The weekend started as most weekends start, by starting. It was Friday and we felt like going somewhere else, somewhere far and tall, to rid ourselves of Ohio's maddening, flat, cold aluminum sheets of winter. So we drove east, for many hours, stopping halfway (halfway to where? – exactly) to pick up some strong alcohol and some soft drinks and generally get to'e up. The rest of the trip was a sort of cannonball run. A high-speed blast through the vapid landscapes of Ohio and Pennsylvania, made enjoyable only through rambling conversation, copious chronic and the finest of music played at the highest of volume.
Friday ended with us eventually (and I use that word with its full and unmerciful meaning) finding a bad-memories-in-the-sheets-and-dead-bodies-in-the-trunk motel something like ten minutes from a widely noted Eastern U.S. snow park,
paying for it in cash, and finishing off whatever was left of the first of our two handles. Friday night also ended with a lot of loud music, which was even louder and more violent and blaring when it woke us up at eight in the morning on Saturday.
"It takes a teenage riot to get me out of bed right now."
Fair enough. A teen-age riot it is – to be young, dumb, full of cum on an Eastern mountain, with a lot of rum.
We drank some orange juice, dressed and drove to the park – our eyes unfocused, seeing more of our eyelids than the road. We guided ourselves not through precise sight, but rather by approximately following the long strip of black book-ended on both sides by stretching sheets of white. We were almost positive the long strip of
black was a road, so we did our best to keep to our side (unsure exactly which side was ours). And after a long and what would have been harrowing adventure had we known how demonically we abused the road and its customs, we found the place.
We fell out of the car, laid in the snow for a while, and slept for a half-hour through the sound of more and more people arriving, putting on their gear and slamming their car doors. Victor eventually woke me up with a kick of snow. "Let's go," he said.
And so we went.
Now, the way my story goes: I used to be a jock. I was an all-state baseball player, with all the chachitude that goes with it, from Ohio. To be any sort of anything from Ohio is quite remarkable, and therefore being an excellent baseball player from Ohio made me remarkable, which was remarkable. However, and unfortunately, because of that, I spent most of my childhood winters driving or being driven to and from indoor batting cages. In fact, I never snowboarded until I
was eighteen. After high school ended I went to a college that didn't have any snow parks anywhere near it. Not even close. So my four winters there were spent like an injured (real) snowboarder would have spent them. I shuffled to and from class, damning the bitter Ohio cold, and spent most of my time inside, under a fog of pot smoke, listening to jive music and dicking around on the computer. Because of my winter history, any time I ever spend at snow parks with my friends (who are all excellent motherhuckers) is usually dominated by their laughing at my inability to stay on my feet, teamed with my inability to get back on them. At least for a couple hours, before I figure out how to balance on the beam again. At which point they stop laughing and leave me to the pillow hills while they go have fun throwing themselves off of the crests of thousand foot glaciers and hurtling down seventy-degree declines at break-neck speeds, high on weed and full of glee.
So it was my mountainous hucking virginity that made it particularly disconcerting for me when Victor brandished another dildo-sized joint on our first trip up the chair lift. Not only was I hung over, lacking sleep, unable to snowboard my age and ready to vomit over the side of the lift, but now I was expected to blaze up in order to make falling down more fun.
Which is exactly what I did. Which is exactly what anyone should do if he or she ever really wants to go snowboarding. After all, a sober trip down the mountain is like having sex but stopping before anyone, uh, spills the beans. Sure, I guess it's kinda fun, but not nearly as fun as it should be.
So we got lifted to a rather high point of the mountain (pun intended). The chair lift ejaculated us into a crowd of preteens standing around like assholes. Victor let out a quick "huhh!" – a stoned attempt at a warning of approach – and the little douches scattered. Meanwhile, my foot got tangled under my board as I tried to get off the chair lift and I found myself arms flailing and my self falling. (Victor and Micah claim it was so funny they both sharted in laughter.) To make matters worse, when I finally slammed to the ground I'd found that I narrowly missed the preteens and because of that, launched myself at the feet of a pack of late-teen girls, all of whom were successfully able to both avoid laughing at me while making that seem even more insulting.
"Pardon me," I said, "I'm stoned, and I don't snowboard very often."
They laughed. The faces of angels and demons at once.
It seemed to me that I stumbled onto something there (no pun intended that time). Every time I go snowboarding I seem to repeat that to myself over and over with each person I piss off. I mean it's not like I want to cut people off, or fall down in front of them; it's just that, well, shit, I'm stoned, and I don't snowboard very often. The biggest problem is that my friends actually have talent and ability, so it makes my accidents look entirely unaccidental and assholic. So far, however, I haven't been in any fights or pissed anyone off too much (that I know of), so I think my amateurism is well-communicated, despite the better efforts of my friends.
I stumbled vertically (which should be and is only left to us pitiable amateurs of the mountain) up to my feet and worked my way over to Victor and Micah – who were finally calming down. Now they just looked baked, which was better than they looked hung over.
"Okay, stoners," I said to them, "you ready for some of this?"
At that I threw myself down what looked to me to be the easiest of the branches. Now I'm not a total incompetent so I know how to stay on the board for a while, but unfortunately that "while" typically comprises nothing but left turns and then unintentional switches to goofy to make right turns. Also unfortunate is the fact that I am only able to stay on my feet long enough to make my inevitable falls that much more traumatic. Which is like the difference between a fender bender and vehicular homicide.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit WHAM!
Snow down the front of my undershirt and up the arms of my jacket. My body a twisted mess. My snowboard looking more like Chinese feet cuffs.
Hahahahhahaha! Victor and Micah go carving by, laughing and pointing.
As I collect myself, it looks like I'm on another planet through my goggles. The bright white of the snow (and the fact that I'm stoned) is doing some funny shit to my rods and cones. The snow looks like that static fuzz that looks like flies on a television still receiving signals from the antenna on the roof. It was so beautiful – and, I must admit, appeared to be communicating something wholly profound and important to me in God's Code – so I decided to sit around for a while and look at it. Which was the only thing I could have handled at the time. The grass was really washing over me now. The many numbing layers of sobriety peeling away, leaving me a shivering exposed nerve. All gums and no teeth.
I was on attempt number six trying to stand up back on the board when I felt something clip my wrist and then a body fell over me. The body said "Holy shit!" and started laughing. The body sounded and felt and smelled female.
"Oh, do pardon me," she said in a tone of playful mockery, "I'm stoned and I don't snowboard very often." With that she looked back, smiled, got to her feet and curved away. Moments later two other girls sliced by. One remarked, "Weirdo," in my general direction, but she may also have been decoding the patch of snow I'd been staring at for the previous five minutes. Perhaps it was obvious to everyone that the snow at my feet felt I was a weirdo.
And why shouldn't it?
Never mind all that, I thought to myself. Who were those girls?
Part Three
