bump to be seen. The dense foliage soon opened up at a stop sign where we turned down a darkly wooded road marked as a dead end.

Over the bramble of fallen branches Lefty’s jeep tires bounced. The wood thickened on either side until only starlight filtered through the silvery upper boughs. The road continued to whittle down to a single lane where the only other direction was no longer available.

We ambled along into the crowded cluster of pines. Pine needles brushed up against us, reaching out with their limbs to tap the windows and scrape the sides as we penetrated the dense prickly bower. We drove further. Deeper. As if drilling into the center of the earth. The gravity of which only propelled us closer towards the burning molten core. Coke was a diabolical drug. It didn’t do much. It cost too much. Yet it never lasted past sun up. It also played unfortunate tricks on the brain where one moment you’re enjoying the moment only to be repulsed by it the next. The key was to stimulate the senses without distracting from too much of a good thing.

Thick, dense smoke filled the stuffy cab with enough substance to keep my anxiety at bay. Even if only retaining sanity for the meantime. Or until the next panic attack.

Our high beams soon lighted upon the shiny chrome bumpers of one parked car after another in a line which stretched out of sight. Billy parked at the end. We had arrived.

Lefty asked if we’d like him to rack up more lines. Everyone nodded.

A bump later—my head felt as if suspended by an invisible thread. Every swallow, a cue ball-sized lump forced down a reluctant throat. The overhead dome light flicked on as three doors got kicked open, relieving the hazy cab of a lazy smoke that billowed out in exchange for a swift current which was cold enough to constrict my diaphragm.

I stayed behind while the others bounded out. Struck by a moment of doubt which landed like a single snowflake on my otherwise unfeeling face.

The rapid temperature drop induced a spastic fit of coughing. I didn’t fear vomiting, though, having nothing down there to give. Each passing shudder served as a friendly reminder of how much I drank. Metallic drips shot into my raw empty stomach, congealing into a curdled gelatinous mass blocking my digestive tract. Once the excess of phlegm ceased, and chest heaving subsided, I took in the atmosphere through clogged nasal passages. In its sheer simplicity was an ephemeral stillness. The air charged with an unseen friction. Electric without a single lit bulb in the black pall draped over the firmament above.

I sparked up a cigarette. Feeling farther than ever from those who happily embraced whatever the starry night may bring as Billy led the charge with Lefty right on his heels. Simply following along, I forfeited just about any possible end to justify the means. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to unravel such paradoxes.

I tried joining Billy and Lefty’s conversation from the rear but kept missing my cue by the time their scattered, drawn-out voices reached my frozen ears. But I was uninterested in their usual banter.

“What’s the game plan?” I asked Niko, the most level headed of the trio, who even despite the coke rush was on the verge of falling asleep. All he did was mumble incoherently while rubbing his swollen eyes with two large balled up fists. I believe mention of the Remora brothers got thrown in there too. But I was left more uncertain than before.

I kept further talking to a minimum. Unengaged as the others ground their teeth and bumped gums in noisy chatter. I tried holding steady. Except my livewire nerves jolted my lightning rod spine. As if struck by a peculiar energy. I never felt more alive.

The year may already be near its end but the night was wide open. And the rushing onset of chemicals polluting my brain mitigated the anguish of a public outing. Even if only for a couple hours.

“What did you have me park halfway across town for?” Billy said. The scruff on his chin bristled like the frost-covered pine needles overhead.

“You guys never learn, do you? How many times must I tell the same story? The second the cops arrive the party ends. Right? Game over. But! (his finger raised) that’s when they reel in their catch—and believe me, (now switching to an authoritative tone) that’s as easy as shooting fish in a barrel for them. All they have to do is line ‘em up to blow the police officer one-by-one. I mean that’s basically what they were doing, right, getting blown?” Lefty snickered. He had always taken sweet satisfaction from another’s misfortune.

“It also helps when your dad’s a cop,” Niko added.

“That’s Sergeant to you. Here’s the place to the left. Don’t forget to clean your whistle!” Lefty shouted as he passed through a brick archway. The barred gate iron wrought and topped with flowery flourishes that glistened like shiny black fangs.

Snow filled the flower-beds beside a yew tree hedged by dead bushes. The last of their remaining leaves lining the walk which led to a stone terrace with a drained fountain.

Perched at the end of the grounds like a hidden gothic castle was a contemporary residence with classical features. Its cubic shape mixed with grotesque mason work created a nauseating amalgam of gaudy culture and high class. Sporty coupes and European imports with matching decals signifying a luxury car club were parked haphazardly in the motor court. Knee-high lamps lit the manicured flagstone switchbacks sheltered by enormous firs which guarded over a portico with grand columns. The front door overly glossy from one too many stained coats. The centerpiece of the main entry was a triptych of full-length windows. Offering a stunning panorama of wilderness; still as freshly fallen snow. The estate was a well decorated ornament. A token of inherited success. For such things were rarely bought with the currency of individual hard work.

We stepped out of one picturesque scene into another; a high-vaulted foyer illuminated by hidden sconces and an ornate crystal chandelier bedecked with brilliant incandescent bulbs. From the grand staircase down to the redwood floorboards had a glossy finish along with all the handmade furniture and fancy décor which fit the latest design trends in a dusted display case lost to decadence.

“What a sight,” I muttered aloud, still blinking through the blur of my rapidly thawing eyeballs.

“A sight for sore eyes indeed,” Lefty whistled as he spun, taking it all in. “I’m speechless in the air of such magnificence.”

“Meh, I’ve seen better.” Billy said, turning into an unlit kitchen where hardwood met checkered floor tiles.

The further inside we went the more antiquated the home became. We continued wrapping around a giant U-shaped granite island with a stove-top until the wallpaper sprouted in a trellised pattern of pale pink and white roses. The dining room held all the grandeur of a medieval open hall with its stained-glass windows and richly ornate cornices. Beneath which were etched panels of gilded filigree. Against the near wall was a glass étagère garnished with decorative house plants and succulents while placed in the center beside a hand-carved dining table was a grand piano which was much too polished to be used. While the alabaster columns shone eerily without a source of light the walls themselves were burnished with family portraits set in fancy wooden frames. Each with an almost sickly pallor genetically imprinted onto the near identical faces. Their pearly enamel smiles trapped behind the gossamer sheen of museum glass.

Our echoing footsteps ended before an antique grandfather wall clock. The swinging pendulum stared back with its shiny cyclopean eye. One could get hypnotized in its sway. Ticking above the penultimate step of an unlit staircase which spiraled one direction only. Down. Where the flowery blooms on the walls turned a foreboding hue in the absence of lighting. The metal railing cold to the touch. The only indication we approached a party and not a medieval dungeon was the growing sound of music and repeated cries of fellow souls with fleeting aims.

I paused upon the bottom landing, still unsure what I had got myself dragged into exactly or how long I could possibly feign interest.

“Ay, what’s the hold up?” Someone nudged from behind. “Push on through—” said another. A third one adding: “And let’s commence drinking to our liver’s content.”

Having fallen in with glassy-eyed complacency I instantly regretted leaving home to begin with. It was pure chaos. Like letting all the animals loose at a zoo. Here was the best of what our generation had to offer with everyone sucking on their plastic drink cups in the unyielding search of a desired mate to bring home.

So was my reintroduction to the party scene. Up to my neck in antecedent relations I no longer felt connected to. Lefty, Billy, and Niko, and I followed the festoons of colorful stringed lighting into a kitchen packed with bodies and where dripping on the counter was a giant orange cooler of jungle juice. A vile yet, potent combo of every fruit imaginable, vodka, gin, rum, and grain alcohol that all but guaranteed blackouts. By the time we nudged our way to the cooler Lefty had already procured each of us a red plastic cup. The drink cooler’s spigot was so plugged with fruity pulp one had to reach in at arm’s length and scoop up its contents from the top.

When I pulled out my arm, I discovered more chunky pulp floating in my cup than liquid.

The three of us looked at each other and shrugged it off. Whatever helped wash down the dastardly drips would do.

We rejoined the party and were no sooner sucked in its whirlpool. A few familiar faces caught my eye but I found it preferable to nod your head and pretend like you were passing by or else risk becoming immersed in chit chat that held no relevance to anyone except for those involved. Having lost my bearings, I felt cast out. Moving forward by circling back: around wooden bannisters where I snaked by the beer pong table around the back of a marble fireplace to the garage in which a massive gravity bong had been constructed from a blue water jug with the bottom sawed off and a plastic trashcan half-filled with heavily sedimented water.

Caught adrift, I sank even lower with each pass. Carried by the undertow of former classmates, frat brothers, sorority sisters, and football players. Some friends, some clients, some both. By and large I felt stranded in sea of smooth faces—stretching far as eyes could see. I soon heard someone at my elbow—or should I say portside?

“Hey man! Haven’t seen you since last semester, how’d it go?” Asked an honors student from Marketing last fall semester.

“No better than the average,” I said. Which was partly true when scaled upon my short academic career, in which, last semester yielded the worst results to date. But my interlocutor didn’t care about this tidbit anyway and right when I was about to engage in further dialogue they had already delved into their favorite topic: themselves.

“Get this, with all my elective credits I’ll be able to walk next spring.”

I was unable to stay afloat. Exasperated. “A major under four years. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Double major. Now it’s onto grad school apps and trying to make a career out of my degree like everyone else. Did I mention my paid internship has health benefits?”

Like the vast majority of this up-and-coming generation, everyone expected to start climbing the ladder from the top. Reducing the entire college experience to a piece of paper worth less than the price of its framing.

In constant motion: I was thrust into repeated dialogues which I navigated with readymade replies whenever someone else dammed my route. A super senior who was unable, or too lazy, to embark on any career path that accounted for years of racking up student debt to pay a tuition that mostly went up his nose. Also a skater kid with dreadlock extensions currently in the throes of a break up with his med-student sugar momma because she started expecting more from him after six months of dating. Which to him was utter crap.

I shook countless hands only to let them go—gliding on the surfaces each time I had to catch up with the next person of little to no importance. Every uninspired interaction contrived, forced.

I’ve been known to always speak my mind. Which was simply an assumed trait I perpetuated by often staying quiet in situations like these.

“I’m dating someone new.” A past acquaintance said after telling me they made ten-grand over the summer fighting forest fires, as if to break my pained aspect. His potato-head stuck one too many times with a fork. “A rebound from the last one. She just split with her ex too.” Then there’s that. Everyone was hooking up with each other at different times. Sometimes at once. Intermingling, mixing, and dating around. Activity which was evidenced by glaring red cold sores on their hot, waxy lips. Most sought enjoyment as they ranged, roaming far as they go wide. Like fishermen casting their bait, sometimes they snagged or crossed lines with their catch. Even without a nibble or bite.

While wading through the most unfavorable aspects of social outings the thin wallpaper facade slowly tore and ripped apart. Although I was quick to mock others, they were at least living their lives. Unlike me. I’ve done nothing but inhibit myself. Carelessly spending time as if loaded with it. I had no excuse to be idle. Yet the thought of shifting my life into gear made me feel defective under pressure. But before I could be too distracted with my woes the next conversation to assail my senses hit like a cloud of cologne.

“There he is,” said Rob. At over six-feet tall with fire-red hair he was an imposing figure as it was. “Nobody stands me up and gets away with it.” He then proceeded to give me the rundown as if he had his clipboard in hand, explaining how his company differed from others by catering strictly to those like me. How they loaned the supplies and all the paints. How I only had to sell the jobs door to door and a cut of the profits was mine. Living in a world built on pyramids, I wondered what his take was for hooking another poor sucker.

Each subsequent wave broke up any preconceived fantasy conjured by the night. Stuck, I couldn’t fathom being the same communal byproduct as those I actively tried to avoid. Bogged down by the social mores of a tight-knit community which functioned more like a rulebook for good manners and decorum, I branched off onto my own. Social circles of any kind were viewed as stifling and redundant. Becoming the sole reason for keeping myself away. I wasn’t excommunicated from my past. But rather estranged. Although raised to be a loyal member of my community, I had to sever every tie and tether when that suspension of disbelief which once shaped my worldview reached an unbreakable impasse. What I once believed to be true was merely an appropriation of someone else’s affirmations. The whole popularity game was wasted energy—from who you dated to making a lot of money. For in this world there were pioneers and their followers. The remainders were left on the fringe. And being singled out as an individual ultimately led to nothing short of an apostasy. Causing my subsequent aversion to belong to any group at all. An alien foreboding which accompanied all of those who were forgotten at the campfire’s border.

If I ever enjoyed such affairs, it was during the crucible of adolescence when one became hardened by the excesses which tested your very limits. But that was a lifetime ago. Nothing sounded more depressing now than drinking once you turned of age.

My sour stomach soon exceeded its fill. The whirlpool’s spin slowing the further away I got from the drink cooler until I got marooned on an island of lounge sofas with red cherry end tables. I continued observing from the periphery. It shouldn’t be such agony to hold a couple conversations and catch up with old friends. Except there was a high-pitched ringing in my ears. Like a screaming voice, high and shrill.

I froze. Struck with the sudden desire to flee from here as I found myself trapped in a full-body hug from a thin, wispy figure who clutched much too tightly.

“Hello Nat.”

The marked absence of enthusiasm showed through my grit teeth. She clung onto me like an old relationship when we had no history. Except one late summer night nearly a year ago. A memory that stuck around our social circle like gum under the shoe, forever following me in tandem. They say drinking opens you up to your inner desires. But all I seemed to garner was embarrassment and humility.

Nat’s pearly choppers offered no respite from her ceaseless vapid chatter. Especially with each word dripping in booze and causing her to lisp.

“So crazy crossing paths like thish. I swear it was justh the other day I was telling the girls no matter how long you go without seeing someone—then poof! Like magic, one day they appear before your eyesth.”

Her mouth contorted into exaggerated shapes to help her stammer and spit while nearly spilling her drink without the slightest inclination, “Nearly everyone I ran into at thisth party I’d always see on The Row—I guessth living at your sorority house affords such opportunities. But looky now. You’re here.”

“Nothing escapes your grasp,” I said. But she was too drunk or unbothered to be so easily dismissed. She continued to babble on. Her confounding nature like a whiskey shot you had to struggle to keep down. Being too disagreeable to stomach.

I tried to find an out. But each attempt fell short. Frantic already, I cast a sweeping glance around the room in search of an exit. It became more painful and unbearable to stay terse. I was desperate to get away. But Nat kept chitchatting after my every attempt to cut it off. She could be a Communications major the way she hung around regardless how much you waved her off. I was exhausted. She was indefatigable.

“I’d love to stay and catch up, but—” “Not so fast.” She caught hold of me again. Her slipknot grip fastened around my wrist. “There’s too much for us to catch up on. Are you sthill at that prison-looking house? The one with the bars on the porch door?” Her tight hold arrested me at the spot. Although friendly for now, she was liable to lash out at any time. So I altered my approach.

“You know what, it has been too long and I’d love to talk all about it. How about a drink?” I said with a smile faker than her plastered cosmetics.

“That would be *hiccup* fabuloush!”

At last she relinquished my arm, which now hung there useless and limp. All tingly and numb.

“I’ll be waiting for you, OK? Right here.” She pointed at her feet. To which, I nodded. Smiling.

I darted off into the crowd before I could get snagged again.

Surrounded amidst loud laughter and dim lighting, I beheld a glorious sight. A single light bulb above the back stairs. With an irradiated green sign narrowing to a point which read:

EXIT

But before I could reach the bottom step I ran into Billy with drinks in each hand. Unperturbed, he led me with the surety of a security escort down an unlit hallway that splintered off from the party and ended at an open doorway where Lefty quickly beckoned for us to enter without drawing any added attention.

Shut up in beauteous seclusion, even the bedrooms were richly furnished from oaken floorboards to the French armoire which occupied an alcove fitted with a bookcase, its shelves filled with books free of touch, not a single cracked or broken spine or speck of dust on them, in the far corner stood a seven-drawer walnut dresser pushed against a matching bed frame lined with plush amber satin sheets and covered in a pearl white duvet with silk tassels. In the center stood a floor easel along with all the tools required for a budding artist. The surrounding walls decorated with original paintings featuring popular artists and actors captured in their most iconic photographs using bright, vivid colors which rattled on the wall from the stereo playing in the main room.

It provided more than an adequate setting for drinking together in peace. Niko was already smoking a cigarette on the casement of a bow window with velvet drapes. Through the open crack, a cool breeze carried the air of something too good to last.

“Should we be doing this here?” I asked.

“As good a place as any,” Lefty concurred, now standing behind a beautifully carved desk with the corner of a baggy in his bandaged hand containing a shiny white rock.

“Lock the door first before pulling that out!”

“Whatever’s clever. Rob’s here, by the way. I sent him looking for you as payback for earlier.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I about locked the knob when the door flung open at the exact moment Lefty hunched over the desk’s glossy surface.

A thick torso with square shoulders stuffed into a woven turtleneck sweater filled the doorframe. The type of body attributable to hours of straining muscles in front of a gym mirror a big nose attached to it.

“What’s going on here?”

Niko and Billy froze. Their shared cigarette still burning hot. I knew it was his party without needing to turn around and gestured to a reluctant Niko to flick it out. What possible excuse was there for being where we shouldn’t be?

Then Lefty jumped to the rescue.

“Long time no see, Rick,” he pocketed the baggy in his shirt and turned to greet his host with his best shit-eating grin. “Did we find the guest room?”

“It’s Rich. And this is my bedroom,” he said. His tone civil. For now. “I hope that isn’t what I think it is.”

“It’s nothing like that. He needed a break from the obnoxious Nat.” He nodded towards me.

“My girlfriend, Natalee?” Rich focused a gaze on me I didn’t bother returning. No need to stoke the coals any further. “And why does it smell like cigarettes?”

“Must be coming from outside.” I shut the window.

“I thought it smelled funny in here,” said Lefty.

“What you do behind closed doors is your business. But not here. House rules.”

“Gee, Dick, I mean Rich. I didn’t realize it was your place,” Lefty answered in failure of anything else meaningful to add. “Very nice.”

“It’s my parents’ house, yes.”

“In that case, we’ll be on our merry way. We better hit that jungle juice while it lasts, fellas.” Lefty laid it on too thick per usual.

“Splendid. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got prior engagements to attend to.” Rich watched each of us leave, flexing his muscles. His thin eyes locked on me until we rounded the corner and he could lock the door. We were halfway back when Lefty motioned for us to follow him around the bend. Right into another room.

Lights flicked on inside a bathroom cut straight from a block of white marble. A horizontal mirror spanned a speckled vanity with a vessel sink beneath a high skylight. Apart from that perpetual drain in the pit of my stomach, I could surprisingly breathe hidden away in this enclave. But even with Lefty locking the door quick as lightning there followed a subsequent jiggle at the handle.

Unmoving, we stared back in silence as if someone listened in.

Nothing happened. Lefty shrugged it off by clearing the contents which adorned the countertop; bottles of hand soap, lotion, and hair product, along with an electric shaver and toothbrush holder, tubes of toothpaste, and a can of shaving cream, all in one clean sweep onto the floor.

“Whoops!” He said with mock surprise. Having a clean surface to work on now, he withdrew the tiny baggy again.

I don’t know what was more pathetic, his look of wide-eyed impatience or the three of us waiting on him to open it up. Showcased in the length of mirror, Billy stood next to me with Niko sitting on the edge of the bathtub. His feet dangling inches over the tiled floor. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath to prepare myself for the vileness before I slugged the remainder of my jungle juice. The burn of cheap alcohol screwed my face up as it trickled down my throat. Its syrupy flavor sickly-sweet enough to stir my stomach.

“Blech! I don’t know who likes to drink this shit,” I said. To which, Lefty readily replied.

“That’s why I try not to think too much about what goes into my gullet. Especially in the spirit of getting a good buzz.”

Billy held out his hip flask for me which I accepted with eager hands.

The liquor was warm and choking as it splashed against my bone-dry throat. Likely some garden-variety of whiskey. Hot blood coursed back in my veins. Bringing a renewed vigor to an otherwise lifeless shell.

But this stability turned upside down in an instant.

What I expected to provide a counterbalance to the overly sugary jungle juice wrought even worse havoc on my empty stomach. And I could already taste the bile rising up in my throat.

I passed the shiny silver flask to Niko. While Lefty yapped on about some personal rant I paced back and forth. The fowl concoction of liquids bubbled up along with a steady stream of metallic drips which pressurized inside me.

“You look the same color as the wall behind you,” Lefty began to point out when there came another attempt at the door, more urgent than before, followed by a resounding thump thump. Everyone in the room held their breath without moving. Except for Lefty who, still struggling to open the baggy with his good hand, mustered up a response in which the words dropped like drool from his lip. Ending in a shrill, oddly prepubescent pitch that held in the air like a question lingering: “We’re—occupied?”

This seemed to do the trick. And wasting no more time Lefty bit off the top of the baggy and dumped its contents into a sloppy pile. Afterwards Niko took the empty baggy and stuck his greedy tongue into it.

“That’s vile.” Billy spat after nipping at the flask.

“Butit’thhsa besth pahrt!” Niko attempted to reply with his tongue stuck deep and already starting to numb as the twinkling remnants of powder became absorbed onto his taste buds.

“Who doesn’t like to tongue punch the bag?” Asked Lefty.

“Spoken like a true swine.”

“Enough needless flattery, God knows how much time we have. Cut some gator tails for us, will ya? I gotta drain the main vein.” Lefty handed his student identification card to Billy who passed it along to Niko.

Everyone’s talking stopped short as the little white rock which appeared as harmless as a sugar cube on the vanity top got crushed by Niko which sent sparkling white fragments to shoot out from under the plastic card. He applied pressure on top, firm enough to flatten the card, crushing the rock into smaller pieces. Then he scraped off the powder caked to the back of the card before chopping up the scaley, flattened clumps. When done, he scooped it into a pile to cut by halving it over and over into thinner lines. My racing heart threatened to leap from out of its boney cage in the process.

I was more than amped up. Filled with a million impulses with nothing to do other than fret as Niko racked our lines. Four fat white slugs. None the same size as another.

“Why’d you rack it all up?” Billy cried.

Niko licked the bottom edge of the plastic card. “Ask Lefty.”

“I dumped sack.” Lefty flushed the toilet.

“I’m not pitching if we finish this before midnight.”

“Wait. We aren’t doing it all?” Niko asked Lefty. “I pitched too.”

There followed a shuffling movement behind the door. Then repeated knocking.

“Will you both shut the fuck up already? And the bathroom’s occupied!” Lefty unleashed his fury at the closed door. Nothing stirred. Save the four of us packed inside a bathroom which only grew smaller. “What do you think I set some aside for? There’s plenty more where that came from.”

He pulled out a plastic device from his pocket and with the black screw-top and transparent bottom firmly between his thumb and forefinger.

“What’s that?” Billy eyed the inconspicuous device with suspicion.

“This right here is what we heads call a pocket bullet. Twist this knob here on the side so the arrow points upside down to lock it. Turn it over to fill the chamber with your shwanz and twist again to where the arrow’s pointing upright while plugging that tiny hole on the side of the chamber. Release your thumb. And enjoy.”

“Ya, I’ma hold off on that.”

“Trust me, twenty minutes later you’ll be crawling back for more. Am I right?” Lefty’s eyes swept over us all before resting on me.

“I’m here for the ride,” I said.

“And have I ever led you astray?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“As I said before, leave it to me. Including the hors d’oeuvres.” He offered me the straw.

“It’s only the polite thing to do.”

“Why aren’t I first?”

“Because Billy, I’ve watched you sneeze onto the plate before.”

Billy scoffed. “Yeah, that never happened.”

