Tate snorted derisively. “I’m hardly a superfan. Crater McMurphy and I have a bit of a past, that’s all.”
Now, that grabbed my attention. I never thought of Tate as the kind of guy who was bothered by people like Crater McMurphy. “Really?” I said after taking a sip of my coffee. “I’m intrigued. How do you know him?”
Tate paused a second before he answered my question, “We sort of worked together. It was a while back. It was before he started his entertainment franchise. Crater was known as Jonah McMurphy back then.”
“You’re kidding me,” I replied. I don’t know why I was surprised, I mean, what Tate said, tracked. I was pretty sure that Tate was implying that he and Crater had been in the same military branch. From what I remembered about Crater’s TV program, Crater McMurphy had served in some kind of special military operations branch overseas. That was where he first learned some of his survival skills as well as how to do the blood-chilling stunts that he performed on his programs. “So, what you are saying is, you know how to use a tree branch to repel off of a mountain while holding a baby goat.” I smiled at the thought of Tate repelling off a mountain—sweating and shirtless—with a baby goat clutched to his chest. Baby goats are adorable.
Tate didn’t laugh at my poor attempt at a joke, “What I’m saying is, people rarely change too much. Keep your eyes on him,” said Tate. “I’d hate to see anyone get hurt.”
“I will,” I replied. I was a bit shaken by Tate’s warning—not only about Crater McMurphy’s character but about Tate’s past. I swear, the man was like an onion, and I peeled him back layer by layer. I had no idea that Tate had a military past, and that’s often the kind of thing we look for on a prospective employee’s resume. I wondered why Tate hadn’t mentioned his military background before that day.
“I have Skye this weekend,” said Tate, abruptly changing the subject.
“You do?” Skye was a cute kid, and for some reason, she always wanted to visit with me during her stays with her dad. I didn’t mind spending time with Tate’s daughter. I just didn’t know why I appealed to her. I’m a single woman with no kids—I have no real experience with children other than the young fans who used to ask me for my autograph. I felt sure that Skye was too young to know about my former occupation.
“Yes, she will be here for the long weekend. Her mom is going somewhere with the current boyfriend and she doesn’t want to drag Skye along. Anyway, she bought Skye a skateboard,” said Tate. I noticed his brow crinkled and his shoulders slumped just a little as if he worried about her. “I’m not thrilled about it, but Skye is. She asked if you might be able to show her some moves. I told her I’d ask you—no obligation, obviously.”
“Sure. I haven’t had my board out in a while, but I could help Skye. It will be fun,” I replied. “Safety first. I’m guessing she already has a helmet and elbow pads?”
“She does. I told Shannon, her mom, that the skateboard was a no-go unless she bought her safety equipment. I am still not thrilled about my daughter on one of those things,” Tate admitted. “I’m not sure she’s old enough yet.”
“She’ll be fine, I’ll keep my eyes on her.” I tapped the bar. I needed to get back to work. “Thanks for the coffee and the chat. It’s like we have our own little coffee klatsch.” Tate raised an eyebrow at me. Oh, good grief, where do I come up with these things? Coffee klatsch? Ugh!
I stood up from my barstool, but as I prepared to walk away, something occurred to me. I asked, “Why did Skye think to ask me for help with the skateboard?”
“I guess she knows about your past career, and she thought you would be a good teacher. She’s a bright kid,” said Tate with a grin. Well, that was interesting. I wondered how an 8-year-old found out about my former career. Had her dad told her about me?
“Oh. Okay.” I waved casually, “Let me know when you want us to meet up. I’ll see you later.” I walked from Slopes and headed back to work. I still needed to finish checking in with the spa and the dining room. I needed to make sure that clean towels were delivered to the pool. It was promising to be a nice day, and I imagined our guests would enjoy the pool under the warm Colorado sunshine.
TWO
“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.” – Dr. Seuss
CRATER MCMURPHY ARRIVED at the resort at noon. The Chalet’s normal check-in is 1 p.m., so I had Esmeralda run to his room and check it one more time. I wanted to make sure everything was perfect before we handed the keycard over to the celebrity. I knew my behavior was obsessive, but I couldn’t risk anything going wrong. Bad reputation or not, we needed Crater McMurphy to enjoy his stay at our resort. A celebrity endorsement is always welcome at a place like the Chalet. I remember when Oprah talked about a certain resort in Arizona on her TV show. People couldn’t wait to visit the same resort that the celeb raved about. I’m not saying that a great review from a celebrity is more important than a review from a non-celebrity. I take all of our reviews seriously. The thing is, celebrities have a lot of influence and a bad review from a celeb can be detrimental to a place like the Chalet. I needed Crater McMurphy to enjoy his stay.
I walked to the reception desk to make sure everything was okay. “How was he?” I asked Don, one of our concierge/runners after I saw Crater grab his keycard and head straight to Slopes. Don knew that I meant Crater McMurphy. The entire staff knew the thrill-seeker arrived at the resort.
