Children of the New World: Stories by Alexander Weinstein Page B
Authors: Alexander Weinstein
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storm coming our way.
“Counting on that blizzard,” I say and wink.
“I’d be happy for six inches.”
“There I can help you.”
She leans her hip against the bar. “You wish,” she says, and throws an ice cube at me, which lands on the flattop and sizzles.
We’ve been flirting ever since she started two years ago. What I liked about Angie was she wasn’t a skier, just wanted to learn before it was all gone. When Rick introduced us, he said, “This here’s the great Ronnie Hawks,” and she just said hey and shook my hand, taking me for another ponytailed, tattooed washout—which I guess is close to the truth. Eventually, she found out about my history. You can’t pass a season of dead days at the bar, watching old X-Sports videos on our flat-screen, without seeing me in the powder. But she didn’t care much about that, only said to me one night, “Checked out your fall online, sorry about the wipeout.” We worked bar together her first season, and though she’s in her late thirties and I’m a decade younger, we hooked up that winter and passed a season together before our breakup.
“So, you figure out what you’re going to do when summer comes?” I ask her and drop in an order of fries.
“Probably go to Brazil. Help rebuild after the floods.”
“You’re really going to do that?”
“Sure, why not? People need help, they need homes. They’ll give me meals, a place to sleep—it’s not like I’ll earn anything, but hopefully I can do some good. You should think about volunteering.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Thanks, but I’ll probably just find a bartending gig in Ogden.”
In January, Rick told us the news that the mountain was closing. After seventy-eight years, this would be our last season. He shut the lifts early one Monday—there was no one on the mountain—and we sat in the cafeteria while he dropped the bomb. Zeke, an old wiry guy with a frost-white beard, who’s been here longer than all of us and boards like a monster, slammed his hat onto the table, got up, and left.
“Zeke, wait,” Rick said, but Zeke was gone. Rick turned back to us. “Well, I’m devastated, too.”
That was probably true. Our mountain had been a sleepy little place, run by locals, until it got discovered by a hedge fund exec who figured he’d make it the next Vail. He put in a bunch of lodges, some high-end boutiques, raised the ticket prices, and then the snow stopped. And here was Rick, who’d followed corporate’s orders as best he could, had listened to a kid who wore a collared shirt instead of a ski jacket, and now he was about to be laid off like the rest of us. “It sucks,” Rick admitted. “Totally fucking sucks, but what are we going to do? There’s no snow anymore. Just try to enjoy the last season.”
So that night, we all got sloshed, and Sunny and his band cranked up their guitars and rocked out till three in the morning, screaming into the microphone until they were hoarse, and it sounded like shit, but we didn’t care. We danced, and Angie and I made out behind the bar, and we tried to forget the blow of the bad news.
* * *
IN THE VIDEO clip that plays on repeat at the lodge, I’m standing atop Alaska’s range, the helicopter lifting off-screen, and below me is untracked powder, line after perfect line, spines rising like a dragon’s back. You look down through my eyes, and all you can see are cornices and big air about to get stomped. It’s enough to make your heart stop. The copter’s gone, wind chill’s minus three, and I look down those spines, the holy grail of the Neacolas, and know I can mash it. Watch now as I set off, first turn a perfect carve, hit the lip and free-fall over two hundred feet, hurling carcass in a straight drop, land it flawless, sluff tumbling around me as I hit the next cliff. From the copter you see me nailing every turn along the razor-sharp spine, flying now, suspended above snow and mountain as I glide, then down again in
“Counting on that blizzard,” I say and wink.
“I’d be happy for six inches.”
“There I can help you.”
She leans her hip against the bar. “You wish,” she says, and throws an ice cube at me, which lands on the flattop and sizzles.
We’ve been flirting ever since she started two years ago. What I liked about Angie was she wasn’t a skier, just wanted to learn before it was all gone. When Rick introduced us, he said, “This here’s the great Ronnie Hawks,” and she just said hey and shook my hand, taking me for another ponytailed, tattooed washout—which I guess is close to the truth. Eventually, she found out about my history. You can’t pass a season of dead days at the bar, watching old X-Sports videos on our flat-screen, without seeing me in the powder. But she didn’t care much about that, only said to me one night, “Checked out your fall online, sorry about the wipeout.” We worked bar together her first season, and though she’s in her late thirties and I’m a decade younger, we hooked up that winter and passed a season together before our breakup.
“So, you figure out what you’re going to do when summer comes?” I ask her and drop in an order of fries.
“Probably go to Brazil. Help rebuild after the floods.”
“You’re really going to do that?”
“Sure, why not? People need help, they need homes. They’ll give me meals, a place to sleep—it’s not like I’ll earn anything, but hopefully I can do some good. You should think about volunteering.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Thanks, but I’ll probably just find a bartending gig in Ogden.”
In January, Rick told us the news that the mountain was closing. After seventy-eight years, this would be our last season. He shut the lifts early one Monday—there was no one on the mountain—and we sat in the cafeteria while he dropped the bomb. Zeke, an old wiry guy with a frost-white beard, who’s been here longer than all of us and boards like a monster, slammed his hat onto the table, got up, and left.
“Zeke, wait,” Rick said, but Zeke was gone. Rick turned back to us. “Well, I’m devastated, too.”
That was probably true. Our mountain had been a sleepy little place, run by locals, until it got discovered by a hedge fund exec who figured he’d make it the next Vail. He put in a bunch of lodges, some high-end boutiques, raised the ticket prices, and then the snow stopped. And here was Rick, who’d followed corporate’s orders as best he could, had listened to a kid who wore a collared shirt instead of a ski jacket, and now he was about to be laid off like the rest of us. “It sucks,” Rick admitted. “Totally fucking sucks, but what are we going to do? There’s no snow anymore. Just try to enjoy the last season.”
So that night, we all got sloshed, and Sunny and his band cranked up their guitars and rocked out till three in the morning, screaming into the microphone until they were hoarse, and it sounded like shit, but we didn’t care. We danced, and Angie and I made out behind the bar, and we tried to forget the blow of the bad news.
* * *
IN THE VIDEO clip that plays on repeat at the lodge, I’m standing atop Alaska’s range, the helicopter lifting off-screen, and below me is untracked powder, line after perfect line, spines rising like a dragon’s back. You look down through my eyes, and all you can see are cornices and big air about to get stomped. It’s enough to make your heart stop. The copter’s gone, wind chill’s minus three, and I look down those spines, the holy grail of the Neacolas, and know I can mash it. Watch now as I set off, first turn a perfect carve, hit the lip and free-fall over two hundred feet, hurling carcass in a straight drop, land it flawless, sluff tumbling around me as I hit the next cliff. From the copter you see me nailing every turn along the razor-sharp spine, flying now, suspended above snow and mountain as I glide, then down again in
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