“Just like you never drank water shots being piss drunk at a party. Only this was worse. Blew the lines right off the plate is what you did. I’ve even got witnesses.”

I could only imagine how many times the drug got stepped on before reaching our hands and what miscellaneous fillers were eating a hole in my cartilage. Remarkable how easily such regards got pushed aside with a ripping snort.

That familiar rush of powder into my hollow skull fizzled into a burning tingle at the base of my neck. I tried rubbing some life back to my face but to no avail. Nose stuffy and half-working from overuse. Becoming a channel rubbed raw from burning my nasal passages with an army of fire ants. Waterfall drips agitated my throat as if swallowing pinecones. My grinding teeth ached.

Already shaken by the premature arrival of a prolonged winter and I was up to the same shit with the same people. Some constants were universal. Like the clogged nostril on my righthand side which always prevented direct access to the membrane.

Lefty hurried me along, wide-eyed with fright. “C’mon and let’s get on it with it already, that could be Mark again.”

“I’ll take that. Thank you,” Niko said when I handed him the straw. After a significant pause he raised up from the marble counter. Contentment spread across his face.

“My turn,” Lefty reached over but Billy intercepted the tooter. “Hey! No stealing lines. Besides, you’re not supposed to plug your nostril like the movies. That’s asking for a deviated septum.” He began, but his concern lasted no longer than it took Billy to lower his face and, without skipping a beat, started talking shit again.

“How about the action out there?” He looked over as if directing the question at me.

“Couldn’t tell you,” I said.

“Guess who got a number already?” Lefty paused as if expecting an answer before breaking down the entire conversation for us: “So I’m at the waterhole filling up when who comes walking by but the younger sister of a guy I wrestled with in high school. So I offer her a drink and we start talking about her family farm in Montana and breeding racehorses so I tell her all about my experience training fourteen hand Arabians for the Kentucky Derby.”

“That’s a bald-faced lie,” I said. Still struggling to swallow the bullet-like drips.

“She doesn’t know that.”

“Winning her over with deceit. Nice. What are you trying to impress me for?”

“No harm in a little white lie. Dating is skin deep and if she likes me for shallow reasons—so be it!”

“You should try using the filter in your head.”

“If I had one, it would certainly have been damaged a couple concussions ago.”

“Why do we hang out again?”

“Male camaraderie and drugs. But mostly drugs.”

“What I want to know is,” Billy said, rubbing his face something fierce. “You got the number, now what are you going to do with it?”

“Come this time next week, I’ll have hit that sideways to sundown. If not, there’s another prospect I ran into.”

“Doubt it,” Billy frowned.

Lefty had always been the type to kiss ass and lie to get what he wanted. Which only got him so far once the bullshit eventually buried him too deep. And telling so many stories in which he manipulated the truth to his advantage was his downfall. Like the boy who cried wolf, there was zero credibility to his claims. Yet he remained unashamed. Emboldened even. Even when his words backfired. Time and time again. Whenever he found himself in a bind, or bad spot, his life philosophy was to lie, lie, and if still in doubt, lie some more.

“We’ll see who I’m leaving with later on.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Lefty. Do you even know her?”

“Ever since grade school.”

“Not in the biblical sense then.”

“No, not yet…” Lefty trailed off with straw in hand to examine the counter. “Damnit Billy!”

“What you going on about?”

“You snorted the biggest line, didn’t you?”

“You’re an idiot. I simply took what I thought was mine. To be fair, I never saw the size of the others. Being that you made me go last.”

“Which you didn’t.”

“Let’s not say something we’ll regret now. Besides, you wanted me to pitch, right?”

Niko cut in. “Shall we quit bickering and get back out there?”

“I think so. Right after another hit of the party pow,” Lefty dropped his face down to snort half the remaining line, pausing halfway to trade nostrils. “And now the other one,” he finished by wiping off the evidence on his nostrils with his sleeve.

I shifted from one foot to the other, wringing my hands in an awkward stance. Coke always demanded action. Even when there wasn’t a cue. Electric adrenaline surged hotly in my bones. Rattled by not doing anything special or important I could only look in the mirror at my hollow expression. Framed by gigantic lightbulbs like in a backstage dressing room. Two full moons glared back. Their fried egg whites drawing me into a colorless abyss.

No one spoke while exiting the bathroom. Even despite the line of dirty looks and whispering left behind us in our wake.

With wacked-out smiles splayed across our faces and no Rich in sight, we reemerged back into the party with dripping noses and sniffling repeatedly to keep up what was left inside our mushy skulls. The biggest drawback to being yakked out other than it completely killing my drunk.

We made our way over to an open area where furniture had been moved aside to create a dance floor. We stood watching a few minutes. The coke had me so high strung and antsy that I didn’t know what to do with myself but drink. Behind the beer pong table, a stirring figure on the opposing sides caused me to stiffen. Nat was onto my scent the moment it wafted in the room. On full alert. Her bulgy, bug-eyes probing through the crowd. Using long feelers like a sieve. Scanning the perimeters. Searching in the shadows.

Someone took hold of my left arm again and pulled me down another dark hallway.

I was guided through a tunnel-like passageway that seemingly led to nowhere. No stopping. My coke-induced paranoia dialed up to the nth degree. Flames leaped under my skin. Hands stayed cold and clammy. Seared eyeballs blinked dryly as they gradually focused on Niko in front of me. He kept a firm grip on my wrist until the hallway ended before a set of double doors with a greenish-blue glow beneath the bottom crack. A single chink of light in a wall armored black by its surrounding darkness.

We entered a huge arcade and game room with aquarium lighting. A cream-colored pool table with gold-laced pockets, vintage dart boards, a fluorescent black light air hockey table, limited edition pinball machines, racing games, and the 777 flash of classic slot machines along the wood paneled wall that never quit blinking—all centered around a green felt poker table upon which could be played card games with a suede dice tray for craps and a 32-inch custom ivory roulette wheel. Five players in semi-casual dress sat smoking cigars in revolving chairs with armrests. Between hands they’d direct their attention back to the plasma screen mounted on the far wall which played a college football game.

No one bothered to look during our entrance until the dealer pointed us back to where we came.

“Sorry, boys. This room is closed.” A familiar, yet icy, voice pierced us at the spot. Standing there in the middle of the table was a dumbfounded Rich staring down his big nose at us. “You again?”

I began to retreat. My hand feeling blindly behind me for the handle when a burnished blond head with a pink face popped up from the table and spoke on our behalf.

“They can stay.”

“Many thanks for your blessing.” I greeted Thresher as if he were the host. He was a mutual friend and one of several whose influence could make Rich hold his tongue. Even with him staring me down while he shuffled a deck of playing cards.

“Are ya kidding? I sent Niko for you,” Thresher said, already red-faced with drink as he pulled me in for a hugging embrace. “Have you hit the gravity bong yet? I’ve been getting blasted with these sickos all night.”

Upon a closer look at those around, the usual suspects filtered into view. Blue. Grey. Tiger. Bull. Most were from the same Catholic private school and were either premed or studying finance. But that never stopped them from investing in side-hustles. Like Rich who developed an app that was a blatant rip-off of another popular social media platform. Also in attendance was Mark Mako. A local business owner in his thirties who Thresher loved to bring around to parties. Set aside in the corner and ornamenting a black Parisian settee were four girls in beautiful shoulder-baring dresses and fine jewelry of gold and silver beset with diamonds and other expensive stones. Each of them took turns smoking from a sweet-smelling hookah. Dying of boredom as they sat huddled together. Their scrunched-up noses pressed to their cellphones.

These trust fund babies were bound to be future doctors, lawyers, and financial advisors. Their family inheritances accounted for much of the city’s wealth. Like the Remoras. I hardly recognized them despite having grown up with them. Their ceaseless ridicule of others resulted in demoralizing fights between the brothers in which Roman, the eldest, often humiliated Mason and by the most shameful means.

“You still haven’t visited the new apartment, by the way.” Thresher said. Crossing his long legs as he retook his seat at the table.

“Yeah, you still haven’t visited the new apartment,” Mason repeated in a semi-mocking tone.

“You’re no longer living up Emigration Canyon?”

“Not since Silky moved to Chicago. We’re now in the Foothill Apartments off the freeway. You can find us there anytime.” Thresher nudged Mason.

“I’ll have to drop by.”

“You better. It’s been too long since we’ve seen you passed out on the bathroom floor.” Mason said, jokingly.

“I’m happy to visit if you need a fresh coat of spackle.”

Lying behind his smarmy expression Mason’s nicety was a known red herring. He was a master provocateur and prankster who liked to manipulate others by getting them into an argument that he instigated for him to spectate.

Niko hung a veiny forearm over each of the Remora’s shoulders. Where one relaxed, the other stiffened.

“C’mon, Tope, are we dealing cards or holding hands?” Roman commanded the dealer’s attention from a glossy armchair at the head of the table. Using Rich’s last name exclusively in the same manner as a gym coach or other authority figure.

Master inventor of witty sayings who was capable of rattling off many different ways of saying the same thing with a sardonic twist, Roman communicated whatever he had to say with a show of extravagance and a wild look in his eye. His styled bangs were a glossy squirt straight from a tube of over-priced hair product. He wore designer jeans and one of those flashy T-shirts with a cheesy design and a zip up jacket. Its collar popped. He was the type to show off his smoker’s cough while still in high school.

“Fancy seeing you here. What’s new?” I greeted Roman after shaking everyone’s hands at the table.

He remained seated with his long legs crossed, partially raising a spidery hand to meet mine before saying with a dry chuckle: “Working hard and partying hard. But no need regaling you all with my past exploits.”

Offspring of the over-privileged loved to generalize life in such ways. Like parasites leaching off their surnames. Of which, the Remoras were no exception. The only work experience between them was racking up tabs at their grandfather’s country club while being able to comport themselves in a high-class manner if the occasion required it. But what can you expect from a private school graduate who drove a fire-engine red luxury car with five-percent tinted windows and decals of a hand promoting two in the pink and one in the stink? Mason by comparison, held the esteem of a preppy weasel stuffed into too small of a polo shirt. He sat curled up with both legs under him like a wound coil, his pinhead resting on thin, boney shoulders that kept popping up between us. His porcelain skin so white and delicate it surely hated the sun.

“Roman was just telling Xander here how we switched price tags on his jacket with another from the sales rack,” said Roman, nodding to the person who sat on his left side. “That’s real cashmere.”

Equal parts suave and debonair, Xander White was distinguished by the bumpy arch in his nose and came furnished with all the trappings of a bespoke gentleman and his flashy wardrobe and eccentricities served as a template for the Remoras. Especially Roman. The flashy, ostentatious trend of style often veered into boutique extremes. Like the garish ruby red gator-skin suit with matching vest he wore to last New Year’s Eve party, his dress shirt unbuttoned to expose his bare chest along with the glistening rhinestone-encrusted crucifix slung around his neck which scattered bright light like a disco ball whenever it pounded against his breast. All of this topped by a felt fedora with a lavender band and a custom cane. Tonight’s wardrobe: a gold robe wrapped up to the nape and tied off with a gold ascot with paisley inner-lining and a lively fur trench coat patterned in ermine spots which lay draped over his chairback. All he was missing were a pair of silk stockings and knee-breeches. Or rather, a collar hemmed in lace. The great Whites ran a family-owned commercial construction company which built several prominent buildings in the downtown area. Making them worth more than the entire table put together. We had met each other dozens of times but he never remembered my name.

Roman swilled a cut-crystal whiskey glass with two bullets in it. “He’s attending a top-tier culinary program in New York City. Expect his gourmet restaurant to open soon.”

“If I ever get around to taking my exams,” said Xander, smiling slightly. His voice oily and bottom lip bulging from the chewing tobacco he gutted.

The girl smoking hookah in the center exhaled a deep breath. The charcoal sizzled, burning as she filled the air in sickly sweet swells of azure. She shot a stare with heavy black eyeliner at Xander as if expecting him to say let’s go.

He never once looked up from his towering chip stack.

“So then, ready to test your fortune?” Roman gestured indifferently towards a black box of clay poker chips which lay open upon the table. Each row differently colored by the chip’s denomination. Mason let out a hyena laugh, tuned to the shrill call of a peacock. Xander yawned into a closed fist. Already growing tired with the pleasantries.

Gamblers always think they’ll beat the house. But fortune was never on my side. A fact I learned the hard way more than once. Too many nights had been left to the whims of tumbling dice. That, and the room was about as breathless as being submerged in a full water tank.

“No thanks.”

Roman kept listening as if a stethoscope were around his neck. Feeling for a pulse.

“I try not to play to lose,” I further explained.

“Or win, by that logic.” The icy contents of his drink tinkled while he studied me over. His thin lips parted, “Niko, what shall it be?”

“I’ll play some games.”

“Good man.”

Niko plunged a fist into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled wad he had along with some lint.

“Is this enough?”

“If not, I got you.” Thresher said with the flash of a shiny smirk. Supplementing his mirth for a bigger pot size.

“Congratulations. You earned yourself a seat at the big table, my friend.” Roman flashed his mother-of-pearl grin as he swept him into an empty spot at the table. “Now if Tope can buy him in already.”

Niko took his seat at the green felt table. Reluctantly, Rich handed him a short stack of chips. One color. Green.

“What are we playing?”

“I haven’t even the slightest, I don’t play,” Roman responded as if thinking the question only applied to himself, ending almost sadly as if the thrill of winning a jackpot would never be available to him. Being stuck in an aesthetic mode of existence, he likely never played because his family’s wealth, which, built on the hard work of penny stock investments, absolved him from participating in trivial matters. Meaning all manner of games. Xander conversely, never seemed tired of winning. The slightest show of a grin on his thin lips whenever the next hand was dealt.

Mason was all in by comparison. Compulsively pushing in his remaining stack for what became another speedy buy in after Thresher revealed his winning hand. Flush of diamonds.

In between dealing new hands and shuffling a fresh deck they talked incessantly about their favorite subject—making money—with verdant gleams in their eyes as they placed bets between chatter backed with hollow laughter. Rich kept track of running bets like a human calculator rushing from one side to the next every time he had to pay out. Always in focus. Never once breaking his composure. Even with the glittery band of sweat at his hairline succumbing to gravity and soaking through his turtleneck.

I lingered longer with nothing better to do.

Who knows how long I hung around before the material of the conversation turned threadbare and I about left when Stavro entered and betting paused again as the table greeted him with a thunderous welcome. By the time he reached the table another hand was being dealt.

I hadn’t seen my old friend since leaving the call center he helped me get a job at, and I knew he’d have questions regarding my tendered resignation. He signaled for me to come over and cut right to it.

“Tell me what happened. Did you really quit?” The type to pull a loose thread until it unraveled, his big eyes bright like candle wicks. Truth be told when it came to quitting there was nothing to it. After working phone sales long enough at our city’s largest third-party retailer for home services; phone, internet, home security, whatever, with a bonus incentive for “cross-selling” customers into signing a 24-month contract for satellite TV, yesterday morning began like any other. I didn’t even know it was my last day when I clocked in to start my shift. And no need explaining my decision further to him. Or how it stemmed from a one-on-one talk with the new Sales Director to discuss my weekly conversion rate: “Why are you in sales? What do you do on your free time? Skiing, huh? Big time skier myself. The only question I have is this: are you a skier or do you just like to ski?” And the more I reflected on it the more I detested the company’s so-called lax atmosphere which they touted as their “secret sauce” along with ping pong tables I never played on or the vending machine room. Each 15-minute break was no more than an excuse to chain-smoke cigarettes and I’d return from lunch breaks head split from smoking spliff bowls at home. After being a working stiff since the age of sixteen, with brief stints in retail, food service, door to door canvassing, valet parking, and taking calls from a cubicle, all I wanted was to realize my true potential.

Stavro listened to me in earnest. Measuring me with his gaze until I was completely finished. “Ok. Now what?”

“Whatever doesn’t require pissing in a cup,” I said in half-jest. “The upside is that I’ll never have to cross-sell again.”

“Aren’t you also celebrating some work news, Stav?” Roman said.

“No big deal but yes, they asked me to leave my sales group for the quality department.”

“So like a promotion.”

“It’s more of a lateral move. But I’m no longer paid on commission.”

I couldn’t imagine listening to recorded sales calls all day, but I was happy for my friend nonetheless. It was good to know there were other departments available for when sales didn’t work out. I was about to congratulate him further when Roman butt in again as if to keep stake in the conversation.

“Wasn’t there rumor about the CEO selling CommSales?”

“Absolutely not. TeleCorp merged with CommSales and rebranded. TeleSales is the future.” He folded his arms for this last bit, beaming ear to ear. “I should be looking at a 3% pay increase due to the acquisition. That should cover my new car lease.”

“Better a European import or you haven’t really taken off.” Roman said to a few hollow laughs, locking his sight back on Rich. “And I’m not talking about no stripped C class Mercedes! But I guess it’s dealer’s choice.”

All the air had been sucked from the room following this last comment. Only the noisy whir of cards passing through the automatic shuffler could be heard.

I was a pillar of sand crumbling at the touch of a single salty drop. Never had I felt so estranged from my old school friend. Yet, sufficient words fell flat in the face of my newly felt guilt. When I turned back to ask Stavro if he wanted to smoke a cigarette he had already bought in at the table. The conversation had naturally run its course. But I was still in search of how to mend our broken link.

“Let’s try to link up soon. We need to catch up and that’s mostly my fault.”

Stavro’s tone switched to that of a concerned older brother as he spoke.

“Remember the start of summer? When I made the move to California and open that food truck with my cousin? I lasted like two weeks. There’s no shame in admitting you were wrong and cutting your losses. Anyone can sell souvlaki plates with pita bread. But who wants to drive three hours in traffic every day to earn their keep? Not me.”

Mason chimed in. “You could’ve had free gyros for life, bro.”

“Exactly. If I knew before what I know now, I’d have done it all differently. Better even. I’ve also found that the company you keep is most important. Are you still hanging out with Lefty? And Billy Boch?”

“Yeah, but they’re good friends. Except there’s constantly someone posting up at the house well beyond necessary. I’m at a total loss.”

“You could stop selling.”

I stood back aghast. After so long floundering in the seas of mediocrity was I so full of shit I couldn’t stand to hear it? Probably.

“Sounds simple to me. You said it yourself. There’s no time for yourself. Which is in your control. Sorry, I can’t feel bad. You bring it on yourself.”

I was speechless. And spoken like a true Econ major, he relayed raw data as cold, hard facts. Regardless how lofty he aimed to be my response came out more deflated than a punctured balloon. Stavro used to be someone I could talk to about anything. But this was one of those times where his harsh truths were too big of a pill for me to swallow.

His face softened. “Look, I’m just leveling with you. It may not be what you want to hear, but that’s how it is.”

“No hard feelings,” I said. “I’ll take the advice, nonetheless.”

“You should be fine, though. As long as you’ve got a game plan.”

“I thought about being a professional skier.”

Stavro laughed out loud. It was like talking about two different people whenever I was the subject.

Any further attempt to placate him further became a struggle to get back in his good graces. One of my closest friends had turned on me. Surely he knew how hard I strove for meaning in my purposeless existence. Even though I was never good at opening up to anyone. Especially those who were closest to me. I even managed to forget his birthday this past summer and here he was writing me off. This cross was now my own to bear.

“What do you have going on next weekend? Let me buy you a drink?”

“I’m going to San Diego with these guys.”

“Remember Del Mar Beach?” Said Thresher. The thought of which instantly caused Mason to guffaw.

I sure did. Although my freshman year of college felt like ages ago. It was my first time visiting and subsequently puking at a bar while toting an obvious fake ID from Texas. A novelty which I paid Thresher one-hundred and seventy-five bucks to obtain.

“Except we’re waiting for Tope to still purchase his goddamn ticket,” said Roman. Once again, the table’s attention turned to Rich with the keen sense of scenting blood in shark-infested waters.

Betting ceased as Rich kept sweating through his shirt, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “Because I’m waiting for a return on my app startup.”

“Remember guys? He’s waiting for a return on his app startup,” said the opportunistic Mason.

“Yes, that’s right,” added Roman, amused. “What’s it called?”

“PostSpot,” Rich spoke under his breath.

“PostSpot. How quaint. Care to enlighten us on how it works?”

“You tag the location of where your post was taken for others to see.”

“Groundbreaking stuff. Let’s stop being so cavalier, Tope, and run daddy’s AmEx already.”

“That doesn’t cover my personal expenses.” Rich ended with a nervous laugh.

“Why not sell one of your paintings?” Roman volleyed back. His words suffocating like overly dry red wine.

“Better yet, you could hold a gallery.” Mason suggested.

“I hate to foist this upon you, but Thresher and I made more selling fake IDs than your paintings altogether.” Roman winked at Stavro and I, his thin upper lip curled as he added under his breath. “Don’t quit your day job.”

“Yeah, by overcharging your friends.” Rich fired back. But his slightly quavering voice betrayed him.

“Ooooh, Tope’s got a bite.” Mason could hardly contain his excitement. This was a culture of answering witticisms with witticisms in which the Remoras excelled.

“Always sticking that nose where it doesn’t belong,” said Roman with real venom to his bite now.

He eyed his prey. His gaze piercing with surgical precision.

“It is big enough,” said Mason.

Rich looked downwards, staring at the white knuckles which he pressed upon the soft green felt. Shrinking until he was small and slender.

Thresher began circling the table with Mason stuck to his side.

“Come now, Tope,” said Roman. “Don’t wear that face we’re only busting your balls a little...”

But being one of those select friends I decidedly took my leave. If the party outside was breathless, it was nothing compared to being submerged in that shark tank.

Hypocrites. All parties involved. It was a privilege to have made it out of there unscathed.

Halfway down the hallway another door opened up just before the wine cellar. Once eyes had adjusted to the blinding brightness, they made out Lefty standing inside of a bathroom.

“There you are,” I exclaimed, nearly overjoyed.

“Had to wet my nostril,” he said.

“What now?”

“Your turn.”

He stuck the pocket bullet in my face and without even bothering to look around I gave the tip a good sniff. Quickly followed by a second bump on the other side to balance it out.

Despite jerking upright with my head tilted back, I knew right away it didn’t take. Cotton-like flakes fell down in clumps onto my shirt as if rejected by my face. My formerly clear passageways were now clogged beyond use. Being congealed with mucous. Hardening the soft sinus tissue with each sniff. Contraindicated.

“Ready to leave soon?” I asked him. Expecting his response to be favorable.

But Lefty checked me back to reality.

“Are you kidding? Billy and I have been dominating the beer pong table. Seven games and counting. I hardly have time to take a piss before the next match.”

“Let’s make this the last round, yeah?”

But he was back in the bathroom making himself puke before playing another round.

Oh, the frisson of excitement! Even for a floating ghost nose the coke burned too little. I craved nothing more than to leave. Or else be forced to reckon with the recognition of my wasted existence.

I was released back into the pool, but stayed an absolute stinker. Fouling up conversation with whoever tried talking to me. I only blamed myself for my rotten attitude, for falling out with old friends, for dealing to the masses, and for never having time for myself. I stood alone. Off to the side. Exhausted with inactivity while hating this moment, this night, and everyone here. But mostly hating myself.

So I withdrew altogether. A soured, surly bit of insignificance found in every corner. I needed nothing else from these figures of the past which fleeted by in a series of flashing images. Why the cause of such misery and pain? Like living affirmations which propelled me closer to perdition.

It couldn’t get any worse. Until it did.

On the move, someone punched my shoulder and when I turned around, I encountered my biggest surprise yet.

“Umm, excuse me?” She said. Her soft voice burning like salt on an open wound as my worst fears became reality.

