Ski Trip From Hell - part 4

To alleviate the tension, I tried to say something light and humorous on the way back to the Saab. They ignored my one-liner. I know that I am not a perfect person, and I can take my fair share of friendly ribbing. What was coming out of Nan and Gail’s mouths wasn’t friendly; it was mean, hateful and meant to hurt.

Already humiliated by my failure as an athlete, I headed back to the condo as Nan and Gail continued verbally attacking everything from the way I walked and talked, to my manhood, or lack thereof. Soon unable to contain my silence, I began returning their verbal jabs with a few well-placed oral slams of my own. As we walked into the front door, the three of us were fairly yelling at each other.

I went to the frig and popped the top on a Coors, slamming it in a gulp or two and then quickly opening another. Nan and Gail followed my lead, each grabbing a beer and drinking them between evil outbursts. By this time, we were all saying, or more precisely shouting, things we should have regretted in the morning. Locked in the heat of verbal battle, it did not matter.

My marriage to Gail would last a few more years, but already strained since we had moved to Oklahoma City. I knew that Gail had issues with me but had not known until that moment how contentious they had become. I do not think that Nan had a clue about the depth of Gail’s dislike for me, but it was obvious that she was enjoying the contest. It was then that the door to Mick and Nan’s bedroom cracked open.

It was Mick, still dressed in his pajamas, his eyes as red as blood, his dark hair a rumpled mess, and his complexion the pale color of someone approaching the River Styx.

“I’m sick as a dog but I’ve been listening to you two bitches attacking Eric. As ill as I am, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you trash my best friend.”

The battle of the sexes was on; with Mick on my side, a weight lifted off my shoulders as the cavalry of his presence charged over the proverbial hill. No longer outnumbered, I began verbally fighting with renewed energy.

We continued arguing until we had gone through every beer in the refrigerator, and the lone bottle of red wine we had bought. I can’t remember too much about the argument except that there was no clear winner.

“Damn it, I’m hungry,” Mick finally said. “At least arguing with you two bitches has cured my flu. Let’s go get something to eat.”

We had our fancy dinner on the town that night, and then danced until closing at the loudest, most garish discothèque we could find. We were all smiling that night when we returned to the condo, and still smiling in the morning. We skied half a day Monday, and then started back to Oklahoma City, the snow on the roads melted and our return trip without incident.

Back at work the next day, I stood in the parking lot, staring at the crumpled hood of my beautiful orange Saab. I still loved it dearly but knew in my heart that no matter how expert its repair, it would never again be - much like my rapidly failing marriage - the car I drove off the showroom floor.

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Ski Trip From Hell - part 3

Much as our day of skiing had disappeared, our plan for dinner and a few hours of wild nightlife dissolved along with Mick’s good health. We had stopped at a grocery store and laid in a loaf of bread, some canned food, luncheon meat and a few beers. Lucky for Nan, Gail and I as that was all we had to eat and drink.

The little condominium had two full-sized bedrooms, a living room with a wood-burning fireplace, a small kitchen and one bathroom. We three healthy ones built a fire, had a sandwich and a few beers while we listened to Mick tossing his cookies through the thin walls. Mick’s flu continued through the night. The last time I looked at the clock it was three in the morning. Early-riser Gail shook me awake around six.

“Get up or we’ll miss half a day of skiing.”

Dragging myself out of the warm sack, I washed my face and pulled on my heavy ski apparel. It was only twenty-eight degrees outside as Nan, Gail and I drove up the hill to the ski resort, Mick still too sick to get out of bed. We were soon on the bunny slope, Nan giving Gail and me a few quick instructions.

Nan smiled and nodded when Gail said, “I can do this. Let’s go to the top of the mountain.”

After a quick demonstration of how to get on the ski lift, Nan and Gail mounted the chair in front of me. I slipped and slid but managed to scurry into the next chair beside an older woman that refused to look at me. She was dressed in the finest skiwear, her boots and skis the top of the line. She had a frown on her face and just kept shaking her head. She did not reply when I said, “Nice day.”

Mounting a ski lift is one thing, exiting the first time something altogether different. My heart raced as we approached the dismount area. Having no idea what to do, I pushed my rear off the wooden seat, my boots instantly tangling. It wouldn’t have been so bad to fall off the lift, but the moment I lost my balance, I grabbed the snobby woman beside me. She struggled to release herself from my grasp, but like a drowning swimmer, I held on, refusing to let go.

The stranger and I tumbled off the lift and slid down the hill for at least a dozen feet. When we finally slid to a stop, the woman quickly untangled herself , dusted herself off and skied away, hoping, I suppose, that know one had seen the disgraceful debacle.

Two people had. Nan and Gail were standing about ten feet away, laughing their butts off. The remainder of the day deteriorated from that point. I tried my best, but I could not get the hang of free falling down a mountain on a pair of unwieldy fiberglass slats. By noon, I was bruised, exhausted and completely humiliated.

Gail, on the other hand, was a natural athlete. She skied to the bottom of the mountain, never falling. I should have been so lucky. I made it to the bottom of the mountain, but mostly on my face. When I finally reached the lodge at the base of the mountain, I found Nan and Gail waiting for me.

“You’re a real piece of work,” Gail said. “I don’t even know how to describe how much you embarrassed us, or even what to call you.”

“Super Klutz,” Nan said, laughing. “When it comes to skiing, you just suck.”

Like the mountainside, the day continued downward from that point. Feeling like a complete fool, I followed the two laughing females up the mountain again, dismounting with much the same results as before.

Next time down, I pulled off my skis and went to the bar in the lodge. There I waited until five when Nan and Gail tapped on the picture window to indicate they were ready to go back to the condo. As I plodded to the orange Saab, I was looking forward to a peaceful evening. My humiliation had only just begun.

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Ski Trip From Hell - part 2

I had the brakes nailed to the floorboard but the bright orange Saab slowed not a mile-per-hour. The pickup truck in front of us had stopped for a red light, a naked engine block in its truck bed to supply rear-end ballast on the icy roads. The four of us had an eternity to brace ourselves for the ensuing impact. It seemed like forever as we finally experienced the sickening thud that followed.

The very low speed impact had no effect on us physically, or on the truck that we hit. It did peel the hood back on the Saab and bend the radiator backwards. The Texas farmer just smiled and shook his head when we offered to call the police, or at least exchange phone numbers.

“You hit that old engine block. You did not touch my truck. You don’t owe me nothing and it was your fault, so you’ll have to pay for the damages on that orange whats-it of yours. I don’t see any reason to call the police.”

Neither did I. We quickly decided there was no mechanical, only structural damage to the car and continued the final two-hundred-fifty miles to the Red River Ski Resort.

The remainder of the trip went without incident but it was late afternoon when we reached Red River – not enough time to ski so we got the keys to our condo instead and then stopped at a ski shop to rent boots, skis, etc. It was dark when we pulled into the front of the little condo, Mick frowning and less than a happy camper.

“This condo is nice, and at least we can eat dinner at a nice restaurant and catch up on a little nightlife.”

Mick’s frown and silence had accompanied us practically since leaving Dalhart. “I don’t know about dinner,” he said. “I’m feeling a little sick.”

“Don’t be that way, Mick,” I said. “I did the best I could.”

Mick was glancing around for a bathroom, his right hand shaking in time with his head. His other hand was at his mouth. “It’s not you,” he said. “I’m sick and think I’m gonna puke.”

CONTINUED TOMORROW

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