“He was friendly enough,” Don replied. “He wasn’t worried about the suite. He asked me where he could get a drink. I sent him over to Slopes.”
“Okay, good,” I replied. I was glad to hear that so far, Crater hadn’t caused a ruckus. I didn’t honestly expect the man to throw a tantrum the minute he arrived for check-in, but I felt a bit anxious. We expected several more guests to check in soon. We already had three guests staying and six more parties would arrive at the resort in the afternoon. The Chalet was completely booked for the holiday weekend. I needed to make sure all of our guests were happy.
“Let me know if you need any help with check-ins, Don; I have my walkie switched on,” I said motioning toward the walkie-talkie on my hip. Then I headed towards Slopes to make sure everything was okay there too. I might have been overly cautious, but Tate’s warning rang in my ears. Crater McMurphy can be trouble. People rarely change.
Zander, our young bartender was working at Slopes that day. Zander is a nice guy in his early twenties. He went to bartending college and has an impressive array of bartending skills even though the majority of our visitors ask for a Colorado craft beer in the afternoon. The guests tend to hold off on drinking the harder stuff and cocktails until after 5 p.m. When someone does order a specialty drink or fancy cocktail, Zander can put on a show. It’s fun to watch him. Zander showed off some of his moves when I approached the bar. It was a pity that I was the only one watching.
“How are things, Zander?” I casually asked as I stepped up to the bar. I noted that there were already six customers including Crater seated in the bar. It was just after 12 noon, and I anticipated that we would have a rush soon. Many times, people from other hotels in the village or people who are just checking out the mountains stop by Slopes for a drink or some nachos. Spontaneous visits are welcome of course because they are good for the bottom line. In return for their patronage, we Chalet employees do our best to make sure the visitors get top-of-the-line service.
“Things are good, Mandy,” said Zander with a boyish smile as he tossed a bottle of vodka from his left hand to his right, and upended it to pour a splash into a shot glass. Crater sat in front of Zander not paying attention to the show the young barman put on. He wasn’t watching Zander, but he was watching me. I saw the celeb’s eyes dart from the TV over the bar to one of the mirrors on the wall. I didn’t miss it when Crater caught my reflection in the mirror and gave it a discerning look. The man’s stare was so focused he might as well have been looking directly at me rather than at my reflec
tion. I felt a cool shiver run down my spine.
After a beat or two, Crater turned in his seat and looked at me. He stared at me the way I look at the last donut in the box; I don’t need it, but I still think I want it. I have to admit, I don’t think I’m much to look at when I’m in my resort get-up. My usual work outfit is a knee-length brown skirt and matching jacket over a cream-colored blouse—very drab and business-like. It’s not a pretty uniform, but it is practical and stain-resistant.
Despite my boring suit, I can be hard to miss. I’m tall for a woman—five-foot-ten—and I have long red hair that I usually wear tied in a bun at the back of my head when I am at work. I avoid wearing high heels or too much makeup on the job. Outside of work, I let my long hair fly free and I live in jeans and t-shirts.
Similarly, it would be hard not to notice Crater McMurphy. He was an imposing figure. Even while seated, I could tell Crater was over six feet tall—probably six-three or six-four. His dark hair was speckled with gray and was cropped close to his skull; he had that obvious five o’clock shadow that some celebrities seem to rock every day. I wonder if they have some special sort of trimmer to give them that perfectly roguish look. Crater’s dark features made him look a bit sinister, but also attractive. I noticed Crater was dressed sporty and true to his outdoorsy reputation. He wore tan cargo shorts, hiking shoes, and a tight-fitting blue and white baseball-style t-shirt that showed off the definition of his muscular arms, shoulders, and chest. My somewhat dowdy uniform did not seem to dissuade Crater from unapologetically raking his eyes slowly up and down my body a second time before he spoke to me.
“You’re Mandy Swift, aren’t you?” asked Crater McMurphy in a slight accent that I couldn’t quite identify. His question sounded more like a proclamation than an inquiry.
“Yes,” I replied with an anxious wobble in my voice. I felt my face grow a bit warm at his recognition.
“And you work here?” he asked, his voice rising a bit in disbelief.
“I do,” I replied, “I’m one of the managers of The Chalet, Mister McMurphy. Please, if you have any questions or need any assistance during your stay, don’t hesitate to ask me or any of the staff.”
“I won’t hesitate at all, love,” he replied, as he grasped his drink, and took a sip. I noticed the familiar indentation of a missing ring on his left third finger. He winked at me cheekily from slightly hooded charcoal eyes.
“Actually,” he said, “I understand an old friend of mine works here.”
“Oh?” I asked. It wasn’t my business to mention Tate, and I wasn’t about to. I got the feeling earlier that morning that Tate would rather avoid Crater McMurphy, and I would honor Tate’s wishes the best I could within reason.