Joy. Nothing novel here. Just the same old story of keeping yourself available for someone way too long. Like a fleeting image I chased to no avail. Ever since high school, she was in a relationship with an older kid that lasted years until she came back from summer vacation senior year. Right when I thought I had a legitimate chance to win her over she rebounded with somebody else who happened to be a childhood friend. I even remember that fateful class when I happened to introduce them to each other like it was yesterday. And after one weekend together they were holding hands in the halls. Still, I couldn’t resent her. Although I had the charming effect of making her boyfriends jealous because I talked to her. Always being the other guy. But what’s the worry about someone unwilling to compete for her affection out of principle? Like any other girl presented with options, she allowed me the opportunity to end our friendship and fight for her. But she had made her choice already as far as I was concerned. I’d have done anything for her short of compromising my values. Whatever those were. Even having my chances blown there wasn’t a shred of animosity towards any involved. Only an ever-growing hatred inside for not being the man I wasn’t. We could go months without speaking only to have a chance encounter and start texting each other all over again with no progression whatsoever. Now, it seemed like everyone knew her. And for every sucker hooked, she was the best player I knew. Except I was the biggest sucker for ever believing a window existed for us after each relationship ended. Apart from her free nature, the worst sting was my failure to convince her, or myself, I was worthy of being loved back. I was stuck in a losing battle. Over and over. Where she encouraged competition, I had no desire vying for her favor. Being somebody different than what was manifested by my adolescent imaginings. I could never cater to her as others so readily did and I refused to chase her. Becoming reduced to another drooling suitor. And every time she chose someone new, it wasn’t me.

Nonetheless, desire for her occupied my waking mind.

Half a year’s absence and here she was in killer black stilettos that made her over a head taller with a new hairstyle. Short, shoulder length hair with cut bangs which covered her forehead in a glossy black band. An hourglass pendant hung around her neck upon a chain with a high polish finish. Despite all the memories she conjured up I fortified myself with civility as her fiery eyes read my every move.

“Rude.” She kept me stuck with a piercing glare. “You can’t not say hi.”

“Hey, it’s been awhile,” I rubbed my shoulder as if it had hurt. Her flickering smile causing me to avert my gaze.

“I can’t believe it! There are so many people here tonight,” she exclaimed, looking a lot more enthused than I felt. The hardest thing about talking with her is that it made me physically sick to even be around her.

There came the familiar lurch in my stomach. I stood stupidly for a moment or two grasping for something clever to say. Nothing came.

“An awful amount, really.”

“And now I think I’ve seen them all.”

Funny having to keep this conversation going as if something might change.

“What’s it been, since summer? Crazy.” I replied, dumbfounded as if stricken in the back of the head with a sledge hammer. Half of me wanted to stay put while the other pleaded to run as fast as possible out of the house.

“You look good, except I wish you weren’t so skinny.”

“Erm, sorry to disappoint. What have you been up to?”

“Pretty much staying busy with school and work. I don’t see you around anymore. Are you taking classes?”

“I’m currently on hiatus for now.”

“You haven’t changed much it sounds like. That’s pretty refreshing around here.”

Her furtive eyes kept darting over my shoulder. I could already picture the hulking muscular frame of a football player heading our direction.

“Well, it was great to see you.” I began to back away, but became foiled by the burly head and shoulders now standing between us.

“Wait—I want you to meet somebody,” she said, side-stepping to allow the bulk of an athletic specimen to join in.

I already knew him as the hotshot senior wide receiver everyone kept raving about this college football season. His real last name was Dunn but he went by some clever nickname ascribed to him by the press. All of which meant nothing to me. Our only common ground was a shared interest. Except where he used his status and charm, I had my many romantic shortcomings.

“Buzz.” He introduced himself in a deep baritone voice. His braided hair held back by a tight headband. He still wore his playing jersey from earlier that night as if dressed for the part as an All-American.

“Nice to meet ya, Buzz,” I murmured back with no intention of remembering that name. This wouldn’t be the first boyfriend of hers I’d been introduced to.

“We won today!” She said, tightly gripping his veiny forearm.

“So we’re having a pretty good year?”

“Undefeated.” He said. Never once breaking his award-winning smile.

“Haven’t you been to the games?” She stood back aghast.

“I’m yet to make it past the tailgate, I’m afraid.” I practically spit through my teeth. But my throat felt dry. Closed off. Tight.

Before I could make my exit, she had already left for drinks. No way she could force us to make small talk if she couldn’t be bothered sticking around.

Buzz took in the room. Enjoying himself as others came over to shake hands and congratulate him on the university’s blowout victory against Colorado.

“Hiya Buzz!” One shouted. Followed by another unseen voice from the crowd.

“How are you liking it here, Buzz?”

“In the 801? Apart from all the grueling practices with the team, being on the road every other week is a full-time job in itself.” He ended with a hollow chuckle.

Everyone else burst out into laughter.

For me there was little humor in such a hulking display of natural selection which boasted the rewards of his genetic jackpot to everyone else’s misgiving. I knew college athletes coasted through their classes. A phenomenon I witnessed firsthand in easy-A classes like Nutrition and World Music where they showed up for day one and again for finals. But there remained a sweltering heat beneath my collar as if I was being held under a magnifying glass. My discomfort rising while Buzz relished in the adulation of his fans.

Instead of gaining yardage, I couldn’t move the conversation any closer to an end. Without Lefty, Billy, or anybody to save me from the inevitable conclusion, I was stuck with no response and a boosted heart rate.

An uncomfortable sensation broke out like a rash spread across the skin. Concentrating into a sharp knot in my chest that radiated outwards. Dispersed in unbearable surges. Despite the red-hot flowing in my veins, the worst part was that I found him to be mostly agreeable. But first impressions were merely skin deep.

“Tell Joy I had to get going. Nice to meet you, Buzz.”

“Word.”

He didn’t shake hands or wave me off. Buzz stared at me as if bearing a forbidden mark. After a long, painful moment he pointed out the donut hole of my caked nostril by running a thick, square-shaped thumb across his nose. Obvious enough for any others to see.

After all these years I still couldn’t keep my nose clean. Dumbfounded, confused, I fumbled over the words I exchanged mere moments ago only to think of better ones later on and to frustration’s end. I became grounded. Dropped from a tremendous height. To be bogged in the mires of the past. Forever reaching out with one hand outstretched, and holding back with the other, like staggering across acres of overgrown weeds and vegetative rank in search for a wild rose never to be found. Society’s superficial love for labels capitalized on one’s inability to truly know someone else or, in turn, be known yourself. Turning ourselves into walking billboards for name brands in vain displays of self-identity. Whether a jock, punk, or clergyman; the act of conformity is the same. And such attempts in getting into others or letting them inside you always fell short.

The next ten minutes were spent in front of a hallway mirror rubbing the greasy bulb attached to my Styrofoam face.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The drips continued to fall. Dropping in unison to the ticking of the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs.

Framed on the wall behind me was the painting of a blue dog. Its yellow eyes reflected back a gaze that penetrated into my soul. A pitiable creature who filled me with utmost disgust. One more game of beer pong, my ass. Just my luck that Lefty, the most uncoordinated athlete of any sport, was on a miracle winning streak. Buzzing with inactivity, I continued to stew. Watching the unwitting partygoers enjoy themselves while wondering what made their behavior more unsettling than alcohol’s many adverse side effects. Which was worse: being a self-deprecating piece of shit or deluded with pride? I always favored the former. Except I could no longer stand to sit and scratch the chafed red spot of a perpetual itch.

Like a social pariah. No longer could I be strung along waiting for the guillotine to drop. For fear that I performed my own execution for the public’s sick amusement.

A sudden ringing shivered up my spine. Upstairs the grandfather clock tolled midnight.

Time to go.

Broken, defeated, I exited the backstairs. I didn’t care about the long walk home. Cold wintry air was exactly what I needed as I stole into black night. Like a shadow chased by its form. Half-blinded by darkness beneath the starless sky.

A couple could be seen leaving the house together linked by the arm. An oddly matched silhouette which could’ve been Buzz with his token date of the week held tightly in one arm like a possession.

But the only thing possessed was me. Possessed with unobtainable desire and a love for self-degradation. No more than a vassal to eternal doting. My scorched heart always burning. Eventually one had to shatter their preconceived notions and accept reality’s cold hard facts. Even Nat had moved on. And all I admired about a girl’s independence and outright stubbornness was taken by a future union with bright-eyed children in tow and her new married name.

I relished the burn of my cigarette as it licked up like flames in my chest. Each frozen exhale clung to the air.

One step off the back landing I missed the top stair and was down on my ass after tumbling to the realization I was more intoxicated than I had previously wagered. Not that I ever gave myself much credit.

Nothing was more sobering than unremitted shame. My stunt managed to treat the smokers on the balcony above to a front row performance. Loud giggles emanated from a wall of smoke as I searched for my cigarette only to witness it fizzle away in the soggy wet ground. A voice called out from behind—“Are you OK?”. Its tone dripping with artifice. But I was well beyond mitigating their mock sympathy. Hellbent, not even the passing flutter of a black object on my periphery broke my concentration.

Off I went into the chilly night. An invisible nose dripping off my face. Sniffling hard to keep its contents from dripping out the hollow cranial basin. Treading through blackness, I shivered beneath the callous, indifferent skies. Nothing like a piercing chill to put a fire in your step. My day drunk hadn’t fully slipped into a hangover but the tap tap tapping behind my forehead forewarned of the headache yet to come. Chased by what I despised while forever stuck on what I couldn’t attain. Like having feelings for someone who never cared to begin with. It became an error I never corrected. Stymied. Stricken with apathy. I was a complete waste. Exasperated by rapid-fire thoughts, the eternal hum remained. Buzzing with the intent of my unfound purpose. And with no way to satiate my desire, I endlessly circled back to relentless scrutiny of my past regrets.

I’ve only become more estranged from others and their actions proved to push me further away. Breathing in the dark, I closed my eyes to hold it in. I envisioned settling down in a remote cabin somewhere with no further pressure from these societal constructs. Then I envisioned a world absent of myself. After all, that was the common denominator for what never seemed to belong.

I searched for my last cigarette, now all crumpled up and flattened yet safely protected in its pack. I stuck the bent end in my lips and didn’t realize I lit the filter until it was too late.

“God damn it!” I cursed into the night. Out of control. Lamenting my misfortune was more fucked than I could have ever imagined. The soft gleaming streetlamps started to streak in a ceaseless flurry of snowflakes.

Forever falling.

                                                              *     *     *

I staggered past countless blocks in the frigid cold when all that was once familiar turned strange and obscure. Although frightening at first, I slowly began to resonate with its unfamiliarity. Like a black raincloud storming down an abandoned road—propelled by a whirlwind of emotions—passing carelessly by with no direction. Walking aimlessly in what could have been repeated circles as I trudged past endless loops of plastic, shrink-wrapped suburbia. The scenery repeating like earlier scenes from the party. Which reeled nonstop through my head in cringe worthy cycles that further induced my nausea. Sick of being opposite—an outpouring of tears flowed, coursing down each cheek to replenish my fatigue. The rapid influx of emotion caused me to punch a tree trunk. Leaving my knuckles bloodied and split for me to mark leaf after fallen leaf, in metered lines of glistening scarlet. Viewed from the sidewalk my vulnerable state felt exposed to every eye that happened to peer from beneath their partly closed blinds.

Instead of treating onlookers to free admission to the traveling freakshow I bypassed the road in favor of a shortcut through the densely thickened woodland. Located right within city limits.

Waxing moonlight guided me through impenetrable night as I began to rue cocaine’s bittersweet come down. Of which, only a slight tingle remained.

Cloaked in my surrounding gloom. It could only be downhill from here.

                                                                 *     *

A feral wind picked up. Stirring the dead, dried-up bramble and scattering dried leaves with each strong gust. Their twisted forms stricken with detritus. Into the uncertain murkiness I went. Clambering towards the prickly embrace of pine trees, downcast and bent low enough for their long, pokey boughs to sweep the muddy, leaf-covered ground. Using my freezing, bare hands to steady myself, I stumbled over the slippery rock. My throat hoarse, yet numb, occasionally letting slip a murmur whenever I tripped upon rock crevices or a gnarly root which lie hidden. But I kept the worst of it inside. Such powerlessness led directly to resentment and destructive envy as I toppled each hill only to stumble into another valley. Through thicket, trench, and rocky bed—I paid no mind to better judgment. Sliding further along my crooked way. Always on the lookout for that straight route around each bend. I paused my aching feet once or twice to briefly consider turning back. But that required putting too much of the past behind me, and I was already far enough on my erring path.

One which sought seclusion from another’s company.

                                                              *     *     *

The frozen fount had thawed.

And the tears began to fall.

I followed the cracked bank of a bone-dry riverbed where I crunched upstream beneath the naked limbs of creaking oaks.

Lungs rattling like tin cans in a slow heaving chest.

The red teakettle screams of hot blood causing my throbbing eardrums to pulse.

The heavens shuddered as I shouted obscenities at the full moon. Holding up a shaking fist to it like one who’s stark raving mad to rail against the cosmos in a blind fury that, wreaking havoc with such reckless abandon, thundered in a tempest primed for torrential vows of forsakenness.

My emotional indigestion, which was formerly blocked, welled up inside to where I was left spewing artless content, waxing poetic like a begotten byproduct—shitting from my mouth:

Oh, me! From the moment I entered the wood I’ve been wrapped in a thick, swarthy wind. Like variegated rags covered in filth and dirt with raggedy hair to fit my manic aspect while I sung my doomsday dirge. Whistling howls that matched the bay of hounds left out after dusk. Thrown into a fit of despair. I could only pick up loose rocks from the ground and toss them into the howling heart of these distempered, blustering winds. Which snarled from the open hollows of every black hole, dark chasm, and remote abyss. Leading me to its center in feverish steps. A void. Alack, accursed Night. Must you first and foremost serve Nature’s bidding and further rankle? Lo, as an inhospitable journey with no inns reaps a thorny harvest by sowing promises of long nights and frosty morns, fickle Fate in collusion with spiteful Fortune cast lots with loaded dice, fixing my misfortune by adding more to the maladjusted score. Aye, mark the ungainly outcome of living in ill repute once all exacted—I was torn over which fires me up most; social gatherings or the burning reason which keeps me from joining them. Much less how could I be foolish enough to get dragged down Memory Lane? Easy. I was a natural fool. Who else suffers the slings and injury done by dear friends and lost lovers that provoke unjust delusions crafted in their image? Verily I was too inexperienced to broker a deal with Lady Luck, that unattainable siren of cold passion, and was too vulgar, no, too profane for admittance to her temple. Her treasure untouched by a fervid flame which burns hotter with hateful rancor. No salve to treat such burn wounds. I no longer hold interest in fallow fields which bore weeds for flowers. Having already reached into Fortune’s empty pouch to no allay. I’d clearly been relegated to a forgetful muse. A surly spirit coming to shorten the exhale of each breath. Whence came this mistress? Being lost and confounded by belied truths retelling the same lie. The bane of my balmy existence. Notwithstanding the melted interior, the exterior had all but frozen over. Chosen to be cursed: hell begot. Disparaged, depraved, a beggarly vagabond and a wretch I confess! By all accounts plagued with reason past care or cure. Forever counting my losses. I wage war with peace. Promises are the pitfall of fools who live by calendar and clock. And never would I meet the scope of my aim. Ever. So here I was, hopelessly hung on the lowest rung of the ladder. A loafer… a wastrel… an idler… and professional shirker with no talent that can be deemed worthy of any real-world application. Beforetime: when Death, that murderous tyrant, who with crooked knife, the bloody weapon and bane of every mortal age, thrust Decay upon me and by ills devoured my greener years in a fiery youth that prematurely burnt the triple morn of spring. Too lively a soul for such dull flesh, I was left to wrack and ruin during the yearly threshing of each cycle with no kernel… grown to oblivion. Befouled, disoriented, I found myself lost without a marker to indicate any progress (or regression..?) in this crooked wood. Thence I’ll wander on as night shifts. My penal solitude. Turning back to the wilderness with dignity disgraced. Sowing seeds of discontent. A far greater sacrifice must be made for this upheaval. My reckoning.

Nighttime hung heavy and repressive. Pressing like a weight upon my hunched over shoulders. Ostensible only in relation to the chagrin of my five wits. This entire plane of existence was one giant punchline where I was the butt-end to a joke I never got. Except now, now I’m laughing aloud like society normally frowns upon.

Imagine me swinging from tree limb to limb in the dour, somber gloom, until the rough bark scraped the flesh from my palms.

I trudged onwards with a remarkable calmness I hadn’t known since setting off on my own path. Only that soft, fuzzy emotion felt incomplete. As if received through waves of broken static. My disinterested feet became sluggish with what seemed like only blind arms to guide them. Every turn seemed similar. Like how every call for progress rang hollow in a vicious cycle of futility that ended in utter despair.

After walking across the length of a fallen alder tree I sat upon its lichen covered stump. Surrounded by fallen pinecones, nearly broken down completely until my tear ducts dried up and thirsty red eyes stung.

What more to discover within myself being practically stark naked already? Stewing in a dark medley of thought that in turn, became answered by a distant hooting. I stayed frozen with fear. Every sense heightened except my eyesight which strained to make sense of the night. I stared hard into the dark wood. Scraggly tree limbs stripped bare of their leaves created ungodly shapes before me. I contemplated whether it was my imagination playing tricks on me or simply the alcohol when from out of the dogged silence came a rustling from the yawning deep. I quickly disregarded it as some smaller creature of the night when heavier movements stirred the tangled knot of fallen trees. Heartbeats echoing upon hollow rib as I awaited its next move. Hairs pricked up on the back of my neck with the spiked magnetism of a compass needle, and an unbearable itch grew beneath my collar. Although nothing was there, I couldn’t shake the feeling somebody or something watching over me. I feigned some composure before I sallied forth again.

Every which way I went my echoing thoughts would follow. My fears tripling.

I hopped over a moss-covered rock into a dried-up stream bed lined with black hawthorns and where gnarly pieces of deadwood stuck out from the smooth, round rock. The seconds strung together in dreadful suspense. Not before the ghostly clouds parted like a curtain, stripping the sky bare to reveal the pallid orb above. A light wind raked the scraggly branches overhead when a low growl (triggered by a mere figment of imagination?) caught my ear. Followed by another growl.

Only it was right behind me and much louder than before. As if the creature was already at my heels. A call from beyond.

I stopped and spoke aloud to this specter of dread without turning directly towards it. “Well then, are you coming along or not?” My voice rang out eerily in the quiet as if not my own. But there came no reply. Only the stillness of my beating eardrums. Too old for phantoms and unexplained mysteries, I continued once more upon my desolate trail, picking up right where I left off;

Unable to hold back any longer I checked over my shoulder. There they were. Staring out from the black. Two piercing black eyes locked onto mine. Filling me with a painful look which began to steadily stalk me.

Beside myself already I was of no mind to stick around any longer than necessary. Galvanized after many years of inactivity it took but one glimpse of that abomination for me to turn heel and run. Faster and harder than ever before as my body surged with adrenaline. A nightmarish labor akin to running through thick syrup.

This was no organized track sprint. It was the primitive reflex of survival. Running right. Running left. Running straight ahead without another look back as I ran deeper into the dark of night, passing through the pines and hopping over steep rock ledges.

No matter how fast I moved it stayed right on my heels at every turn.

Gaining on me. Nearer, and nearer. Mirroring every step with the grace of a hunting predator.

I ran. White-hot fear surged through my body like an electrical current. Staggered, and stumbling along despite every muscle in my burning legs screaming to stop. Weaving between ash, oak, and hawthorn which were all growing together amidst countless other dangers and perilous obstacles I soon approached a sharp drop-off with nowhere else to go except back.

Last thing I remembered was a final glance behind in the hopes of shaking my pursuer when I lost footing after jumping a snowy boulder and found myself tumbling the rest of the way down the hard, slippery slope.

                                                              *     *     *

                                                                 *     *

                                                                    *

An expiration of shaky breath—thankfully for my body, my head broke most the fall. Its pain redoubling as consciousness restored. Exhausted. Lying still, flat on my back on a bed of rocks and scrub oak. I stare into this starless sky from a rocky pit—all too fitting for a bottom dweller—and share my gratitude with whatever heaven or hell is responsible for this plummet into despair, which continues to exasperate. A foregone conclusion having squandered a life’s worth of opportunity. Walled up in paradise. My enterprise failed without ever starting. Unable to rise again, I give in. Letting the cracks split the foundation and its shaken walls collapse. Fallen to rubble in a mushroom cloud of unforgiving dust. As a sweeping squall cuts to the bone. Therein having prescribed this ill I acquiesce to the futility of blaming the present circumstances. Guard down. Shaded in spite. Swallowed by iron-wrought jaws which devour whatever in sight; the wide-open maw in which I’ve fallen, chewing me up only to spit me back out—Ay me! No rest at day. As well at night. Stirring in agony over what the effort amounts to when said and done. Spiteful oblivion of epic proportions befalls me! Let’s subpoena my contemptuous past. The crime? Truancy. Add slander and libel to defamation of character and the sum is all and more. In addition, this audit is annexed by a missive writ in ashes with a fiery hand so what more have you in store? Far too many mishaps and shortcomings to aggravate my already pained aspect cannot be numbered and I take court against myself over these two states of which I wrest: fraught with fear and far more so with vice. Yet, the worst offence of all? My capacity to err as if needing to for breath! Forever missing the mark of my sights. As if stuck behind the iron bars of my wildest dreams and desires. Meanwhile the wheel completes another turn. The flipped hourglass becoming an infernal fountain of sand. And any honest attempt at recapturing a favorable reputation gets trumped by a host of bad decisions which feast upon living flesh. No more than a blank book. Bound to be charactered with black ink until endlessly covered o’er with illegible markings. ‘Tis nothing but inkblots. Indelible proof written by stars whose influence holds sway no matter how fixed askance or inconstant. Soul eclipsed, and world weary, what do I care to earn public favor? Eking by for clout while succumbing to the monarch’s plague. To lift such poison to my lips may simply earn an early grave. Rightful oblivion without death in pursuit of baited hooks. I must render. Pinioned beyond cooperation, or comprehension. Even a pebble wears out the sole. Was I gaslighted? Who wasn’t? These bowered vistas open up avenues of paranoia where instead of living a life to the fullest I’m crumbling back into dust. Wasted away on apathy. Tormented by self-doubt as some malignant nimbus eclipses the mind. I never disciplined myself to begin with. Now when I consider my entire youth being nearly spent, I’d rather balk at a given opportunity than fail at it. Perhaps I should sell out what I had to finance next month’s rent. Pawn off my skis if needed to cover utilities. But that only left me in the same position the following month, and I was far too prideful to ask my parents for any handouts for fear of being trapped under their beneficent thumb. I suppose I can always ask to loan the money from them. Except I will never fully pay them back. Not that they expected me to. It would only subject me to living on their terms, which certainly doesn’t include the liberty of smoking a bowl to start the day along with countless other habits not conducive to good health. First, they help out with your rent then the next thing you know they’re demanding terms like going back to school to finish a bachelor’s degree in English. What can you do with that? What next? Work. Marry. Copulate. Become buried in the demands of a fruitless career. Only with every sense beguiled, beaten, and bemused as if long wrought by contrition. Not for naught. Being swollen with still-birth ambition, prolifically sterile, and constantly misunderstanding what’s past end. Waning again, as the thread unravels to an empty spool in my hand. All one… one equals nothing… and thrice so. O… O… O…

—midway through my speech the words became prickly, caught in trepidation to solidify like a block of ice in my tightened throat. The two deflated bags in my chest ceased their raspy breaths, frozen in shock. Out of the blackness of a frozen black hole emerged a monstrous shadow. Manifested from the sheer pain of abject misery. Its cry ear-splitting.

Hopelessly overcome, I remained frozen as the monstrous creature, hideous as it was beautiful, crawled out betwixt the rock and blackened bramble. Matted black hair. Foamy mouth. Black eyes. It emerged out of seeming oblivion. Entering dreadful night.

The air deadened. Silvery shadows cast from a half-moon nourished this poor, wretched thing. A most misfortunate beast with the shape of a dog but belonging to a larger breed than I’d ever seen. It looked mangy too with its long, tattered fur. But its most pronounced features were its eyes. Deep-set. Black. A haggard, hapless stray with gnashing fanglike teeth, long nails, and shaggy coat stained a blackish soot-colored hue.

It paused. Gazing at me with hot embers in its pupils which glittered with the intensity of lit coals. Unmistakably grotesque, the sight of such an unsettling vision drained all the color from my cheek.

The fiery glow of its eyes cooled to a dark azure. No longer perceiving any threat. We remained locked like that for what could’ve been hours. Its attention focused on me to where I could feel every degree of hurt in a pained moment of mutual understanding which lent me the insane notion to call it over. Snapping the silence with shaky breaths. Its frayed tail swung lightly. Closing the space between us. In a single bound the furtive shadow burrowed a cinderblock head deep into my chest as I allowed it to nuzzle in somewhere between my disagreeable thoughts.

Once the bulk of its haggard muzzle became buried all the ugliness got usurped by a pitiful compassion which commanded one’s full attention. Not fear, but a strange sense of responsibility accompanied what should otherwise be alarming. I slowly garnered an affection for the poor wretch which shadowed my every movement from then on.

Somehow I knew it was my oldest companion. In a single look its misery mirrored mine. Lending further reason to reflect on the present circumstances.

“No. Why belabor what’s past due? Already born amiss, an odd lapse, I laugh into the yawning abyss. Benevolent oblivion for an absent tenant. Fallen from lofty peaks to dwell in abysmal pits; a reprobate, I elect. Lower than the worm. Stuck: like an understudy who forgets their lines once called to the stage. With orbits mislaid from their sockets. Staring with a crystal gaze upon a painted backdrop with fake props. The spotlight moon shining upon legions of dumb actors who wear repulsive masks fit for an audience. Like empty coffers, spiritually bereft. No fantasy is too far flung to break pacts with mutable moonlight. There’s no fixing fucked. By and by confined to doom. Being of no domain. Never with a choice. No more than a counterfeit. A forgery. The future of my present dearth already etched upon my headstone as I stare life’s meaninglessness directly in its face. Fully aware that all our painstaking efforts will one day amount to nothing. Having parted the broken leaves and foliage from my hair and face, I begin at a crawl, climbing up from this rotten, festering hell hole until level once more.

“No mind to good counsel. Thrown down into the depths already. Might as well live up to my ill repute. Self-loathing and pity are the fodder for those who burn alike with their brand. The mark of the muck. Already forsworn on account of my chief torment, no matter how it bends. Here, I decree my oath... in a final, desperate throw of dice. If shadow trumps substance, I’ll wear discontent fashionably. Forever heaping scorn like a prince of exile, and fortify myself with decay. Obliged to be superficial with all the rest. Having tested my bonds, the tides have turned for this drudging fiend. With a broken branch in my hand for leverage, I rise up from out of this bottomless pit and new blood in these veins. A deviant with a tendency to deviate. In rebellion. Altogether a law unto myself. Lastly, if happiness is unworthy of us than we’re not worthy of it. Our pride being worth more than what’s foolish and beneath us and those who do believe in it are even worse off. Indebted to time, we’re paying compound interest on a lease soon to be paid. Looking back only affords a scene that’s strange as it is discomforting. As if culled straight from a rich tapestry of broken dreams.

“So I may be attached to this baleful beast of burden, a sulking, unsightly mass at that! A fellow benighted soul neglected within its undeserving vessel. The danger: end this spell, or struggle forever to grasp any suitable ideal in this world of shadow and forms. For truth blossoms along the thorniest branches. Now having delivered my soliloquies I was ready for the next act. By morning I’ll bid adieu to ghosts and phantoms which steal away like shadows from coming dawn!.. Thus opens a new chapter of our union. Bearers of darkness and light. Watch the fool take his first step. North-west. Towards the direction of the unknown. With starbright snowflakes dropping from the sky. The white sun his sole witness.”

Onward, we journeyed forth together. On a doomed voyage from the start. Two shadows; passing by unnoticed under the storm-settled night.

The black dog followed in my footsteps. Shivering with excitement before assuming the lead by running amok and scouting the territory ahead. Its shaggy tail wagging happily at any chance to play as I threw sticks for it to fetch. It was surprisingly heart-warming traveling beside such a foreboding and ominous beast. My beast. What relief to be seen through hours of darkness.

No longer dismayed, having met my other half, we ventured off like kindred spirits. Indeed, never alone. We comforted one another. Such a metaphysical conceit proved its loyalty would be the best I’d ever known, and we became one under the pale crescent of a new moon.

Running free. Heavy paws padded the dense foliage until trees began to thin. But it wasn’t out of the woods yet.

It took a keen sense to navigate the scents which lay scattered across the muddy, leaf-colored terrain. Yet eventually, like all things, the wooded trail led back onto a paved road covered in road salts.

All too soon the setting gained familiarity once again, and the return to the concrete world of suburbia was more dreadful than any grim fairytale.

Snowsqualls blew all throughout that night. Howling winds rattled the shutters as heavy snowfall continued to pummel the sleeping valley and the surrounding mountains.

I receded further into this bony flesh cage—my prison for life.

Carried off upon dreary clouds before drifting into a deep slumber, the raggedy-breathed shadow curled up at my side. Its heavy misshapen head resting on me all through the night.

Deep in the dark.

Black eyes burning.

                                                              *     *     *

                                                                 *     *

                                                                    *

                                                                 *     *

                                                              *     *     *

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

KNOCK KNOCK

I awoke from fever dreams overtaken by near-fatal crashes on velvet highways with snow banks for guardrails only to meet the pounding hangover of a bright new day.

Stale tobacco breath clung thick as dirt clods in my mouth. My throbbing head a washed-up, splintered piece of driftwood. Once submerged in the murky depths only to crash against the rocks of an unshakeable seasickness. Insides crawling, I rolled over in bed to soothe the tyranny of an overly acidic stomach. With no desire to ever get up again I planned to take refuge from the outside world altogether. Hidden away from what drove me to drink to begin with until it became too sour to stomach, causing me to prematurely break free from my bedsheet cocoon. Emerging out of it in a form far uglier than before.

I rushed into the bathroom where the faint recollection of last night shot up past my throat. Somewhat relieved, I pulled the toilet handle. The sickly yellow bile swirled around the white porcelain bowl. Back pressed to the wall, I slid onto the floor. I had only started to recover from my morning routine when another KNOCK KNOCK rapped the front of my brain.

Unmovingly I listened. Only the cold tile rang back in painful silence as patchy recollections of skiing and drinking filled the blank recesses of my mind. Still doubled-over with pain from an upset stomach, I passed through the hallway into the living room in search of what I last dropped.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

That same dreadful knocking from before. Only full force and persistent. Someone at the door? At this ungodly hour, I only had but one idea.

On my way to answer the door I pieced together the night before in fleeting bits of drunken conflict followed by more drinking and more conflict. Now vestigial imprints of an erased past. Completely lost to known memory.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t bloody your knuckles already. Coming!”

I cracked the door open partway. Allowing enough space for a hand to push through from the other side.

“Can’t you hear me knocking? It’s been over ten minutes now,” spat my unwelcome guest as he crossed the threshold.

I rubbed my eyes. Hard. Hoping my problem would disappear when they reopened again. It never did.

“Look who it is,” I said. “What a surprise.”

No need for passing pleasantries. Especially so early in the morning.

Lefty Bellows, true to his many quirks and defects, was the type to bust inside your home at his own leisure and personal convenience. Sometimes sticking around the smoky living room haze like a cross between a permanent fixture and an abhorrent eyesore. Boisterous, abrasive, and preposterous on all counts, he was a ceaseless babbler with the gift of gab and a penchant for skewing social decorum to his will. Contradictory by nature, he was a walking paradox. An impractical gnomist of non sequiturs who always spoke in half-truths, and whose next comment was either genius or insanity with every trick at his disposal to needle and pry whatever he wanted from you. He had the squat stature of a wrestler with a flat, squashed nose, ruddy cheeks, and an uncanny smile. His otherwise clean-shaven face betrayed by an unruly mop, upon which rested a black pair of Ray-Bans.

I would have lit into him further if he wasn’t so helpful fixing my various home repairs. After which he enjoyed pointing out how useless I was with little quips like, “Everybody knows that”. The always animated character was clearly in a hurry and proceeded to root through the desk drawers and book shelves in a frantic search for what didn’t want to be so easily found.

“Look at you,” he called from the far side of the room as he hastily rearranged items on the mantel of an old, unused fireplace. “No plans, I presume?”

“Those are the best plans.”

“I shouldn’t be interrupting then.”

“Only my REM cycle.”

“Early bird gets the worm, y’know?”

“Except the late worm doesn’t get eaten.” My voice sounded distant and far off. My trailing thoughts becoming caught in the cobwebbed corners of the living room. Setting back to my previous task, I scrounged around the inside of an overly cluttered coffee table. Every square inch of its surface covered in empty bags of fast food, scattered bits of trash including cigarette packs discarded like husks, the finished half-gallon bottle of bourbon with dozens of leftover beer cans, some mostly untouched, and two ashtrays overflowing with discarded butts. I felt around for that smooth touch of glass which contained my sole motivation for getting through the day. Only the quart-sized jar held much less than I remembered. Even the pouch of American Spirit rolling tobacco was nearly empty save for a pinch or two of scraggly brown shreds.

“Speaking of worms,” Lefty continued. “I thought you’d never surface.”

“Thanks again for that.”

“I don’t recall you thanking me before.”

“Because I didn’t.” I unfastened the metal clip to pop open the rubber-sealed lid of the large glass jar.

Of the limitless ways to enjoy cannabis we unanimously opted for spliff bowl snappers out of a straight beaker bong. Simple. No frills. Without all the carbureted bells and whistles. Yet highly effective.

I reached for the bong only to find it knocked over on its side. Another casualty from what I couldn’t remember last night.

Immediately I flew onto the scene. Heart racing. Long-dried bong water had already spilled over the coffee table and onto the other side where the rank smell carried up from a carpet still slightly wet and smelling worse than a container of rotten milk left out during a heat wave. Thankfully unbroken, I set the bong upright onto its beaker bottom. I grabbed a cup of what I assumed to be water and dumped its contents into the top of the long glass tube. Just enough to cover the bottom of a standard gauge downstem so I could scrape the leftovers from the grinder and load a bowl mixed with a considerable amount of tobacco flakes.

One hit. That was all it took to get swept away. Even if not the initial spark to my flame, it inhibited the desire for anything else.

The flick of my cheap gas station lighter only intensified Lefty’s erratic behavior. Which soon devolved into more nail-biting and hair-pulling. He rummaged on, ransacking every conceivable nook and cranny one could think to stash something. Muttering to himself like a madman possessed.

“What’s the rush?” I failed to stifle a yawn. The delayed response was atypical for Lefty, who was far too busy tearing my living room apart like a sweeping hurricane passing through. The smaller couch was flipped over. Its cushions stripped off and strewn about the room along with other fragments from the night before. The events after leaving Drunken Moose remained fuzzy, disconnected and uncertain. Which yielded a multitude of possibilities. None of them good. But worse things had been realized through the harrowing lens of bright-eyed sobriety. My foggy recollection of what happened seemed to end in defeated resignation and a subsequent collapse into bed.

My head drummed to the beat of a pounding migraine. Pins and needles stung my palms. The balls of my feet radiated pain. Still shaken by what I couldn’t remember, the walls slanted askew. Leaving me one hit away from blissful nonexistence.

Then there was Lefty, working himself up into a mad frenzy. A minor distraction within the smoky contours of an otherwise forgotten history.

“Do you know where I hid my sack?” He sat in a squat position. “I do not.” I replied.

Defeated, exasperated, he keeled over on the floor. His arms outstretched and legs spread. “Aha!” He trumpeted in triumph after spotting its hiding place from upside down.

“Phew. I was afraid I wouldn’t smoke before work.”

“Is it a requirement?”

“It helps the going get.”

He strutted back to the couches. His scrawny sack (stashed inside a broken-stringed acoustic guitar) and the next topic at hand.

“Tell you what, ever since I quit the car dealership—”

“You mean fired?”

“My point being, I found a piece of us dies whenever we leave a post or position. In cutting ties with our titles we’re severed from our network. Only to pick up another thread and begin anew—a modern renaissance man! As such, Aristo’s is my rebirth. Being the city’s only premier upscale Mediterranean restaurant. It boasts customers of top-notch pedigree whose mere presence elevates gratuity as well as my social ranking.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing,” I said.

“Sure am.”

“How’d they hire you, anyway?”

“I bullshitted my way through the interview by saying what they wanted to hear. Like being a certified maître d’ of fine dining.” Master of nomenclature and random if not entirely useless facts, Lefty was a true salesman at heart. And any service job suited him like his tailored collared shirt.

“Your nametag says waiter.”

“Semantics. I’ve got an embroidered uniform like the rest. Except for kitchen staff. There’s a hierarchy, of course. That’s why we’ve got job titles. But I digress... what a privilege it is to alter the state of mind you work in.”

My brain hurt. Too badly to focus on what he said. I hadn’t been hungover like this in years and still felt wasted. “What even happened last night?” I asked aloud to myself.

“You don’t remember?” Lefty asked.

“Parts of it. Why?”

“Boy, do I have a story for you—” he settled onto the adjacent couch. His meager sack still in hand as he rolled up his sleeves past his elbows. Readying himself for the telling.

Lefty loved pleasing people and telling stories. Never exclusively in that order. A storyteller at heart, he was known for his tall drinks and even taller stories. Spinning heavily embellished yarns that stretched well beyond need or truth. More so, he especially relished in retelling those personal matters you didn’t want others to know about and prided himself on being the first to relay a scandal. Especially when concerning my drunken self.

A pink tongue darted across his splintered lips. He crossed his legs and rocked, holding me over in a suspense which soon got the better of him.

“So I’m working my section, right? It was one of those miserably slow shifts without a whole lot to do other than pretend to look busy—a normal and uneventful Thursday, right? Nope. My coworker shows up with half a dozen unfinished bottles of assorted reds (mostly our best cab) left over from a large lunch party, still untouched, and asks, ‘Want to get fucked up at work?’ To which I say, ‘who not?’ And I grabbed one of the bottles and kept it to my mouth as I stuck a couple more under the table for later. Like impulse. We traded pulls on break until our lips turned purple and we could no longer remember whose tables were whose. Needless to say, Lefty got fucked up. So when you didn’t answer my call I decided to drive through and see what’s up. No lights on. No car in the driveway. I nearly climbed through the basement window except I know how much you hate when I do that so we smoked cigs on the porch until you arrived.”

“We?”

He paused, dumping his sack into an available spliff card. One of those laminated cards which get left on your windshield at public events folded lengthwise in half and with an inverted triangle folded on one side to keep the ground contents from falling out. He added a fat pinch from the tobacco pouch before continuing on.

“Billy was there too.”

Bit by bit, the missing pieces came together. Which only created an image that further served to puzzle. In a clearer state I would have kicked the meddling fools out. But since I had let them in, I was the biggest fool of all.

“We did everything possible to keep you comfortable, of course. You didn’t even know we were here. Can’t say the same for your friend though. But wait—that’s not the half of it,” Lefty said, removing the bowl piece so he could blow out the leftover smoke from the female joint of the bong. “Billy can corroborate this, as I was rather sloppy myself—” he paused again to take a hit.

For a moment, there remained a small smidgeon of hope this wouldn’t end in complete and utter embarrassment.

“And? Then what happened?”

“What do you expect?” He continued on, working through a full chest of billowing white smoke. “She took one look around and asked if it was a frat house before disappearing into the night. Which, in those heels was quite impressive,” his tale ended in a fit of hysterical laughter between dry chest-heaving coughs.

I sank deeper into my seat. Dejected and speechless. Lost in thought while the walls of brick and concrete bellowed back at me.

“Don’t look like that, what could we do?”

“You couldn’t just leave?” I spoke through grit teeth.

“One could argue. But I won’t. Besides, Billy was gentleman enough to give her a ride home. Are you off at the usual?”

“I’m not working.”

“Nice. Day off?”

“No. I quit.”

“The call center? When?”

“Yesterday.”

His inquisitive expression begged for me to explain, but there was nothing to further elaborate on about not wanting to be stuck inside of a gray cubicle all wired-up to receive incoming sales calls. Sometimes you needed to shake up your snow globe existence.

“Any thought of what you’ll do?” He frowned.

“Not even half of one.”

“What about rent? Or the cost of living to sustain such a lavish lifestyle as yours?”

“There are plenty illegitimate ways to get the bills paid, and the hours are great.”

“You’ll keep selling then?” His eyes darted from me to the weed jar and back. “Kinda hard to make ends meet without a legitimate source of income.”

“No need bridging that valley in one day.”

“You’ll have to sell a lot more drugs.” His relief at the prospect was palpable. God forbid something drastic happened like me no longer dealing his daily dime sacks.

“Maybe. Maybe I’ll get out of the game altogether,” I tempered his excitement. But it was like we were having separate conversations.

“So what you’re telling me is you need a job? Look no further.”

“No thanks.”

He was back on the edge of his seat. Cellphone in hand. Eager to sell me more.

“I know a guy,” he began. “Don’t bother.” I stopped him short. Lefty knew a guy for everything. But more often than not these connections were faulty at best, and expecting any promise to come to fruition was more pointless than planting seeds at a landfill.

I reached for my jar while Lefty rebounded with the pitch to his proposal.

“You know him. Rob. Real tall. Ginger. Kinda talks like a hayseed but a great guy though. We ran into each other at Batter’s Up the other day and get this, he sells paint jobs door-to-door and made over 20K last summer. Better yet, you set your own schedule and there’s ample opportunity for growth. He got promoted in under three months and is now managing his own team. He comes from good people so you know he’ll take care of you too.”

I knew him all right. He came over on occasion to buy weed and hammer down a bottle of gin with his best friend before driving off to different parties. Only his spitter of chew remained behind where he left it on the carpet.

“Almost sounds too good to be true,” I said.

“Right? I’d take him up on it if not already established at Aristo’s. Might not be bad to put yourself to some use.”

“So dealing drugs is bad now?”

“On the contrary—my how words do get ahead of themselves. But you can’t only think about today.” He began repeatedly tapping the glass bowl piece against the side of an orange glass ashtray that looked to be picked up from somebody’s late grandma’s estate sale.

“I can as long as business keeps booming. Today’s vices are tomorrow’s profits—please stop doing that,” I about snatched the bowl piece away from him. “If you break it, you replace it. Not that any head shop is open this early.”

“This isn’t my first-time smoking bong. Besides, your pokey stabby is too coated with resin to clear the hole.”

With a final clink the gray cone of ash from Lefty’s cashed bowl fell into the ashtray to burn out in a pile with the rest.

“Apparently Rob’s been on campus every day recruiting new prospects. I’ll arrange a time for you.”

“Play matchmaker all you want. I’m not meeting him.” I loaded another bowl with a stream of smoke still issuing from the top.

Lefty pushed some of the clutter on the coffee table aside to clear space for him to set his phone down.

“Too late. Mull it over for now while I help keep the heat on.” He ended on a high note.

I stuck my face into the glass chamber. Filled it.

Having been confined to a work schedule long enough I preferred my own dealings. My chances of holding down another soul-sucking day job were grim, and the silver lining to my humble side operation was having no schedule to adhere to or boss to answer to other than the clientele and their exorbitant demands. For once I might be able to squander life’s ambitions on my own accord. No mind having nothing to show for my years of poor investments.

“Before I go, can I get another dime?” Lefty snatched the bong again and tipped the last scraps from his card into the bowl.

My agitation burned hotter than the smoldering ashtray as he added the last remnants from the tobacco pouch to ensure his preferred 70:30 mixture of brown to green.

“Do you have money for the last one?” I pressed. The seconds ticked as Lefty sparked the dry papery flakes in the bowl before pulling it.

“Of course, I do. But I need a couple dollars for the gas tank. Here’s a fiver for now. I’m bound to get the other ten in tips at work.”

“You mean fifteen?” I took the crinkled bill before it could be taken off the table.

“That’s what I said.” He was now in front of the mirror attempting to pull his tie even straighter.

Whether he had that (or any at all) he would still need another sack tonight. No wonder we’re forever caught in a web of perennial debt. Like flies.

“OK,” I conceded. Adding: “But only if you leave a couple cigs.” There were some upsides to keeping company with chain-smokers and fiends.

“That’s much better than smoking a slappy,” Lefty said, then paused to smile. “Which does hold a special place in my heart for those rainy days when certain dealers I know are dry.”

Ever the enigma, it was hard to believe anything spouting from his mouth. What exactly was a slappy? The equivalent of resin hitting a pipe but for the bong. Reserved for those desperate moments when you resort to smoking tobacco bowls topped with a healthy heaping of kief. Once the bowl ignites you start to sweat. As if a Bunsen burner was lit beneath your skull. The body rocks in convulsions. Making it helpful to stay seated while you gasp for the oxygen stolen from your lungs. It was enough to make your internal organs cringe at the mere mention. Nonetheless, the grinder’s catcher never lasted long under such times of duress.

I further indulged him by breaking apart one of the sacks, a pre-weighed half-single, setting aside 0.6 grams for him while keeping the rest for my personal knowing perfectly well I’d be paying for it later on.

Lefty’s smile reached up to the dark bags under his eyes. Giving him the appearance of a ventriloquist dummy. He snatched up the baggy. Then he tossed four cigarettes on the table and darted off before his shift started in five minutes.

Sinking, bong in hand, I promptly forgot what seemed so pressing moments before. My eyes shut. Despite the absence of last night’s clutter, there lingered a trace even the strongest chemical couldn’t remove. Like a coffee stain on a white shirt. Or the musky smell of bong water invading my nostrils. Burnt out, and suspended in my mindless stupor, my clean spring of thought became muddied at the muffled buzzing of my phone stuck between two couch cushions.

MEETING AT NOON. CAMPUS LIBRARY

My dried-out eyeballs rolled back until breaking contact with the message on the tiny screen. Time to relish in my recent unemployment, I thought as I deposited Lefty’s five bucks into the weed jar which held enough weight to last me through the weekend.

I plucked out another nug and tossed it into the grinder’s waiting mouth. Its’ silver teeth glinted back with hungry anticipation to crush up a couple more hits to start the day. I dumped the ground weed into a folded joker playing card and pinched the end of a cigarette to sprinkle tobacco on top before fluffing it with my fingertips. After using the bottom end of a resin coated pokey stabby to clear the bowl piece, I completed the ritual by loading it to the brim.

It wasn’t until the cool glass touched my smooth, bald chin that I realized one of the more important pieces was missing. I stripped the couch cushions and flung them around the room, cursing Lefty out all the while as I tore open drawers to dump them on the ground. Nothing. Not even a book of matches. The only thing worse than not having weed was having it and no way to smoke it! I collapsed onto the couch. Already resigned to despair until I happened notice a chartreuse lighter hiding in plain sight on the coffee table where Lefty sat moments before. Often what we sought lies before us unseen.

The torched bowl lit up like dry kindling. I drew in thick, pearly white smoke through the downstem. It yellowed at the base, milking the barrel before it reached my lungs where I held it in until forced to cough it out. The spliff hit to the dome was enough to thrust my surroundings into gravitational orbit. Objects in the room; couches, TV, coffee table and every item on it; spun and swirled around me beneath the ceiling fan. All of this to further augment reality by feeling that funny sparkling pop of your brain cells every so often. Being ripped is all you wanted, and more than you bargained for at the same time. Some think being a stoner is all hippy flower power bull shit. It’s also a revelator of the greatest terrors one never knew existed. Everything from manic fits of paranoia standing in a food line to feeling like a robotic alien out of its skin. A funhouse mirror of sorts in which I preferred the drug-induced hallucinations to sobering reality. As I tilted back to let the rush of a pyrrhic victory take hold, all inhibition and expectations were lost. But the spark of my discontent raged on. Building from a tiny spark into an uncontrollable fire. Eyeballs became dry as arid tracts of desert, revealing conditions which, like myself, were in a constant state of disrepair. Silky cobwebs topped the musty curtain folds. The walls bowed out in odd proportions where the old coal furnace was plastered over. Even the popcorn ceiling was yellow with the tar of smoke while stacks of empty 12-packs and 30-racks were heaped into towering piles in the kitchen.

Everything was right where I needed it. A life perfectly in disarray.

I locked the bowl piece into the bong and reloaded it with renewed vigor. Pointed it at my head. Pulled the trigger.

More time. More subconscious stirrings.

Lost inside the swirling vapors, like one prone to dreaming. And my case was as hopeless as it gets. I was a dreamer who dreamed about doing things more than I did them. Because I knew as soon as I dreamed about it that it would never come to be.

I considered the possibilities available to me with the gray wisps gathering overhead. I used to have time to burn. Now, days off had a way of singling out what needed to be done. Sometimes too much so. I confronted the same outlook as yesterday, and each day prior. The prospects of turning the page were bleak when I repeated the same chapter over and over again. As if locked on a continual loop.

Simply no escape from this palimpsest existence. Only earlier this week I considered washing my hands clean altogether and focusing on my sales conversion. Playing cog to a wheel much larger than me.

But no matter how many times I clambered out of this rocky pit, every misstep sent me falling further into its depths. And stepping out to meet that cold surface world was comparable to those passing shivers felt when a draft slips through the cracks.

Then again, what better day to cast off old habits and try something new? Apart from feeling like a prisoner made to do menial tasks for eight hours a day, work afforded the greatest opportunity of all: change. I dreamt of what lie beyond the hive mindset of needy customers and friends dropping by at their convenience but as usual I was too attracted by the allure of going against the grain.

Nearly a quarter past and I was late from the outset. But I decided to make a show of it regardless. One couldn’t expect any different from a prospective applicant perpetually stoned out of their gourd. If I were to leave any mark behind it would be by sheer merit of my many failed attempts getting started.

I checked the kitchen for some sustenance. All of the cupboards were empty and the fridge full of nothing but fermented barley and hops. I cracked open a beer and dragged my feet to the bedroom where I chose from a heap of laundry on the floor for what clothes to wear. I settled on a shrunken t-shirt with baggy jeans combo that was about as unbecoming as the faded leather belt fastened tightly to hold it around the waist. I was so high after struggling to pull on two mismatched socks I forgot to take another hit on my way out the door.

Almost.

The red “check engine” light bid me good morning as I turned the key in the ignition.

I took Main Street towards downtown. A view from which the high-rises making up the cityscape could be seen. The Grand America Hotel. Wells Fargo Center. The Walker Center. Its neon tower flashing blue to indicate cloudy skies. Just beyond cell and radio towers could be seen on the dome-shaped peak to the north. The city was abuzz with those racing through their day to get to the weekend. A frenzied swarm of activity which comprised those heading to work, currently working, and the loafers like me who were free to do as they pleased.

I passed a strip of scuzzy hotels with defunct businesses interspersed throughout which were slowly succumbing to crumbled brick, then I turned east; up towards the top of the hill. Past Liberty Park where I got lost in the neighborhoods of a historic district in which the avenues were named after Ivy League schools; Princeton, Harvard, Yale, and eventually reached a cemetery lined with fir trees and blue cedar. The sight of row after row of pristine headstones destined for ruin was a harsh sting which came accompanied with the recollection of days dead and gone. I couldn’t wrap my head around how I’m still stuck in the same spot. As if rooted; gnarled, twisted over, covered with overgrowth and spindly, far-reaching boughs prohibiting the chance to break through the lingering smog, which was also a byproduct of the city itself.

Upon entering the campus of our state’s flagship school, I took in in the familiar haunts of my old stomping grounds with a passing shudder. The curvy road which skirted past the Field House and football stadium that held the 2002 Winter Olympics memorial intersected with University Street. Its west side lined by weathered, rundown bungalows with sagging front porches that frowned at passerby.

I always seemed to be heading toward the places I’d rather avoid. Academia functioned largely by teaching you how to be like all the rest while hand-selecting the brightest stars. It should come as no shock to find higher education locked behind a paywall. The foundations of business being built upon the backs of the working class.

For my part, I didn’t have the looks, charisma, nor the smarts. My bulb being burned out long ago,

Little sun permeated the cloudy white sky but reflected brightly off slate gray streets smoother than sheets of glass. To match the apocalyptic ambience, there wasn’t a single student to be seen bustling around Presidents Circle or its poorly shoveled walks. The semicircle had one open spot in the metered parking in front of a shivering giant sequoia somewhere between the hall for performing arts and mathematics building. I had no eye drops to conceal my bloodshot eyes and just enough change in the car’s ashtray to feed the meter for an hour. Which should be plenty of time to meet with Rob and get a quick rundown of this new gig.

Now, if only I had started walking to the library I could’ve made a good impression.

I walked the opposite direction and crossed the street instead. Down past the print and copiers and down a flight of tiled steps to the red lantern at the bottom of a handrail which lit up the glass storefront of a local pizzeria. Lost somewhere between a neon orange open sign and a large white finger pointing to the entrance was a small white square which read ‘Help Wanted’ in small, bold print.

The brick basement was about as inviting as a nuclear bomb shelter. A dimness that, even during daytime, rendered visibility scarce when viewed through the brick arch beside the counter. Its drab, colorless walls brightened by colorful graffiti which got scrawled all over the walls, tables, and ceiling with beer-soaked proclamations of love and wisecrack adages to last well beyond the end of senior year. For years this underground establishment has been a mainstay for drunken college kids seeking late-night munchies until 3 AM on weekends. A film of grease coated every grimy surface. Accompanied by a yeasty smell that delivered a swift punch to the olfactory senses upon entry.

It was completely empty inside. No one could be found behind the counter either. I stood there absent-mindedly reading the specials on the chalkboard when someone shuffled into view. I turned to face a bleach white face stuffed into a loose collar of greasy neck folds. OTTO printed upon his crooked nametag.

Otto shifted weight from one foot to the other as he spoke.

“Erm, yes, how can I help you?”

The elliptical shape of his body made his height disproportionate to his weight. Bulgy, bulbous eyes fixed me with a blank stare as I inquired about the job opening.

His puzzled face quickly matched mine. Stalling, the gears whirred as he scratched a worn spot atop his sweaty, balding head. The perfect bulls-eye for passing birds.

“Help wanted sign?” He sputtered as if uncertain which words he wanted to choose. “In the front window?”

There followed a long pause before the malfunctioning automaton puttered again in a renewed surge of broken vigor.

“Not so sure we’re looking right now…” He mumbled in such a low utterance any objection could be mistaken for a deep exhalation amongst a host of other mechanical tics he couldn’t control or suppress. Doing so, proved to a great deal of strain. His gelatinous spine quivered. His chipped teeth clenched, biting lips which purpled like a swollen radish. In the end he whisked me back with the flash of a cracked smile.

“We could stick you on takeout, I suppose.”

Already caught in the web of my stony stupor I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure he even wanted me to follow along. But I crossed the divide anyway, walking around the counter and through a swinging door into a small kitchen area with a pizza oven and an even smaller side office.

The manager’s office was hardly big enough to cram a filing cabinet, its bottom drawer jam-packed and hanging open like an unhinged mouth with its tongue lolled out, next to a desk with stacks of paper which nearly connected roof to floor in precarious columns that made it so cluttered it was impossible to tell when someone sat there.

“There’s so much to put in order around here. But that’s what it takes to serve up the best pies in the state. As with all things, the show must go on,” said Otto with a shrug before shuffling through the mound of loose scraps long enough to nearly send me leaving.

Otto eventually retrieved from inside his desk a worn, crumpled hat with a spot of pizza grease on its bill. “This should be worn at all times,” he said. “Consider it your uniform.”

I fully surveyed my new employer for the first time. His frumpy work shirt had become so overworn that the billowing shirtsleeves cascaded in folds from the elbow and cinched off at the wrists. The stretched-out elastic showing like lacey frill. The old material fading further into a prune-like purple and sickly green. Turning him into a walking particolored pincushion complete with a ridiculous clownish smile.

“It’s a little big,” I said as Otto leaned back into his chair behind the desk.

“One size fits all. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t worry. The cost gets automatically deducted out your first check.”

It wasn’t until I donned my oversized work cap that I realized the gravity of my situation: blowing off one job opportunity for another I equally didn’t want. The absurdity of which needed no further validation as he handed me a stapled packet of papers along with a plastic pen that was running out of ink.

I began filling out the blank spaces between the lines. Otto lingered on the periphery. Checking his scratched wristwatch every couple of minutes.

I was midway through the packet when a younger employee clocked in. “I thought we weren’t hiring,” he made his presence known. No extension of the hand as he wheedled his way into the office.

Otto’s relief was palpable.

“Ah, there you are. Derrick’s the linchpin of our entire operation. He’s only been with us a couple months now but has quickly become our rising star.”

“I can take over from here. I’ll show the newbie how we do things until a call comes in.” Derrick spoke in a tinny voice that desperately needed oil. His smug face riddled in crater-sized acne that oozed pus just looking at it. With paper-white skin the same intensity of a lighthouse beacon during daytime. Spotlighting a ready eagerness to enforce his newfound authority.

“Great idea. I’ll leave you to it.” Having been absolved of his managerial duties, Otto saw us out the office and promptly shut the door.

Without any proper direction given to him my new trainer oversaw every pen stroke. Stooping to crane his neck over my shoulder as he hovered close enough for his hot breath to touch my neck.

“What is this?” He said, unable to contain himself at last.

“Paperwork for employment?”

I lifted the papers to show him.

“I’ll take that, thank you very much,” he swiped the packet from my hand only to discard it with disgust. “No use signing forms until you’ve been properly trained.”

“What about our manager, Otto?”

The corners of his mouth curled into a sneer.

“Who? Otto Pilot? What about him? He’s on automatic. A symptom of his long-term conditioning. But let me tell it to you straight,” he explained, then, using a breathless string of allegorical euphemisms, he broke down everyone’s specific role and function for what felt like hours.

It wasn’t even half past one.

I was quickly assigned my first task. Washing the stack of plates and dishes piling up on the reflective metal countertop to the left of the sink.

I would have been fine with any menial chore if only Derrick hadn’t stuck around to instruct me through it. I was told to spray them first with hot water and how to do it using a long retractable hose. Then load the dishes into a metal cube until the racks were stuffed to full capacity.

The door slid shut for a steamy ten to fifteen seconds.

Next, Derrick walked me through removing the clean dishware, still hot to the touch, and dry them before setting them in the black plastic bins to the right and repeat the process once the washer had emptied again.

2:00-3:00 PM. I was told to wipe the tables with a cold, wet rag and sweep the front lobby. Still, not a single call came through.

At a quarter to four he put me on line prep. Having me run in and out of the walk-in fridge to grab armfuls of ingredients to chop for toppings; sliced tomato, green peppers, bacon, onions, and mushrooms, each of them filling up a large plastic container. Derrick was there to supervise. Barking new orders at me to follow.

Afterwards it was preparing pizza dough made from scratch. Followed by hand-shredding the mozzarella. Even the pizza sauce was made in-house.

Then came maintenance duties.

Derrick lectured me throughout. The mundane drudgery devised to torture and kill faster than each task prior. Modern man’s workweek was by far our cruelest invention. Jobs were a career performance where the value of your role is measured by performance and its influence over others. Eight hours a day, five days a week, on maximum efficiency equated to a routine that ran like clockwork.

But I didn’t say a word. Except to ask if I could finish my W-4.

“I’m not done with you yet,” said Derrick, nearly tired from bossing me around when a smile lit up his face. Having dreamt up the perfect task for me to do.

“OK then. Clean the bathrooms.”

Deep down I knew this had no end. And the handwritten ‘Out of Service’ sign taped to the men’s door was where I drew the line.

“No.” I spoke back at last.

Derrick’s sinister grin vanished at once.

“W-what do you mean? Why not?”

“I’m on takeout.”

“Bullshit. You’ll do what you were hired for.”

By some miracle a phone came through at that exact moment. Each sustained ring echoed off the brick wall in our continued silence. Without another word about it I picked up the phone before Derrick could reach it.

It was for takeout. I kindly informed the customer that their order would be fulfilled within the hour and hung up the receiver.

“What they say?” Derrick asked.

“Two large pizzas. Both cheese. Three medium pizzas. Two pepperoni. The other pineapple with ham. Five salads. Four with house dressing. The fifth one ranch. And a large 2-liter of Coke. Or something to that effect.”

“That’s your job,” he smiled gleefully.

“Not anymore. I quit.”

Back in the manager’s office. I took off my grease-stained hat and I set it on the desk.

“Oh, right” said Otto, his watery eyes shifting between me and the TV monitor which showed security cam footage of the lobby. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What for?” I blurted out. Normally I tried to contain my thoughts but couldn’t help loosening my tongue on this misfortunate soul. “I mean, don’t you get tired of carrying on with the same charade day after day? Or is there something else I’m missing here?”

His frumpy frame wobbled like a pitiful lump of minimal proportions. He stared off pensively.

“I too once desired to experience the inner workings of the magic backstage. To draw back the curtain: revealing the master control panel. It takes me back many years to when I first started during college. Oh! how thoughts digress. The Show Must Go On.” He finished with his oft-repeated mantra.

We took refuge in the tiny office. Watching the security monitor in silence as the pizzeria became lively with backpack toting, rosy-cheeked students whose mouths never ceased to stop talking while its only employee ran a one-man show desperately trying to meet their demands with each pass.

“Got some hooch if you’d like?” said Otto.

“I didn’t know there was a bar here.”

“Not officially, of course. I keep this stowed away for rainy days.”

He opened the keyboard tray. But only after checking the office door first. “Here’s to mud in your eye.” He nipped at a pint of cheap rye the same brownish color as his teeth before offering it to me. I kindly refused.

Otto blinked a few times. A vague expression pulled at the lining of his saggy face.

“Right. And what about the matter of payment?” He said at last. The show must go on.

“I’ll take whatever’s on tap.”

That was that. Back on the receiving end with a cold one I felt right at ease no longer having to integrate with an openly flawed system. Derrick even served me up a slice of pizza so I wasn’t only drinking. Per the mandates of state law.

Business really started to pick up. Derrick bused tables, fulfilled every order for takeout and dine-in customers, and kept my glasses filled. He wouldn’t hesitate to stop and scowl at me with each pass before the next hungry group flooded in. Eventually he got spread so thin he couldn’t manage to pour me another drink.

So I helped myself to a 32 oz tall boy from the dairy fridge and stumbled out to meet the familiar cold with open arms.

Free again. A cigarette stuck out my mouth.

It was hard to imagine all the pains which had troubled me this morning. Alcohol had plastered a smile on my face that even a parking ticket for an expired meter couldn’t take away. In fact, I even had the gall to joke about it being the most expensive valet service I ever received. I drove with a slight swerve in my lane from there. Musing over the sad reality of putting on a daily routine to earn a living. It wasn’t hard to leave that smudged storefront of the working world behind without a second look.

I had to make a pit stop to keep the buzz rolling. The gas station on the corner peddled more than plastic-wrapped sweets and sweaty hot dogs on rollers to the paying public. Transactions were made 24/7. Inside and out. The parking lot being a festering hole of activity with drug deals done under the narrow pines and where disease-ridden flesh in booty shorts shivered in the bitter cold. Displaying a remarkable resilience to their trade despite the elements. Shady deals in broad daylight were no different than the shameless storefront advertisements boasting a wide variety of snack goods, candy bars, and other sugarcoated toxins you shouldn’t want to eat. All at unbeatable prices. Along with extra-large cups of synthetically-flavored frozen sludge which got slurped up with long, brightly-colored plastic straws. There must be one of these convenient stores in every neighborhood across the nation. We were a culture dealing in excess, with age restrictions on booze and tobacco which accomplished nothing but making kids more creative to obtain it.

The bristly-headed clerk at the cash register watched me with dark, beady eyes which flitted from behind a bushy eyebrow. Built upon a wiry frame that hardly supported an equally bushy black moustache resting below his flared nostrils. His wire spring mouth set to scowl.

I greeted him with a friendly nod. His brows furrowed even further. The pupils in his eyes contracted to record my every movement like the glossy black cameras overhead. I bought beer and cigarettes from him almost daily and not once did he stop regarding me as if any other would-be thief.

His periscope neck extended for a better view over the aisle as I walked to the row of dairy fridges lining the back wall. Fully stocked with colorful cans of sugary colas, heavily caffeinated energy drinks, and fruit juice of every variety. I found what I sought tucked away in the far corner.

At the pull of the black plastic handle, I was met with a welcome cool blast of air. I scoured the selection with an eye shut in search of a golden case which didn’t want to be discovered at the bottom.

The chilled glass bottles chattered when I placed them on the counter.

“And a pouch of American Spirit. The light blue one, please,” I said to the clerk, already withdrawing my wallet from my jeans pocket.

He shot an impenetrable stare back at me from behind the cash register.

“ID?” He raised a brow in skepticism. His accent thicker than the plastic sheen of hotdogs in the roller. Fake or not, it was the same ID he’d seen countless times before. A phony laminated piece of plastic which legitimized my right to keep poisoning myself.

I slapped it down on the counter.

He picked it up. His searching eyes shifted from the face on the card to the one before him as if scrutinizing each detail before scanning the magnetic strip on back.

Once I had been deemed fit for transaction the clerk demanded payment in exchange, but not before remarking with added scorn. “Just old enough,” he said.

“And I’m not getting any younger,” I volleyed back. Sometimes it took a brisk tongue to understand another.

I swiped my debit card not entirely sure if I’d have enough in my account to cover payment. But half the fun was finding out whether it would be approved for purchase or not.

The night was young. Teeming with an abundance of potential soon to be squandered. A lit flame in my chest propelled me up to hot air balloon heights while the bottles jingled merrily in the passenger seat.

My cellphone rang.

All that used to glow burned out in an instant. I let the call ring straight through voicemail, wanting five minutes alone without any of the riff raff around as my tire jumped the curb leaving the parking lot. My suspicions were confirmed by the red jeep with a black soft top parked in front of 16 West. A sight which further extinguished any spark remaining inside.

Lefty was huddled on the top step of the porch. Shrouded in cigarette smoke.

I shut down before pulling in fully. Any window of time for myself was promptly slammed shut and I only had myself to blame.

The foul bastard descended upon me, swooping around the hood of my car still dressed in his full work attire. His clumsily carved face popped into my driver’s side window. “I was having drinks with Billy in the neighborhood and had nowhere to go,” he began. I said nothing.

Like usual, he needed a couch to crash on for the better part of the evening. Something I tried putting off as long as possible before the coming masses picked up.

Up the front steps, flanked by juniper shrubs with a rose bush growing against the brick of each column. I waited for him to proceed with bated breath.

“What? I had no choice. I tried calling you. No answer.”

“Phone’s dead.”

“Where you been?”

“Out.”

“Drinking alone? That’s the first sign of a problem. Ask anybody.”

“Says the one dressed for his own funeral,” I jested towards his ironed white-collar shirt with black bowtie noosed tightly at the neck, black satin vest and matching black slacks, and polished black shoes. The typical garb for an indentured servant of fine dining.

“Call me next time. We’ll go together. Also, I already told Billy to roll through. I knew you’d understand. Here he is now,” Lefty’s words got drowned out by the rumble of an approaching motorcycle.

Its rider came dressed in helmet, outdoor gloves, and a heavy riding jacket completely zipped up to the chin. All of which got removed like body armor, piece by piece, once he hopped off.

“How are you riding still?” Lefty asked him. More in the manner of a cool remark than a question.

Billy briskly answered, taking Lefty’s lit cigarette. “What? It isn’t that cold.”

He puffed on the cigarette. His helmet held underarm. Perhaps the last one in denial that summer fell straight into the cold season’s frigid embrace, he was far more groomed by comparison to us. A capricious, burly figure led by slight arrogance. With distinct equine features which sloped into an elongated chin suggesting classical handsomeness even while wearing his glasses.

“What you got for us, guy?” Billy asked me. His nonchalance contradicted by two jack-o-lantern eyes which lit up on the golden case in my hand.

“The champagne of beers.” Lefty answered.

“Ah, I see.”

Billy continued to mumble back.

I went straight for the door.

Whether at the click of a lighter or a beer cracking open, Billy’s ears would perk up and his eyes widen for any potential hand out. And being currently unemployed his mooching left him indebted to his bank, parents, friends, and every dealer who ever had the disservice of dealing with him. Despite all of this he still managed to frequent the bars and was notorious for picking up dime sacks with the ten dollars cash back from his 99-cent iced tea purchase to cover his last front. The wheel of debt spinning eternally.

Stuck. Like the front door key in its metallic grooves. Then the lock turned with a tiny click.

Even once the door clinked shut our frozen breath could be seen. Lefty cranked the thermostat dial. Side-eyeing the unopened case of beer until he couldn’t contain it any longer.

“Quit holding out on us,” he said. His words as irritating as stinging nettles. “If I knew you were buying, I’d have brought some money.”

“Me too,” Billy sucked down the last of his cigarette before extinguishing it. Smoke spiraled up from the glass ashtray on the coffee table.

“You can always pay me later,” I said.

Billy’s bottle hissed as he cracked it open.

“Maybe if it was PBR.”

“I’m not a fan of High Life either,” Lefty cracked his open. “But I’ll drink it.”

He tilted back his head and took a hefty swig.

“Help yourselves,” I said, knowing full too well nothing was long for the night. Which was why I preferred to live alone. With no roommates around to fill up the oven with dirty dishes or steal kief from the grinder.

I cracked open my bottle and the tension subsided at its quick release. I sucked down the bland, near flavorless lager along with the fleeting possibility of ever relaxing on my terms again, settling into the single-seated arm chair with the indented cushion which provided easy access to the pot smoking paraphernalia stowed beneath the coffee table.

Lefty, shifting to a tone of seriousness, then inquired about my workday: “So the real question is, how’d your meeting with Rob go?”

“It didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Work out.”

I tried leaving it at that. But my short answers wouldn’t suffice. “We never met,” I admitted to him flat out.

“Aww c’mon—I lined it all up for you! Last time I do you a favor.” He said, emptying a cigarette onto the ground weed in his card.

“I did get another job though.”

“You never cease to amaze me. When do you start?”

“Today. But I quit,” I said. To which, Lefty stood back aghast. I continued: “And I plan to keep it that way.”

The type to write in all caps, Billy spoke in short declarative sentences. “I used to have a job. Remember, Lefty?” He began, scrutinizing a speck of dirt under his fingernail as he spoke.

“You mean the one I set you up with?”

“You set me up all right. Set me up for failure from the start.”

“It’s not my fault you lost it so soon.”

“Oh, aren’t you adorable? Not only did they think I had a food-handlers permit but you blabbed to all of your coworkers about my sex life.”

“So what happened?” I asked, glad for a change of subject while knowing perfectly well the story might never end without some audience participation.

“Ask him. He knows damn well,” Billy spat at Lefty who was unable to bite his spade-shaped tongue. The dynamic of their relationship often being a querulous one. Filled with lots of back-and-forth banter and good-natured ribbing.

“This is where it gets good.” Lefty leaned in, digging one of his elbows into my ribcage. “Listen close. Because as luck would have it one of Billy’s flings now dates the general manager.”

Billy, who was clearly affronted by somebody else telling the story, jumped right in— “And get this, the kid gets so upset having to work with me, let alone share a room in the same building, that he gave the owner an ultimatum. Him or me. Lo and behold they chose him. Now thanks to this blathering loudmouth, I’m out of my side piece and a job. Cheers.”

I tapped the neck of his bottle.

Lefty gave no explanation for the inconvenience this may have caused. “I’d say you came out all right in the end. How many assholes do you know whose hook-up provides them free rent?”

“Who? Ash? That was a magical arrangement. Albeit short-lived. I didn’t cook or clean but offered her payment in another currency,” Billy’s face glazed over as he recalled the particulars. “The relationship remained amicable until that fateful night I brought another girl back to the apartment. I didn’t realize open still meant exclusive. As for that GM, it’s not my problem you can’t control your chick.”

His tirade ended with a defiant snort. A knit in his brow.

“That only proves you’re a bastard,” said Lefty with admiration. “Reputations get sullied for less than that.”

“No worse than by your own merit.”

“True. I’m simply waiting long enough for you to hit it big.”

“Don’t expect to ride my coattails,” Billy scoffed. Flattered, nonetheless.

“Speaking of, you owe me ten dollars.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“My what a feeble memory you have. You don’t recall our wager?”

“I don’t bet. Least not with the likes of you,” Billy said. Smoke streaming out his flared nostrils as he stamped out his fiery butt in the overflowing ashtray.

“Except you did. And fortunately for me, you always lose. Remember playing flip cup earlier at VFW? After our second or third round I said he wouldn’t last a week at his new gig. Actually, I said closer to a day or two tops, but rounded up to be fair. Don’t play dumb. We even shook hands. A dime bag should suffice. Let’s make it a single considering any future bets left to be won.”

“How do you figure that you won?”

“Closest without going over, baby,” Lefty said. “You can place the dime on your tab.”

“I didn’t even sign their paperwork.” I attempted to defend myself.

“Thus, he technically was never employed,” said Billy. “You owe me.”

Friends. Their one crowning virtue was picking out your every idiosyncrasy, warts and all. Exposing them like a freshly opened scab for everyone to see.

“What a lousy thing to be betting on in the first place,” I shook my head. “You better pay off the rest of what you owe.”

“But, but,” Lefty for once had no words and grumbled as he dug out his wallet. The argument lost.

Billy handed the ten-dollar bill to me, adding, “I needed a dime anyway. Want to make it a dub?”

I pretended not to heed his narrow gaze. But this was guaranteed money—only at the expense of convenience and time.

“When will you have the money?”

“You know I’m good for it.”

“You’ve been good for weeks now.”

“I promise to have some of it soon, if not most of it. I’ve got money locked up in a new venture—but can’t disclose more at the moment.” His response was too longwinded for me to bother with so I reached for the glass jar which held enough to tide me over the weekend. The rest already separated into pre-weighed sacks. An ounce. Two half ounces. Five eighths, and six half singles. This policy was the best insurance for never burning through profit with diminishing returns. Leaving the crumbs sitting at the bottom as my personal.

I dug out my digital scale which turned off automatically after five seconds of use and weighed out 1.2 grams. In the absence of a sandwich bag, I placed it in the plastic cellophane from an empty cigarette pack to hand to Billy.

All I wanted was to smoke a bowl and remove myself altogether. Only I had to wait for each of them to use the grinder first and find an available spliff card to better handle the ground-up nugs and spliff them to their preference.

Our talk soon devolved to pointless, mind-numbing drivel. Which, Lefty was always dripping with. As if drawing from a deep reservoir of absurdism using a bottomless bucket.

I fished out a couple of fuzzy green nugs from my personal in order to retreat to my only solace. There once was a time when smoking used to be fun and brought people together by pitching on sacks together or providing a commonality between strangers if there wasn’t one otherwise. Now it was primarily done in isolation. A temporary smokescreen placed between myself and the outside world to protect my last shred of sanity. Even if that would dematerialize soon enough.

My vision blurred. Some highs were creepers and you didn’t know how high you were until thoughts began to lag. Others hit you full force before the smoke ever left your lungs. Spliff bowls out of the bong left you focused, more alert. A bell ringer in which the desired effect could be likened to ramming a sharp instrument into the frontal lobe behind the middle of your forehead. A sensation so short-lived you couldn’t help from doing it again and again. That and it helped saved weed, or so I thought.

A not so foreign sensation creeped up from the pit of my stomach. Phantom pangs which lurched from the deepest fathoms below. Serving as a reminder that I hadn’t eaten for hours. My appetite had always been mercurial. With sporadic hunger coming and going depending on whether I was stoned or not.

In response to howitzer shells bursting into a vat of bubbling stomach acids, I opened the fridge to barren metal racks and a noisome smell, prompting me to slam it back shut again. The pantry and cupboards above the sink nearly proved fruitless until my finger touched the corner of a paper pouch in the back corner.

Hands trembled as I brought it out to the light. Revealing a peach-flavored oatmeal packet. The thought of steamy chunks sliding down my throat antagonized my already upended stomach. But it would have to do. I ripped the packet with my teeth and dumped its contents into the cleanest looking bowl to stick inside the microwave for a minute.

Another subterranean rumble passed. Louder than before. Demanding I shovel something, anything, of substance into that stirring abyss below so I gave my ceramic bowl a couple unenthusiastic stirs.

I lifted a heaping spoonful. I stuck it far into the back of my throat to bypass the taste buds. Swallowed it. I dug up a second helping of the colorless lump soon to be stuck into my unwilling mouth. But another bite proved to be one too many—forcing me to drop the spoon or risk spewing the meager amount I managed to bury already, my gums smacking in disgust.

Before I could even digest my cellphone buzzed with sudden urgency. Commanding my attention with the familiar call of a weary soul who sought salvation from their day.

I was officially back on the grind. Reducing another handful of fuzzy nugs to glittery green shavings.

All I knew was seemingly useless. The exception being this trade which constituted a means of surviving on my own and, judging how much I smoked, saving loads of money. Quarter-pounds I picked up for eight-hundred dollars and yielded four ounces that when sold at $300/ounce netted a total of $1,200 each up. That four-hundred dollars in profit got doubled by breaking ounces into eighths for fifty bucks a piece. Except that was before subtracting my personal smoking amount and what I lost selling dime sacks. Which was more than made up for on weeks I picked up two to three times.

My only success thus far in life, if you could call it that, was living as a professional shirker, and my desire to go against the status quo was embodied by an almost perverse pride in dealing illicit substances which justified not being another member of good society.

So, I stayed confined at home instead as a penance for my present idleness.

A knock on the door signaled the first of many customers I’d have to deal with. Those who picked up ranged from school friends and old coworkers to various acquaintances and their referrals. I smoked bowls as the regulars continually filed in.

Like Aaron. A red-blooded American and proud open-carrier who always left his firearm on the coffee table as he played video games. Or three musicians in a rock cover band who each picked up singles. The drummer loved to regale anyone who’d listen to him about the story of when someone smashed a glass on his face during a gig. They were followed in by Logan for a half-single. Tall, lanky, and uncoordinated, his ungainly movements were about as slow-moving as whatever thoughts occurred behind the goofy smile splayed upon his wobbly face. Garret came quick upon his heels. A quiet wretch with subdued, droopy eyelids which appeared permanently draped closed in complacent vacancy. His half-single purchase clutched in a balled-up fist. He was a kleptomaniac who couldn’t leave a gas station or grocery store without pilfering an item from the shelves. Pocketing snacks, treats, and odd household items like a pizza cutter. This compulsion eventually resulted in a citizen’s arrest over a three-dollar bottle of apple juice. Perhaps my strangest transaction involved a stocky kid from Tennessee with a mild southern accent who offered up two giant-sized jars of boiled peanuts as payment. I dealt with them all to cover the overhead while sustaining my ungodly smoking habit.

Each drop by seemed to leave within minutes of the next one’s arrival. Most transactions were a quick twenty-five to fifty dollars. The problem was never the regularity of those who came to pick up, it was having to keep a ledger of every front and the running debts. All too often that meant playing debt collector for those perpetrators who habitually picked up on the front. Some tended to disappear before I could collect, including more than one who were vouched for by a close friend. A slight, if not convenient, deficit for never having to deal with them again. The best of them were in and out after a bowl. Others became hangers-on who lingered long enough to overstay their welcome. Then there were those like Pat who always pressed for some special deal I had never offered before.

Pat shook hands with Lefty and Billy first before getting straight to it, asking the same as last: “Wanna hook up four grams for $40?”

The words were innocent enough, except the tone demanded. “No? OK how about a single for $45?” He pushed further. His cubed face glistening like a sweaty baked ham.

I told him prices were the same as usual.

“How much for a quarter again? Eighty? Ninety?”

“One-hundred,” I said.

“Gee, that’s a lot. I’ll take a single. Wanna pass the glass?” He asked before using the scale to check the weight of the sack.

I cracked open the last of the beers.

Much of my disdain for this ragtag group of stoners was that they didn’t consider buying larger amounts to avoid needing a new sack each night. Or didn’t care. There were rare exceptions, of course. Like the older brother of a high school acquaintance who picked up quarters or a past coworker who always ordered a “burrito”. His codeword for half an ounce. As well as a handful of smalltime dealers.

To afford this life of luxury was simple. Even without a job. I paid the bills while picking up some business acumen on the side. Buying in bulk to sell in smaller increments at a marked-up price. Not unlike any other legitimate business based on the great American model. Where flexible margins yielded even greater potential to increase your profits. Untaxed.

But this blessing of having my own space to operate in was also its curse. All personal time got taken away the moment I turned my home into a 24-hour business and safe house of sorts for every manner of debauchery. Being a drug dealer was essentially an on-call position which kept me on other peoples’ schedules and liable to receive requests any hour of the day whenever someone needed their fix. My other contention was having to constantly pick up and transport the product from one end of town to the other. Keeping one eye on the road and the other fixed on the needle of the speedometer as I drive. What was once fun learning the price increments and weighing out the sacks was quickly replaced by incessant customers who expected the best quality as if this were some sort of free market. And by far the worst aspect was in dealing with the dealers themselves who supplied weight. I only began dealing in the first place after growing fed up with unreliable hooks and predatory pricing in which an eighth of what was deemed regs went for fifty dollars and danks for upwards of sixty.

Stuck with what I knew: I subsisted on the meager earnings which financed every one of my vices while staying smoked out for free. Many nights had been spent lying dormant, high and drunk past the point of oblivion. My screaming skull disguised by a blank countenance. Yet one can’t escape what followed next morning. Stepping out the cold bedroom zombie-footed and with a twisted stomach that took several bong hits to unknot. With the rest of the day spent stoking new bowls to feed the dying embers in my mind. Thick smoke sometimes burned harsh enough to elicit coughs that drew too deep from the well of stomach acid and bile.

Grind. Grind. Grind. It felt exhausting doing nothing at all. Strung out, stretched beyond that which physical limits allowed. Another hit and my face hardened. Stonelike, immobile, like clinging to a craggy precipice and mining lofty thoughts out of endless mountains of cloud.

Another rotation of the bong and I was unable to cut through the cloudy mist, my throat caught with ashy breath as any sense of purpose receded into faded gray folds.

I would’ve stayed like that too if not for being reeled back from my fog by a knocking at the door. Not one of the usual friendly knocks either, but a loud, commanding one with a force that nearly caused me to drop the bong.

It was nearly midnight. Much later than I expected a normal visit. The room exchanged uneasy glances with one another as the knocking persisted.

With little choice I approached the door with caution. Through the tiny window I spied a dark figure with a downcast face.

Enter tragedy. Right on cue for the second act.

“There he is,” Lefty sang in excitement as the sprawling frame fluttered in through the open doorway. “What’s up, Niko?”

The little black raincloud blew right past him. His nicotine breath hung sickly in the air. Yellow and pungent as the accumulated layers of tar on the surrounding walls. Niko crossed the room in two to three strides, his enormous hands like baseball mitts which swung from long veiny arms. His boyish face grave and patchy, with blond scruff that counterbalanced his aquiline nose and shoulder-length hair which he pulled back into a ponytail with an elastic band. He sported a pair of jeans and jacket which he took off to reveal a black T-shirt with the word­—EMPIRE­—emblazoned in white block letters across the chest. Cool and placid on the surface, hot pressure inevitably built up within him.

“Brought something,” he said, producing a twist-cap bottle of cheap bourbon. Unopened.

Skinny. Gaunt. Niko Agonakis always had the weight of an albatross slung around his neck. His unexpected drop-bys were habitual and it was customary for him to show up late in the night after a long day helping his family build their restaurant from the ground up, already half-stumbling from a half-drunk bottle of liquor. He’d pour shots faster than we could drink them while liable to take yours himself if he deemed fit. Held over with reservations until he fully broke down due to his overwhelming stress.

He kept taciturn for now. Enthralled by one of his withdrawn states. It was never clear whether Niko was letting off steam for the night or about to blow. The largest source of his pain and grievances came courtesy of his father, a first-generation immigrant whose abuse Niko treated like some badge of honor along with his oversized hands. Each of them worked into a hardened callus.

Billy was in high spirits as Niko set course for the kitchen. His heavy footfalls followed by the banging of pots and pans. The racket mixed with Lefty and Billy’s overlapping chatter as they picked back up quarreling right where they left off.

Niko returned. His unbottled rage toted in one hand and four shot glasses, one in each finger, clutched in the other. He slammed them onto the coffee table, toppling and scattering the items atop of it. Then, eschewing a shot glass for himself he directed the open liquor bottle straight to his insatiable mouth and with a violent shake of the head swallowed.

No one spoke. Including Pat who hung about as if expecting a shot for himself.

“How was your day?” I addressed the elephant right away. To which, he replied with a simple shrug of his shoulders.

“I’m sure it was good for something,” Lefty said, setting out the four shot glasses.

“Good for drinkin’.” Niko hit the bottle again. Long enough for liquor to run off his chin in brown glistening beads.

Billy dug deeper.

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know, just busting my hump and getting yelled at for it. Nothing new.”

The room stayed silent.

Lefty instinctively opened his mouth to fill the void when Niko slammed the bottle onto the coffee table. Loud enough to turn every head his direction, as if they weren’t already.

“Shots?”

Niko filled a shot to the brim that spilled over the sides when he picked it up and handed it to me.

Between pours, he divulged more: “You know I had to quit my dream job? Something I loved.”

“Being a caddy?” Billy raised a brow, accepting the second shot glass Niko filled.

“Ah, the country club,” Niko paused. A faraway look in his eyes. “The most freedom I’ve had is working as a greenskeeper. I never once got reprimanded for being late. But why would I be? I couldn’t wait to start the day drinking beer on the green with my boss.”

“John Thresher, right?”

“No. Thresher got him the job.” Lefty corrected Billy for him and growing tired of the wait, took the bottle and filled a shot glass of his own.

Niko seized the bottle back by the neck.

“Now get this, last night my dad says ‘come to work early’, so what do I do? I come in this morning only to get bitched at for coming too early. On top of that I was told that I’m a good for nothing, spoiled, lazy son amongst a laundry list of other things until he was red in the face. All for being twenty minutes late once last week. No mind my brother being two hours late. Another one, boys?”

Niko poured another round.

“Whoa there, exactly who’s calling the shots?” said Billy. “Sounds like it’s time to stand up for yourself.”

“You don’t know my dad. He’d kill me if I talk back. Which would only be the beginning.”

“When’s your day off?” I tried steering the conversation in another direction.

“Never,” Niko lined up the next round without even bothering to ask. We were left reeling at the rapid-fire delivery, as if nodding our assent.

Niko sang and sang yet was never heard by his family. All of his built-up frustrations stopped up within him like a cork. But for the moment he was silent. Up until he sprang to his feet—and belched.

He fished out a white recessed paper filter from his pack of Parliaments with clumsy fingers and lit it which prompted Lefty to reach for his own pack and by habit, Billy couldn’t resist joining in.

The hazy atmosphere soon swirled, bone dry and near suffocating, so I relegated cigarette smoking outside. Whenever it became too stuffy with the cast of characters at hand it was necessary to step out for fresh air.

I flicked ash over the porch railing and watched it circle back onto the evergreen shrubs below. Stargazing into the sky which was almost painfully clear while the rest chitchatted away about girls and sports amongst other men’s interests.

And the more we loosened up, the more Niko remained on edge. Withdrawn, puffing thick tobacco smoke as he paced back and forth. Alcohol pumping throughout his body as he sucked his first cig down before we finished ours. He lit a new one with the tip of his butt before crushing the flaming crutch into a stand-up Camel ashtray stolen from a local bar.

He broke the silence again.

“I’ve worked every day for the last six months. Sometimes until midnight. And that’s the thanks I get? Even if I’m a co-owner one day like they say I’ll be, that’s only on paper. It’s my brother’s inheritance, really, not mine. I’m the fourth child and youngest by six years.”

“Does that make you the mistake?” Lefty said jokingly. But Niko was hardly listening.

“Twelve hours a day seven days a week and for what? A couple hundred dollars and a backhanded compliment in my native tongue? I’ve had enough with this fucking imperial bullshit.”

“Great to hear,” I said, treading that fine line required for discussing delicate family matters. I pushed more: “It would be healthier for you not to be under your family’s rule. Maybe get an independent source of income. Find someplace to live. What would you rather do?”

“Any job where not a lot is expected of me. Like cooking. Or dishwashing.”

“Don’t set your hopes too high.” Billy uttered with a sneer.

But Niko hardly minded.

“No need working out the specifics now,” I jumped back in the conversation. “You can work anyplace you want. Submit some applications and once you find something better put in your two-weeks notice.”

“Yeah, right. They would never let me. My dad says if I ever worked for another restaurant, I’d be abandoning the family and get cut off. Besides, what would they do without me? It’s just my lot in life.”

“Have you considered working somewhere other than a restaurant?”

“We’re going to figure this out, Niko.” Lefty butt in. “Every problem with your family along with the new restaurant and what not, all while keeping your job and good standing. Here’s how: your dad’s not that bad, or at least he’s nothing compared to my mother, and what I learned early on in life is that sometimes you’ve got to give an ultimatum. Treat me like a business partner. Or I walk.”

“I’d love to hear you say that to him,” Niko turned aside to puff on his cigarette, his profile highlighted by moonlight which cut through the dark. “There’s no discussion to be had with him. He instructs. I obey. Just like in the old country. My father’s head of the family”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the crux of patriarchy and your average American household.” Billy snorted pearly smoke from out of wide, flared nostrils.

“It’s our culture. That’s how it was for my father, and his father before that and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Blood’s thicker than water. Always. A sentiment this generation has lost touch with.”

I was no longer able to keep my peace. “Even if that only benefits the firstborn? Technically, you were doomed from the start.”

Niko gave a solemn nod. “That basically sums it up. When we were still laying the foundation, all they talked about was the larger role I’d play down the line. No mind the tax break they claim without my name on the license so ownership—along with everything else I want—is put on hold, not excluding my pay.”

“What’s that again? Fifty dollars a week?” Lefty blurted out.

“Fuck you. That’s none of your concern.”

“When’s the grand opening?” Billy asked.

“Thirteenth of December.”

“That’s coming up. Maybe I’ll apply.”

“Dream on, Lefty. We’d never hire you.”

“Because of that thing that happened with your continued to reel?”

“It’s called standards. And yes, because of that. He doesn’t like you.”

“And I’ll never understand why. At least I’ve got Aristo’s.”

“We may not have fine dining or white tablecloths, but they’re working on our liquor license.” Niko even failed to smile delivering this news.

“Welcome to the club.”

I turned back to Niko. “So what about tomorrow?” I asked him in the hopes of showing he had autonomy in the matter. But he remained unmoved from his defeated position and further solidified his fatalistic stance.

“I’m going straight to the restaurant to turn in my resignation to my dad.”

“Why bother showing? Sleep in, draw a hot bath, and text your brother later that afternoon. He’ll get the message.”

He sucked down his cigarette. “I need to go in and see their faces. They’ll be sorry for having pushed me so far.”

“What makes this different than the dozens of other fights you’ve had like this?” Lefty butt back in. “We’ve all heard this before, this time shouldn’t be any different. I bet this blows over by tomorrow morning.”

“Not this time,” Niko spoke with a conviction that wavered like his trembling chin. He had to hit the bottle to steady himself again.

With the liquor flowing freely everybody wanted to get their words in at once and Billy, now drunk enough to speak when he knew better, interjected during the brief intermission. His speech slurred not so much from being drunk but the carelessness of a delivery which resulted in a half-mumbled drawl.

“­It sounds like you need to stop beating around the bush and get it in already.”

“Come again?”

“Exactly. Time to get laid, Niko.”

“It’s not like that.” Niko quickly backtracked. “Besides, I’ve already been warned not to mess around with our waitresses—I mean, employees.”

“It’s ethics. If not a legal consideration,” Lefty nodded approvingly. He was about as separate as oil and water regarding the girls his friends liked.

“You need to experience a release,” Billy cut back in.

“Yeah, from my father’s hold around my throat—what would you know about it?” Niko’s lips twisted into a snarl.

“Nothing whatsoever. Only I am compelled to mention,” Billy positioned himself in the manner of a lecturing professor, even adjusting his specs as he spoke, “some people suck dick at fucking pussy—”

But before anymore of his sage wisdom could be imparted, Niko, who after a long day of bottling up his frustrations, finally erupted.

“I hear so much from my family every day and I don’t need any more. Especially from the likes of any of you.”

The door slammed behind him as he reentered the house.

Lefty and Billy followed suit with matching grins. Having no desire to join them I stayed behind to finish the last of my cigarette and stare at the jagged row of peaks. Anchored in the dark firmament above them, the bright moon cast its pale shadow over all. Winter snow had brought freezing temperatures to the valley making it too cold to stand out on the porch for long. If there was one shared condition we suffered from, whether it’s myself or friends, it was having too much privilege.

Back inside the house. Niko’s attention diverted back to the bottle. Which looked disproportionately small in his oversized hands. Like those miniature cocktail bottles that were more for show than consumption. He no longer offered shots. I wasn’t too begrudging as it was mostly empty already. Brown liquid streamed from out the corners of his mouth whenever the bottle lowered from it. His once taut cheek muscles softened and brow relaxed, no longer strained. But the most striking change was his disposition. Seen in his eyes which, although glossy and lifeless, no longer reflected any pain. His ire flamed out.

Niko smiled. Almost strangely. His unshackled hair, loosened from its headband, liberated two greasy strands which hung limply on either side of his pointed nose. A dark hue fell across his downturned face. His nightly transition occurred in stages, each cued by a contrast of demeanor signifying his waning civility. From taciturn to giddy, to nearly nonsensical. An almost drooling state when life’s woes happened to be off his mind. A rare privilege considering he talked absent-mindedly in volumes that vastly outweighed his alcohol intake.

Even in this fragile period, the slightest remark could set him off as he skipped straight to being overtly physical and handsy. Displaying his dominance with antics only found on the schoolyard such as talking right in your face while pinning you down. I could only wait for the climax. Complete darkness before the curtain call.

I seized what remained of the day with a lifeless grasp, burning my problems in a bowl to let them drift from uncertain yesterday to an already forgotten tomorrow. My weightless ballooned up head untangling from the neck to drift upwards until it caught between the ceiling fan blades.

Everyone was abuzz as Lefty and Billy sat on the couch reminiscing with Pat about college parties and what we couldn’t remember in our blacked-out states. Niko sat in the dead center of it all. Swishing liquor around his mouth. And gargling it.

“Ah, sweet alchemy.” He said after a loud gulp.

Lefty returned a look as if he might retch.

“Wha? It’sthah only thahng thaht werks fahmah toothachh.” Niko spoke while rooting around with a fist inside his mouth.

“That’s why you see the dentist,” Billy said.

“Haven’t seen one since I was a kid,” he said, grinning. Even with the hand removed his drunken babble left spittle on his chin.

The mood struck a lighter note despite the personalities vying for control of the conversation. With Lefty and Billy’s quibbling interrupted only when Niko launched into another tangent by slamming down the emptied bottle onto the coffee table.

The floor and walls shook. Books rattled on their dusty shelves, with a couple of them dropping to the ground as he spoke up again.

“What is there to drink?”

“I had beer,” I said. He glanced up. “But we finished it. Sorry.”

Niko paced the full length of the room. After a dozen laps or so he grabbed his keys and jacket.

“Wait a second,” Lefty stepped in. “I nearly forgot. There’s wine in my car.”

“What are you waiting for? Get it.”

Last thing Niko needed was more alcohol. But it was better than him driving off in this state so I agreed to his drunken terms with Lefty being all too eager to feed that beast each of us knew waited lurking inside.

He returned with two bottles of domestic red wine. A cab and a middle of the road merlot. One unopened, the other stopped with a piece of broken cork.

“Vinted and bottled by Napa’s best,” said Lefty.

Niko wrenched off the cork with his teeth and spit it out. We passed the wine bottle around until it stopped.

I retrieved a wine opener for the second bottle. One of those flimsy corkscrews which folded out of a pocket knife which Lefty used to open it.

Niko stood towering over the coffee table. His eyes dimly lit, yet wide, as he rocked upon his feet. Backwards, forward. Bumping into the TV behind him with every sway. In anticipation of his next outburst, I snatched the wine bottle away from him and stowed it under the coffee table. But not quick enough. This prompted him to pull me in with both arms and trap us in an iron-tight embrace. Repeated bourbon shots and cigarettes were breathed back in my face. Making any attempt at handling this heedless brute obsolete. Not that I had much of a chance to begin with. Despite his skinny frame, he carried a vice-like grip that was impossible to wrench free from. I was helplessly pinned, and sought any means of escape with the wine bottle hidden at our feet. I would have to distract him first with dialogue if I hoped to break free from his hold.

“Will you please stop touching me?” I asked. Polite, calm.

“You’re touching me!” He cried back. The alcohol on his breath made his speech syrup-like. His arms wrapped tighter around me.

“Will ya loosen up?” Billy said, blowing out a yellowish bong hit. “Those are hands for laying cinder blocks. Not coddling.”

Niko stared at his palms with a sudden change in mood.

“I’m always building for the family. Just not for me,” he said. His disjointed speech broken, almost crippled. The corners of his mouth no longer supported a smile. His deadpan expression worn like a mask that concealed nothing. “Have I ever mentioned *hiccup* that?”

“Once or twice,” I said, and without breaking eye contact, reached for the neck of the bottle as Niko’s grip loosened upon my shoulders. My outstretched fingers nearly touched the soft glass when he pulled me right back with the crook of his elbow.

“Every fuck-ing tile. Every fuck-ing wall. The kitchen, the bathrooms, the office. And for what!” He pounded the coffee table again. Causing the room to drop into silence. No one had the faintest idea how to react. Least I. Being pinned down in his clutches.

“What?” Lefty spoke for all, more out of habit than choice.

“I thought you fuckers would know.” His smile returned but there remained a melancholy air to his cracking voice. His hardened face breaking apart as he spoke: “Apparently, this is the best thing going for me.”

Tensions had eased. Except he still held onto me fast like dried adhesive.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, but where’s the bottle?”

Although calm, he vacillated wildly with emotion. On the brink of blackout rage.

“Oh, we finished that, but I’ve got a bowl right here with your name on it,” I handed him the bong. “If you can manage to sit your ass down.”

He swept it aside with one arm.

“You wish. I see through your shameless plot to put me to sleep.”

“I’m merely providing for a house guest.”

“Does that go for everybody here?” Billy jumped to the occasion. For him, I had no words.

Niko mulled over my proposition. Except a rogue flash in his eyes revealed he had called my bluff. Like any true drunk he gambled like he had nothing to lose. Which they often didn’t.

“I know there’s six glasses in a bottle of wine. We haven’t drunk that much.”

“Unless they’re magnum bottles.”

“Shut up, Lefty.”

“Who’s to know? Nobody’s drinking out of glasses,” I said.

“Just because I’m drunk you think I can’t do math?”

“We did take Math 1010 together. Twice.” Whether he passed or failed the second time I hadn’t the slightest idea.

“I betcha if I come around this side of the table… aah, so that’s where we’re hiding!” His hold loosened, trading me for the bottle. Only it was the empty one.

Like a matador taunting a bull, I led him side to side in a stutter step rhythm to his huffing breath. The coffee table rattled and shook at the thundering footfalls. Niko’s spindly legs soon ate the space between us. I was cornered.

As he leaped forward, throwing his entire body weight onto me, I tossed the bottle back to an unsuspecting Billy, who, slow on the uptake, passed it off to Lefty before Niko clobbered him as well.

The wild creature filled its flaring nostrils with air. In a panic, Lefty tried handing off the bottle to me when Niko swat it out of his hands and it bounced off the table. Lefty cried at the sight of red wine spilled on his white cuffs.

“Goddamn it, my work shirt!”

“To your health.” Niko said. Bottle in hand. A purple smile on his face.

“Quick, got any hydrogen peroxide?” Lefty asked me in horror. “Dish soap? Jeez, you’re useless.” He ran straight to the kitchen sink to soak his sleeve.

In an effort to avoid further catastrophe I snatched the wine bottle from Niko’s hands and corked it. Watery-eyed or not, Niko knew when he was cut off and, locked onto his target, launched himself full throttle my direction. Having no other place to escape I ran into my bedroom and shut the door.

“Don’t shut me out!” Niko redoubled with newfound rage. What followed was the top panel to my bedroom door exploding in a firework of woodchips as a result of his giant fist punching through it.

That was it. I dropped the bottle and let them have it. And loudly. Niko, Lefty, Billy, even the poor remaining stragglers on the couch were subject to my vexation which caused them to grab for their sacks and leave.

As if taken back by the affront, Niko stormed out too. But not before taking the wine bottle with him.

The porch door slammed shut behind him with the front door left wide open.

Lefty poked out from the kitchen, patting his arm with a damp bath towel.

“See, Niko? I got the stain out. I’m just a little wet.”

Niko held onto the bars of the porch door with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He swung back and forth before pulling himself up with his face pressed between the bars.

“Fuck off. Where’s my lighter?”

“Why do you deserve it?” I gestured towards the fallen wreckage on the carpet.

“Why do I deserve a fuck off?” Said Lefty. “You should fuck off.”

“Don’t tell me to fuck off. I don’t care if you hit me in the face. Lefty, you’ve hit me in the face before. Come hit me again.” Niko tried to open the porch door, even sticking a large hand through the bars to grasp the handle from the inside, but to no avail.

“Get the boy a lighter, already.” Billy said.

He violently shook the door. Threatening its hinges with all his weight which lacked an ounce of body fat to begin with. Niko took a swig from the bottle and what followed was a loud thud as he collapsed upon the porch.

I slammed the front door shut.

Lefty shook his head. “I worry about that kid.”

“I need a cigarette,” I said.

“Same.”

Billy followed us out where my foot slipped on what could’ve been described as a fleshy stone placed in front of the doorway, causing me to stumble forward into the night. Its darkness scattered by the light pole across the street.

“What the hell?” Billy cried out behind me after doing the same thing.

“That’s just Niko.” Lefty said. He looked out to the horizon with a blank expression. “Step over him like I did.”

“What you smoking on, Lefty?”

“Marlboro 27s.”

“Aren’t those shorter?”

“No. Those are the 72s.”

“I’ll stick to my P-Funks, Niko!” Billy raised his voice and kicked him with dull thuds. The lifeless pile remained motionless. Save for the rising and sinking of each breath. “Wake up, fool, I need a ciggy.”

Only loud sonorous breath could be heard over Billy’s frantic kicking, followed by more yelling.

“Can’t you see the poor kid’s sleeping? Is all that really worth a smoke?”

“Do you think he has one?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

“Shut up and give me one of your cancer sticks.” Billy retired after a final kick.

“With pleasure.”

“Shouldn’t we wake him?” Pat asked on his way out.

“Better let him rest for now.”

The raging beast may have been spent, but it was an exercise in futility not feeling guilty over how I treated an already abused friend. Even in light of his drunken antics. He only behaved this way to cope with what he couldn’t control. Yet, when was it otherwise? I felt downtrodden and defeated, anxiously awaiting my head and feet to share common ground. Hung up, pensive, my thoughts turned back to the sky, now clouded over as the first snowflakes began to drop.

“What time is it?” I yawned at last. Cherry-eyed and head spinning. My bladder on the verge of bursting. I couldn’t wait for everyone to clear out and call it quits for the night.

“Time is of no importance,” Lefty said. His intent to stay up later clear as the placid night.

Billy brought the face of his watch to his and squinted. “Almost a quarter past two, I reckon.”

“Turn off the lights and lock up when you leave. And don’t forget about Niko.”

“We know the drill,” said Lefty. “Don’t mind the rubble.”

“Or the draft.” Billy called out behind.

Once removed from the action I felt a tinge of guilt. I wasn’t even sure what my friends liked about me. I must have been a more enjoyable person at some point. Yet, I was just as guilty aiding and abetting the very culture I condemned by keeping other drinkers around out of convenience to hide my own self-destructive behavior.

Debts had a funny way of bringing everyone back into balance. I made eight-hundred dollars according to my ledger, even without considering the outstanding fronts still owed to me. All tax free and stashed away in the weed jar for my next up. My day ended right where it started on paper. At zero with nothing to show for it.

I stumbled inside through the living room to the bathroom, doing my best to humor the night’s events along the way. There you have it: the riffraff which constituted my inner circle. Misfits of our generation. My house brought us together in collective numbness and relief. The latter of which never came for me until the mongrels left. To witness a friend’s complete unraveling to their wit’s end wasn’t surprising. Bound by tradition the end resulted in the same problem, different day. By tomorrow morning today’s failures will have been illuminated by bright sunshine. With frustration equal to dealing with this buttoned fly on my pants I was unable to open and relieve myself.

Even once my head hit the pillow no relief could be found. Half-asleep half-awake, I never fully rested. The punched through hole of my door let in more than barred yellow light as the words of my captors trickled in. Falling deeper in a slumber, my present reality reverberated off barren concrete walls. Minutes slipped into hours as the remaining night petered out. Drifting in, drifting out of lucid dreams. An old wooden house. White-capped waves crashing up against it. Slowly reducing the structure to floating bits of driftwood carried off by the tide until the front door shut for a final time and activity in the house ceased altogether. Sometime around 5 AM, Niko rose from his drunken slumber to the bitter realization of having overslept for work yet again.

The last of them gone—only the muddy iridescent pools remained as the crashing tides withdrew. The repeated patterns of a generation once lost, then beat. Now doomed.

A new day.

A new strain.

All aboard the train of scattered thought. Where I was the conductor of a single passenger. Ladling the subconscious soup in which I dished up nothing but chunky, disconnected thoughts. I wore my robe and loafers well into the afternoon. The bong kept at arm’s reach while I took care not to jostle my ticking time bomb stomach.

It came with some satisfaction to have the day off to recover. Nursing my self-inflicted wounds like a patient who filled their own prescriptions. Yet it took a perverse type of dedication, no, devotion, to be this out of body, out of mind, and out of sorts all the time. And knowing no better cure for life’s hangovers it became a discipline to seek that awkward, disjointed, state of being stoned off your rocker at all times. While sizzling like grease into an unforgiving abyss, I stuck a cigarette into my mouth and flicked the lighter with a calloused thumb until the flame caught the tip. I turned sideways to lay flat by kicking my legs out and drew in a deep breath followed by a slow, sustained exhalation. I squelched any developing thoughts by staring at smoke patterns on the ceiling. In search of a sign. For whatever reason I chose to hide away. A modern-day troglodyte. The only way I liked it. Even in a place equipped with no household convenience like a washer, dryer, or dishwasher, and which only slipped further into dilapidation upon its cracked foundation. Support beams sagged under the strain of crumbling brick as if slowly collapsing from within. Unsupportable, yet where I chose to make my home. A little space where the porch door creaked and where the missing top panel of glass made the metal bars resemble a jail cell. Where I lay trapped in the windowless oubliette of my mind. Floundering in the uncertainty of abject failure—who wouldn’t cope using substances to put up with their embittered personality?

I had only begun to rue when déjà vu struck me like a boulder smashing a pool’s smooth reflective surface—shattering my ritual of self-deprecation upon hearing someone stomping up the porch stairs to the doorstep.

KNOCK KNOCK

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share

Fuck off. It isn’t worth it.

So I thought, staring down the barrel of a moonlit chute. Skis on edge. Half-bent over the mountaintop. I rested from on high, hovering over the bright blank expanse of untouched snow which faded into black at the base of this towering summit. Up at this elevation the air carried a sweet piney scent with a prickly bite. Sharp enough to needle through the several layers of clothing protecting my soft, tender flesh. The price one had to pay for a tiny sliver of solitude. I stayed frozen there. My cigarette burning until the smoking filter hit fingers and my glassy-eyed state became shattered in one heavy blink. A grand stirring of consciousness from which nothing had changed. I rubbed my exposed face with bare hands and shuddered at the feeling of raw, uncooked meat. The tips of my ski poles planted, I leaned further over the edge. Just short of a straight shot to the bottom where a cluster of lights in the mountain’s twinkling shadow shone in blinding darkness. The bowl-shaped valley being a lit-up grid of streetlights, buildings, and rooftops, spanning all way to the mine site which formed part of the western skyline. Above it all, cloudy dusk darkened over snowy Salt Lake City. My home.

I shook out clumps of loose ash from the folds of my hardshell jacket and breathed in deep the wintry air until it stung.

Such trysts with my wayward muse were a mere conceit. Spurring me out of my dormancy for a haphazard return to the mountain with a spectacular run I’d never repeat. It was still too early for ski resorts to open, making it the best time to bomb the slope without obstacles like other skiers. Although it had been years since our last meeting, the spontaneity of such a rash impulse was only further complimented by early snowfall in the mountains which provided ample fuel to rekindle an old flame. My late-afternoon ascent began snaking up Little Cottonwood Canyon, one of the glaciated canyons that branched off like ribs from the spine of the Wasatch Mountains, and passing through a brilliant display of bright yellow aspens and fiery red-orange maples. The first to change color amidst tightly packed swaths of evergreen trees such as towering firs. The creek corridors also were given color by a dazzling array of cottonwoods, willows, and dogwood shrubs. Back country skiing didn’t come without its challenges and dangers, not excluding sudden avalanches, and since I lacked the proper equipment for ski touring, I settled for bootpacking to a well-known couloir that didn’t require skins or special ski bindings. Its trailhead, hidden from plain view by the cover of scrub oak off the left side of the road, was one of those things you just had to know about.

I slid a dusty pair of skis from out of the rear of an old forest-green hatchback with manual transmission and rested them upon my shoulder. Then I climbed the large, treeless, lower face of the fan-shaped slope.

A series of kicking steps with the nose of the boot led up the low-angled slopes. The south-facing ridgeline received lots of sun which meant little soft snow along the main buttress. I continued upwards. On the opposing mountain across the canyon could be seen a double chairlift used to ferry rosy-cheeked skiers up the mountainside during the ski season, its fixed-grip chairs appearing to be frozen in mid-air. Strung along an unmoving steel wire rope. My load grew heavier with each step on my inclined path. Causing me to pause every so often and look back at the tracks left behind. Their impressions like indented craters ringed with rime upon a glacier. I couldn’t help but muse upon their short lifespans, measuring last year’s growth in the balance of everything lost.

The sun continued to dip. Dripping red which set ablaze the rugged, rocky peak of the crest. I climbed on. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. Adversity was no match for sheer determination in scaling the ridge as the top loomed in sight.

It was a scramble booting up to the base of the exposed chute. More so reaching the first notch on the ridge after an exhausting climb up the steep pitch which steadily increased in steepness to an outcropping of rock that appeared like a craggy triangular mount.

Carved there sharply below, the steep, narrow gully appeared darkened by its rocky sides. High and tight.

I caught my breath by smoking from a glass pipe. Its bowl preloaded with leafy green nugs and kept discreetly in my inner jacket pocket. As if I couldn’t get much higher clutching to this dizzying precipice with only an avalanche tower for company.

Light, feathery smoke floated upwards with every hit of the resonated pipe. The black rack of cloud, rippling far as the eyes could see, hovered menacingly before me. A gaping, swirling black hole which threatened to suck up the slumbering valley and its wintry surroundings with it.

I pointed my ski tips towards the passage and envisioned a straight fall line between its rock walls down and across the road and through the entry of the bar on the other side to my favorite stool furthest from the door.

This unchartered ski run would be my only pass, so I had to make it count.

Teetering from ahigh with both ski poles planted I rolled forward and slid the tips of my skis over the edge until issuing forth from the chute in a cloudy blur while bent low into a crouch with both arms tucked tight and letting go to the free-falling whims of gravity in a direct line down the blank white sheet feeling light as a feather during an ear-splitting bone-rattling mind-jarring gut-wrenching out on a limb descent against the cold wall of resistance licking my red-cheeked face in a flurry of bee stingers upon my downward plummet to the very brink of destruction where the slightest slip or loss of control from a badly timed movement at any ill-fated moment would be liable to send me tumbling straight into the doom and destruction that was likely already long overdue with whistling teapot alarms whipping the soft tender cartilage of my ears in harmony to a series of swift strokes, and soft swipes, that struck a rhythm to the cadence of double-edged brushes, daubing in accented beats of equal measure, drawing a sharp S-shape down the solitary pitch, a solo dot cutting parallel ribbons in a running to a sequence of dots and dashes, laying each bar in lengthy duration to the pulse of every break and curve, whether a simple swoop or jot, all of which readily glossed over by an emotive verve, a feeling of freedom unlike ever before until I was promptly bottoming out again, my speed gradually slowing as I sank deeper, and deeper, into softer snow before losing it altogether again.

What goes up must come down.

Stuck in the wintry afterglow of my reckless solo run, I found myself bent from the sudden impact of having to stop, and that fantastic rush vanished even quicker than it came. Vacuous and vacant as a misty curtain. A more than sobering reality for the transient pursuer of breathless heights.

With a quick poke I jabbed a ski pole into the heel lever on both sides with the tip, freeing my ski boots from their bindings.

I slowly tread through the remaining powder. Dropping every so often into pockets of deep snow past my ankles until hitting the iced-over crud of concrete pavement.

To prevent my arm from dangling without a purpose I lit a cigarette. The rising chill cut right through my hardshell jacket. Only a half-buried ski lodge could be seen down the road. A blue coil rising from its chimney top.

Sitting inside the cold interior of my car I took drags off my cigarette to counteract the shivers while the engine heated. The built-in car lighter may not work and there was a three-lettered epithet keyed onto the driver’s side door but it was a reliable mode of transit for getting from point A to B, nonetheless.

Snowflakes dropped from out of darkness. Covering my field of vision.

Idling in neutral, my hand on the stick shift, I switched on the windshield wipers. The dark canyon road could be followed all the way through the city and across the valley to the snow-capped Oquirrhs in the distant west.

Mountains were all this valley had to offer. Yet many of those living here in Utah hated the snow. Which was why I loved it. In spite of all the religious zeal and peculiar liquor laws we surely boasted the greatest snow on earth.

I continued to puff away at the crossroads of my decision, pondering my next course of action. Return home. Or delay the inevitable for another hour or two…

Shifting into gear, the car lurched forward as I popped the clutch. No longer in neutral the treadless tires nearly spun out on the icy road. It was poorly lit and without guardrails to save a drifting car from accidentally careening off the cliff edge into the frozen river below. Conditions conducive for illicit drug use.

I withdrew the glass pipe I cashed back on the mountaintop and packed it again. Breaking off large chunks from a nug kept in a plastic sandwich bag in my lap while using only the glow of the dashboard light.

The cab became illumined by a lighter’s flickering flash.

A plume of silver smoke took flight from the burning cherry as I receded into black. Drawing out the seconds. I held the hit in my chest until lungs screamed to exhale.

I drove along winding curves, creeping along the rock walling off the left side when it broke away. In the recess beside the road there was a small bar with a weathered awning and scratched wooden post out front which beckoned me in.

I hit the pipe again. Hot ash speckled my tongue. Cashed out. I had no choice but to enter the best place one could idle freely in the fast lane.

Drunken Moose was funded solely by ski bums and offered refuge for generations of wintry souls to warm themselves after a long day on the slopes. Having fallen to shambles long ago, its charm made up for whatever it lacked with an old worn bar top that was chipped, battered, and riddled with holes. The broken jukebox on the opposing wall spit a garbled tune to an array of fluorescent emissions while the further absence of windows or overhead lighting suspended any sense of time. Many hours, months, years, had been lost here. One instantly felt the unsettling effects after any extended period of time within these dull and dreary walls. Like being submerged entirely underwater. Walk in with the intention of drinking an hour and one succumbs to the time warp of no longer knowing night from day. It was a quaint establishment. Where one could sit and drown in their drink unnoticed. Years ago, when a wooden sign bore a different name swung out front, a bull moose happened through the door and wreaked havoc inside the bar by knocking over a full keg and ripping the newly upholstered booths before taking with it the swinging sign by its antlers on the way out. Some say it was an elk. Others a young buck. But the story took a life of its own and so began the legend the locals have known it by ever since.

I drifted along the bar front, caught in a weblike haze, becoming a stranger to my surroundings with every sight rendered vaguely as a dream, and distant as a half-forgotten memory. Foggily, I shuffled forward on stiffened legs towards the end of the bar. My head low. Occasionally tripping over the boot of those with a permanent ski goggles tan. Mostly freestyle skiers in baggy, oversized jackets and pants with brightly colored prints and mismatching patterns that were as migraine-inducing as their tight skull cap beanies. I wasn’t even the right type of ski bum in this respect.

Mirror-backed shelves hung slightly off-kilter on the back wall behind the bar. Most of them jam-packed with bottles of every variety collecting dust above a healthy selection of draft beers. Having found my safe little nook in this rocky landscape, I ached to warm up with a cold one. And I still had FREE BEER tokens in my pocket from past visits.

A boot-faced barkeep with black squinty eyes and a surly gait arrived. He wore a cloak of coarse fabric that hardly shed a ripple or stirred in his step and was known to serve up the frostiest mug. That and he never carded anyone. Ever. He even allowed cigarette smoking well after it was banned indoors. His name tag read Snappy. Whether it was his actual name or not was anybody’s guess. But I always tried to give him little trouble. Most of the time.

I dug out three wooden tokens and left them on the bar top. Each of them reading: “Have one on us”.

“Come to close your tab?” he asked. His voice like tumbling gravel.

“You knew I’d be back,” I said.

“Like a fly circling shit.”

His readymade scowl signaled he was ready for my order.

“I’ll have the usual,” I said. Liking to keep it as simple as their three-dollar pint special.

Snappy grabbed a clean glass off the dusty shelf. The skinny tap handle trembled in his calloused grip which made the nautical creatures tattooed on his forearm squiggle to life.

He passed me a pint of cheap lager with no head. “Take it easy tonight, eh?”

I nodded back to spare myself the lecture.

With a grimace he returned to the other end of the bar. I sipped, waiting. My lips eager to return to the cool glass rim. Fingertips numbed. Well before finishing I flagged Snappy to repeat the order by flipping him another token.

One glass emptied. I moved onto the next.

The longer I sat the more I began to brood in thought. And the more I drank the more my mind filled up with every one of my shortcomings to date. They said winter came early. Giving license for every news outlet to snowball the matter into record-breaking proportions after first snow. But for me it never ended. Years back during the golden age when, in a sense, the first frosty buds skipped bloom in the scorching heat of an early summer. Instead of running headlong into the follies of hot-blooded youth, I balked. Lying coolly beneath the shady comforts of a leafy shroud until I reaped a teeming harvest of morning weeds. The yellow, russet-colored leaves turning brown in the premature winter cold before falling with a shiver to the ground. What followed were the early days of decay in which never-ending snow left me buried where I remain still. Encased in a snowy sepulcher where the green overgrowth once covered a wellspring of untapped potential. Its fount frozen over. Once a child struck with wide-eyed wonder having infinite threads to pull on. I became tangled on them all. And my pilgrimage up the mountain was yet another unbroken line with no destination or return.

Becoming so comfortable in isolation, my stool wobbled as I locked eyes with the hollow skeleton opposite me. No more than a clay mask held upon a listless frame. Its sullen, weathered countenance hollow and expressionless, reflecting profound disappointment with blank lifeless eyes peering out from bottomless caverns. Their pitted depths akin to an eternal void with an appetite to swallow the sun.

Our contact remained unbroken. The expressionless face of my bitter companion bore the same mark as mine. A purple-red stain spreading from out the corner of the left eye.

An intense heat swept over me. Followed by rolling cold sweats, and the more I tried searching within those dead eyes the more lost I was knowing all too well what they saw so I settled our differences and bought us another round with the last drink token.

Snappy returned.

But the clink of glass was no longer audible over the rising din of chatter. Too distracted with my musings, I must’ve missed the entrance of a big party. The once dead atmosphere had turned lively with bustling bar stools and incessant laughter.

The fresh refill settled onto its soggy coaster while I tried to tune out the noisy fanfare.

It was impossible. Their sounds of merriment assailed my senses. With each cheer violating my ears. I had no choice but to observe their party over the top of my sudsy mug. Looking through the mirror reflection which offered multiple vantage points in a single frame. By now, the rambunctious group had practically taken over the bar, with more and more bodies crammed in like airplane passengers to the last stool. My own.

These weren’t your average skiers. They appeared more uniform than their brightly dressed counterparts and wore matching training suits. Slim-fit jet-black pants and jackets which bore the insignia of a black diamond with a pair of crossed skis behind it on the right shoulder. The letters CSA embroidered boldly in white font beneath it.

They were ski racers from Carbonado Ski Resort’s alpine ski club and judging from the celebratory shouts and cheers which drew attention from everyone else around, appeared to be in high spirits. It felt like being at some house party where everyone so desperately wanted to connect. Except for me.

No one else was to blame for my utter lack of inclusion. I was an outsider. A rolling stone that couldn’t be stopped.

The volume of overlapping voices rose in proportion with every refilled pitcher of beer. Mounting louder and louder. Even with my attention turned aside I couldn’t prevent becoming fully immersed into their affair. And from out of the corner of my eye I couldn’t help but catch one who stood out above all. As if the very source of their camaraderie and good cheer.

The ski racer was a walking cliché. Complete with all the vigor of brazen youth. Distinguished by his sharply chiseled features and lean, muscular build. He sported sandy hair styled on top of a big forehead along with a cleft chin to compliment his slick, laidback demeanor. He held command with a piercing glaze which carefully monitored the room. His smoky eyes two dormant coals which could give rise to sudden flame.

Two athletes from the women’s program, a shorter one with wiry black hair, the other a platinum blonde who was tall even without her high heels, both clung to either one of his sides like plastic manikins with superficial smiles and fake lashes.

Judging from the bits and pieces I unwillingly picked up they eagerly anticipated the approaching race season. After a lengthy process of prompting him to speak, the ski racer stood at his leisure, front and center, and with one boot on the footrest, he pounded the bar top so everyone including Snappy took heed.

After drawing out a long pause, his snub nose pointed upwards, he began to speak.

“So what I’m about to say needs no introduction. I’ll make this short and concise. No need talking your ears off like I’ve done so often in the past. Let’s say that tonight, no, this very hour, is our decisive moment. Our time for the taking!” His words were met with rallying cheers. These were soon cut short as the dynamic voice sounded off again, in competition only with the broken jukebox gurgling a dreadful tune in the background. The air electrified by the surrounding static.

“And so here we are, gathered round together once more. True, the road before us will be long and arduous. But I believe Carbonado Ski Academy will top the podium once again come state finals. If that sounds biased, so be it. Soon we’ll find out our team captain and I’m sure they’ll do a fine damn job, whoever it is.” He ended with a wink, then he raised his glass. The rest followed suit. “For now, let’s only concern ourselves with getting through tonight. We may wake tomorrow morning puffy eyed and in regret of our choices, but here’s to what Coach can’t take from us­—at least come next practice. Cheers!”

Everyone raised their glasses for a toast.

Sweet silence ensued long enough for their gaping mouths to be stopped up with drink. Ah! The result was too beautiful and clear to last long.

The air split again. The crowd falling into another uproar as the ski racer who orchestrated the cheers until he silenced them in one gesture to resume speaking.

The once hostile reflection across the bar soon became my sole companion.

From my forgotten corner I downed my glass to drown them out. Draining the remaining suds in disgust.

Listening to the ski racer was tedious. His talk being much too lengthy. But it had the desired effect on his audience who packed in tighter. Hanging onto his every word and responding positively to all his quips. I remained there on the fringe. Oftentimes I wondered what it’s like being on their side. Always acting happy while dressed up in the proper attire. In which we’re only our outerwear. A mere shell. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Furthermore, I refused to buy into a scene. Even when society recognized them for an identity that continually eluded me.

Sickened by being an unwilling subject to their whole charade, I clawed for my pack of cigarettes. Already fuming.

The smoking section was a hidden enclosure featuring an outside bar for the summer months and a plastic stand-up ashtray beside a propane patio heater that never got switched on. I breathed in deep after lighting up, holding in the warmth with a passing shiver. Cold enough to induce memories I believed to be long laid to rest. As if clearing the haze to the years of early adolescence. Long ago when fated to have my love for skiing sown upon the snowpack. Naturally sprouting into a passion that flourished through the passage of time. The ski club had caused an iceberg to thaw—memories came flooding back of an early morning ritual when my father would wake me while it was still dark. I remember rubbing my crusty eyes and wanting nothing more than to return to my slumber. Following a light snack, we grabbed our gear and raced up the canyon to beat the ski crowd. After boarding the chairlift there was nowhere else that I’d rather be. A full day on the slopes later and we’d make our descent rosy-cheeked and ready to soak our frozen bones in a hot tub. Nostalgia took root at these simpler times. Some of my fondest childhood memories involve clomping upon the packed snow with my day pass hooked through a metal wire and dangling from my jacket zipper. The happiest of days which led me to form an intimate relationship with the resort’s many majestic ski runs and during isolated moments where I could ski freely with no ties to hold me back I felt truly inspired without a purpose. But that profound intensity of waking up with high expectations slowly diminished each morning I slept through and all too soon despair took its toll.

Days waned along with that burning flame I once kept alive as every one of life’s adversities pressed upon me. Lightly at first, before becoming heavy as a ton of bricks with redoubled weight every winter season. I nearly abandoned the sport altogether. Many a grievous night had I seen which yielded snowy forecasts to blanket the city over. Leaving behind a fresh white sheet in its undoing.

Come springtime, I gradually slunk back into indifference. Never seeming to know how to direct my ambivalence. My hair becoming a tangled overgrowth of curls which twisted with the passing seasons as sorrowful regret clutched from within. Eventually I shied away from both skiing and the crowds alike.

Any sense of direction had passed me by ever since. With my former flame quickly becoming a lost passion kept under lock and key where I was the lone guardsman. Every glance at the mountain afforded a reminder of what else could have been. Two decades past, and my muse had found every cause to reject me. And for good reason, too.

In the bathroom. I was midway through relieving myself when, with a passing shudder, I found the answer I’d been looking for posted on the wall above the urinal. A local flier for sign-ups for master level racing and beer league. Both recreational outlets for adult ski racing. Its date set the following week.

Somehow, I had never considered there being any other alternative. The thought of which now struck with the force of a lightning bolt.

Without another thought about it I tore the flyer off the wall and buried it deep within my jacket pocket.

When I returned to my stool somebody else was sitting in it. A latecomer to the party.

She could hardly have been five-foot without her heels on. With a button nose and strawberry hair which ended in waves below her shoulders. Her cheeks flushed from the outside cold. As the auspicious speech continued on, the absorbed crowd packed tighter to fill every conceivable gap between the front door and the bar with the two of us pushed outside. Where only one of us wished to remain. Her every effort to needle through the impenetrable seams of an audience held captive proved futile.

Not wanting to disrupt the ski racer, who now appeared more animated than before, I lightly tapped her on the shoulder after she had slumped back onto my stool. Such misunderstandings happened all the time.

No response. Not even a look back to acknowledge my presence. I tapped her shoulder again, firmly. On the third attempt I made sure to drive the point across with my pointer finger.

When she turned her face conveyed that she didn’t know what I wanted. Nor cared.

“Um, excuse me,” I said.

“Excuse you,” she said. Now standing.

“This was my seat. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah.” Her amber eyes fixed on me. “You should be.”

“Wait, what?”

She scowled. Viewing me clearly as if repugnant.

“You should be sorry. No one was here when I sat down.”

“I don’t think you understand,” I picked up my empty glass from the bar, “I was just here. But there’s plenty of other seats.”

I would have gladly left it at that. Except slipping away would’ve been impossible with our exchange catching the attention of those around us.

The minor exchange not only halted the ensuing speech but replaced all of the former celebratory spirits with a rank, bitter air. Who’d want to deal with a beggarly derelict crashing the party with nothing but an empty glass in hand?

Repulsed, the short girl with wavy hair fixed me with a final burning glare before falling back with the others.

“Look, I’m not trying to bother anyone— “Why are you then?” The ski racer who held the room’s attention cut me short. A porcelain glint shone through his thin-lipped snarl. His disposition told me his story in a single glance as if it were written on his face. He was someone who measured self-worth with their finger on the scale and he didn’t hesitate to play his role. Especially now the other girls had returned from the restroom.

Bar chatter fell silent for the first time since the ski club had turned the Drunken Moose into an over-crowded ski shack. Tensions grew thick. Humid enough to stick to the skin despite all the air getting sucked out the room.

Every head turned my direction. From the ski team and their affiliates to those lurking in far corners who found themselves placed into the action. Forming a wall of menacing and disapproving stares closing in on all sides. Snappy stood front and center. Waiting. His squinty eyes surveying the action to supervise the proceedings.

I threw up my hands. “How about I return to my drinking and I won’t bother your shindig again? Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I said, hopping back on my stool and swiveling away from the matter. But this only escalated their animosity. And with everyone’s attention fixated on our little show, the ski racer had the spectators needed to further rocket his ego.

Feeling hemmed in on every side, my open mouth was ready to loosen when the ski racer stole the scene once again.

“Who are you?” he spoke in the same cutting tone as before. Crisp as scotch on the rocks, yet dry as gin. “This one’s too smart. So let’s dumb it down for him. You’re unwelcome here. I imagine you must be wonderstruck in the mere presence of such an impressive collective, but none of what’s happening here concerns you.” He finished. His gleaming eye cocked and pointed at me. Regarding my mere existence with marked repulsion as if abhorrent and didn’t belong.

The showman leaned back with his arms crossed to admire the effect this had with smug satisfaction. I knew his type all too well. Spoiled suburban kid from a connected family who validated his status in the center of the universe by attracting attention from others. His entire life was an affirmation of his social status, and the blinders of privilege were fastened permanently to hinder sight. The spoiled rich were no different than religious fanatics. Always eager to martyr another, if not themselves, for renown and financial gain. All for the sake of their personal beliefs without once questioning why. Someone who made a name for himself never having to work in his life and who never needed to with all the handouts and free passes they inherited. He had it coming the day he decided to be the most colorful crayon in the box. I only had to show he was the same shade of shit as the rest.

Already facing an audience, I decidedly played along. And as fate would have it the natural flow of alcohol coursing through my veins had already loosened the throat.

“Good thing I wasn’t looking for a party.”

The once smug-faced skier advanced closer. Close enough for me to see the freshly stoked flames which leapt from his dilated pupils. His veiny neck tensed up like a prize horse at the races. What came next was equally predictable.

“You come across as the competitive sort. Let’s settle this on the mountain.”

“Being the competitive type, you should know moments like these are enflamed by the heat of passion. While we’re here, why not make it a test of superior livers? That is, if yours is mature enough.”

I let my challenge dangle over him. Darkly casting him in doubt. The bulging vein on his forehead flashed like a distress signal that all but vanished once he got egged on by the insatiable crowd, who, hungering for more, rallied behind their favored champion with encouraging shouts. The most effective of them coming from his female companions.

“Of course, it is,” said the black-haired one.

“Shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?” said the blonde, clutching hold of his elbow.

These lipstick-lined words sealed his fate. As if lodged deep in his breast, and housing there. Everyone wanted a show. Of which he was the star.

The cause of conflict was unimportant as long as the entertainment provided its fill. Their young, charismatic leader composed himself once again. A thin smirk cracking his waxen face as he allowed the moments to pass for dramatic effect.

“If that’s what you want, then that’s what you’ll get,” he exclaimed. Using the same booming voice as before. “But first, let’s discuss terms. I think it’s only fair we up the ante and I propose a wager.” He withdrew a wad of cash so thick it tested the money clip which held it.

He proceeded to count the bills aloud in a loud, commanding tone as each one slapped the bar top.

“One, two, that’s three-hundred dollars down to either put up or shut up. What do you have to lose?” The crowd roared for their champion. Rocking the bar to its shoddy foundation. The blonde and brunette shook their fluffy pompoms.

My dry mouth still managed to work out a reply. “The fates of high risk and high reward may be in your favor. I, on the other hand, don’t possess a trust fund to match your bet.”

“Surely you own something of value?” He practically hissed.

“All I have are my skis.”

“Don’t tell me they’re made of wood.”

The others laughed.

“Elan SCXs. If you’re familiar with the parabolic design.”

“OK. That’ll do.”

With a defiant glance around the room, he resumed his former cool. Now the stakes had become personal.

“They’re priceless to me.”

“Even better. I’m more of a connoisseur of the fine things in life, but they will have to do. I wouldn’t be surprised if they come without a scratch on them,” He ended with a jeering aside to his friends

“Just as well, you never buy used.” Said the one who took my seat earlier, twisting the knife deeper.

“Our on and off again relationship may be complicated, but I’m not rid of them yet.” I said.

“Allow me to break it down nice and easy for you,” said the ski racer, “for a natural born loser it would be an upgrade to donate those ugly sticks to a museum.”

He paused again for the usual guffaws to make the rounds. But even while embellishing each quip a visible strain passed on his face.

“So be it. I only ask to pick the poison.”

The room quieted down as he considered this request. The added attention from his teammates and arm candy only fueled his overweening pride. But they quickly grew restless. Tugging at his sleeve and filling his head with chanting, they pounded their glasses on the tables until they quivered. He puffed out his chest. Even without a reply I knew he had taken the bait. Taller than before, the spotlight stroked his ego and he relished the applause and sound of his name being shouted aloud from every corner.

He brandished the point of his gleaming smile my direction. “It’s decided. If the kid needs a handicap to humor his chances, so be it. Challenge accepted. Can we pour out shots already? I’ve got myself a thirst!” Trumpeting at the helm, he controlled the crowd with the volume of which he spoke.

Snappy was at the ready. His hands shaking as he set two shot glasses between us. He thrived off this type of action and devoted his undivided attention tending to the chaos. Drunken Moose hadn’t seen activity like this, let alone this many people, in ages and he’d be hard pressed not to squeeze whatever he could from it. The other spectators could no longer contain themselves and pushed in for a closer view. Their peering eyes made an unmoving wall around us.

I awaited my opponent’s first move. His gaze switched between the crowd and myself, and back to the crowd again. But buried behind the burning glower remained the same deep-rooted suspicion. The spinning gears inside his head whirred in wonder of what tricks I might have in store.

He was a seasoned drinker no doubt, and had some capacity to put it down. But my plan wasn’t to out-drink him. Not to start with anyway.

“Enough with the theatrics. Shall we?” he sneered between the two ladies hanging off his shoulders. “Unlike you we’ve got an actual agenda this evening.”

“I won’t keep you long from your mundane activities.”

“Make your choice. Pick the drink and we’ll send you on your merry way.”

I stared into his cold gray eyes. “You reek of upper-class establishment so how about a gentleman’s drink? Two shots of bourbon, please, Snappy.”

His tensed-up shoulder relaxed. As if pleased by this choice.

Perfect, I thought while Snappy scurried back to the shelf. Little did they know I was only pitching him a softball in a square-bottomed bottle.

“With a coke, too, Snappy.”

“Who needs training wheels?” I said. This caused him to stiffen right up. As if his clothes were overly starched. But before he could offer any opposition one of his drunken teammates beat him to it.

“He doesn’t need a chaser!” A sentiment the others echoed in unison.

Despite such loyal support he shifted uneasily. He knew as much as I did that he was in too deep and couldn’t back out now. In the end, he complied to the unfaltering reassurances of his team with a domineering air. “We’re not amateurs here—unlike you.”

I responded by downing the first shot faster than a desert could swallow water. Onlookers were stunned silent. They had expected this to be like an organized sport and keeping my competitor off balance was the play.

He appeared unfazed. Shot in hand, he held the crowd over in everlasting suspense until coaxed into action after the blonde whispered promises for a victory in her favor. A distraction he took full advantage of by stomaching the shot with an emphatic gesture to disguise his wincing distaste.

Round two I gulped down in an instant.

Having no choice but to bury his shot down the hatch he did so with authority. Snappy poured out our third round.

I finished mine before he finished filling the other glass.

My stomach stirred. But the pace had already been set. I only needed to stay seated the longest.

“You must fancy yourself something special,” the ski racer said, resorting to the usual intimidation tactics.

“How’s that?” I sat back into my chair with a smile on my face. This must be where he takes a few personal jabs while stalling for more time.

“Who else would sport those vintage sticks?” he said. “Other than let’s say, a novice.”

“I prefer autodidact. But what difference does it make?”

“None whatsoever. I imagine the backstory must be an amusing one. We could still take this on the mountain, you know?”

“Sorry to kill your fantasies but you’ve still got a shot there.”

“What? This thimbleful of drink? I nearly forgot,” he shrugged, fingering the shot glass while the crowd grew restless.

“You got this,” called out one of the more vocal ones I presumed to be his second in command. “There’s plenty of night left to celebrate once you finish him off.”

Shot for shot. Buried not too deep beneath the hardened countenance a slight crack began to show. Shots four five and six came one after another down the bar top. A feral gleam in my eye whenever I motioned for the next. I had full control at this rampant speed. Giving me all the power to be the demise of my own design.

The crowded bar roared like a stadium. The floorboards rattled and shook in place. Efforts to disguise any discomfort was pointless now. The rapid succession of shots steadily gained on me. Snappy tilted the bottle but it didn’t yield a drop. He left to fetch a fresh bottle from off the shelf when I put a hand up.

“Now that we’ve warmed up,” I said, the pressure of the room shifted, affording the perfect segue to my next turn of trickery. “Let’s really bring the fire. A bottle of cinnamon whiskey, please.”

“What now?” my opponent protested. A slight slur in his speech and lip curled.

The blonde readily chimed in. “Umm excuse me but you can’t do that. It’s not fair!”

“I pick the poison. Remember?” I leaned further back on my chair.

His haziness concealed whether he had fully caught onto my plan or not. The alcohol only seeped deeper. Hindering any capacity for thought as his mental faculties slowly shut down, section by section. I knew this as it was happening to me.

“We never agreed on one liquor specifically,” I added. “Where’s the harm in a little cinnamon?”

Before an answer could be given Snappy had poured out the shots. I no longer kept count. Burping hot against my throat were sizzles I only hoped enflamed his belly far worse than mine. Strategy? I had none. Other than keeping it down the longest.

“Y’know, I think I’ve changed my mind again. Let’s reach a little higher on the top shelf for the hun’red proof,” I said. The words sloshing out of my mouth.

The ski racer nodded his glassy-eyed assent. His mouth parted in an expression that was at once unhinged as it was deranged. And looking at his fanbase he couldn’t possibly refuse another round. The deafening uproar had made him blind to the rest.

I went for the charcoal filtered vodka after that.

He matched me shot for shot. That’s when the room spun. Causing the shots to swirl around our stomachs.

Binge drinking like this had its breaking point and each shot was becoming even harder to stomach. If I wasn’t careful this entire plan might blow up in my face.

“Bien, amigo,” I said. “El mezcal, por favor.”

Snappy seemed hesitant to set the untouched bottle before us.

“Hope you don’t mind a little protein,” I said. To which, the ski racer stared agape with horror at the plump pale-yellow worm at the bottom.

I was out of my chair and ready for Snappy to fire the fatal shot when the drinking game ended as abruptly as it began.

The ski racer tried to control himself except it happened too fast. With both hands cupped to his mouth in a failed attempt to prevent the uncontrollable flow of vomit that sprayed every which direction. Hitting especially those who stood closest by him.

I picked up each sopping wet bill and placed them in Snappy’s open hands. He stood there. His demeanor stonelike, with some semblance of a crude smile carved onto his face. At least until realizing the mess he had to clean fully sank in.

Leaving Drunken Moose was a blur as I met the freezing cold full of liquor and hot blood.

Moments later, I had finished spackling a chunky yard-long stripe onto the nearest embankment of snow. Always a shame wasting perfectly good drink.

I flipped back the lid of my cigarette pack and soon relished every carcinogenic molecule infiltrating my body. My icy breath lingering in the air with every exhalation of smoke.

I fumbled for my keys when the clip-clop of high heels trotted up behind me like a clumsy Clydesdale. The two girls from the bar caught me under the flicker of an overhead streetlight. Their gait slowed as they eyed me suspiciously. Taking care to side-step the fresh puddle I had left.

“Drunk driving kills, you know?” One said, her head cocked under the blazing starlight.

“Need a ride?” I asked, half in and half out of the car. The epitome of a hot mess. One of them stopped to turn on their heels.

“Dream on. Nice performance, by the way.” Were the types of things I heard amidst a couple other unsavory things while they walked away, still wiping themselves off from the puke shrapnel.

My icy breath lingered with my cigarette smoke in the air. No need to heat the car. Whiskey coursed through my veins now. Making me immune to far worse cold.

The driver’s side door opened. Apparently I had left quite an impression on someone.

“Most people have a designated driver, you know?” She said. Her wavy hair and button nose half-concealed by starry nightfall.

“I’ll have to get me one. But I know this for certain, I’ve got less liquor in my stomach than you.”

“Nuh uh, scooch over,” she said, settling herself into the driver seat.

The car door shut.

“So, tell me,” she dug through an unnecessarily large purse with an unlit cigarette between her boney fingers as she spoke. I extended the flame of my lighter to meet it.

A thin azure wisp parted her cherry lips. She looked up.

“What’s your name?”

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

Share