“Tate Svenson,” said Crater. I wondered how he became aware that Tate worked for the resort, I doubted that Tate would have mentioned it to Crater.
“Yes, Tate is the bar manager here,” I replied hoping I hadn’t betrayed my friend.
“Yeah, I hope I’ll see him during my stay. It would be good to catch up. As a matter of fact, a few of our old friends will be around later, it’s sort of a reunion. It would be great if Tate could join us.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” I replied in surprise. As far as I knew, Mr. McMurphy was a single booking. His friends must be staying at another hotel.
“Yeah, it’s a last-minute thing. It will be good to see if old Tater can join us.”
I didn’t reply to the comment, but I doubted that Tate would find time to spend with Crater. Given what Tate told me about the man, it would hard to imagine them reuniting. The fact that Tate’s daughter would be spending the weekend with him, made me doubt Tate would spend any time with Crater McMurphy.
“Have a pleasant stay,” I nodded as I turned to leave. Before I could make my exit, Crater spoke again.
“That injury did you in, did it?” he asked in a voice that showed no obvious judgment but it still rattled me a bit. It seemed like Crater McMurphy knew how to get under a person’s skin without even trying.
I turned to face the man. “I retired three years ago.”
“That’s too bad. Still young, very young.” His eyes raked over me another time. “Do you still ride?” Crater asked. I didn’t like the mixed tones of pity and salaciousness that I detected in his voice. A warm smile settled on his face. His impossibly dark eyes penetrated my flesh like lasers.
“I do. I just don’t compete anymore,” I responded to Crater’s questions regarding my former career as a snowboarder.
Despite my current career in hospitality, I am recognized by guests on occasion. I have learned to handle the questions about my past with aplomb, but for some reason, the way Crater McMurphy spoke to me and looked at me, I felt diminished in some way. I know that some former athletes have had the good fortune of cashing in on their fame. Some get gigs as show hosts, sports commentators, or even spokespersons for different consumer goods, but that didn’t exactly happen to me. During my short snowboarding career, I attended college full-time and only competed in the sport on a limited circuit. When I graduated with my degree in business, I entered the sport on a wider circuit. I still hadn’t reached the level of fame others in my sport had when my knee was torn apart. Although the surgeons were able to put me back together, I couldn’t compete at the same level as my contemporaries. I retired at the age of 25. Offers for a lucrative spinoff career didn’t come to me. I felt fortunate, however, when the owners of Silver Powder offered me the position of Chalet Manager. It is an interesting job and in winter, I get to snowboard during my time off.
“It’s just too bad it’s the off-season. I ride a bit myself. I imagine you could show me a thing or too off-piste,” Crater winked at me again. He set his now-empty glass down and flagged down Zander for a refill.
“Yeah, it’s too bad,” I replied, trying to hide my insincerity. “If you go into town, there are a lot of vendors who can help you sign up for activities. Or our concierge can help you sign-up if you prefer.”
“No, love,” Crater laughed at the suggestion, “that’s not for me. Those kinds of group activities don’t generally offer the kind of adrenaline that I need. Maybe I’ll see you for a drink when you’re off-duty and we can talk about it some more. You can fill me in on how you find your thrills these days.”
On the outside, I nodded noncommittally. On the inside, I cringed uncomfortably. I set a false smile on my lips “Have a nice stay,” I repeated and I walked quickly away from the bar.
When I reached the lobby, I let out a deep breath and then took another one. I tried to find my center, my peace. Crater McMurphy was certainly forward, but I guessed that was what made him appealing to all of his fans. He was a thrill-seeker with a big mouth, a flirtatious nature, and a lot of opinions.
IF YOU WILL ALLOW ME to take a moment for a bit of self-reflection and honesty, it rarely bothers me when people bring up my snowboarding career. It was an exciting time for me, and I imagine that because of the sport I got to see and do a lot of things that some people my age never had the chance to do. I’m grateful for the experience for the most part. The truth is, fame, even minimal fame, can be tricky for a young person, and having a good manager is important. That’s where I made my first mistake. Just before I graduated from college, I dropped my dad as my manager and found a new one on my own. I had a lot of lofty dreams for my snowboarding career. I wanted to compete internationally, I wanted to be ranked in my sport. Skeet Wilson said he could help me reach my goals.
I wanted to be the next big thing in snowboarding. I worked twice as hard to get where I wanted to be. Training to become a professional snowboarder was as much hard work as it was fun. I thought I worked hard, but when Skeet wasn’t on my case about not practicing enough at my sport, he rode my ass about my lifestyle. According to Skeet, I was always too fat or too thin. I wasn’t making enough public appearances or I spent too much time screwing around with the other snowboarders—my rivals. I never seemed to meet any of Skeet’s expectati
ons. In the three years that I was with my manager, I never reached the career goals I set for myself. I guess I thought Skeet was part of the problem. By the time I was 25—just three years into my pro career—I was already considered a bit of a has-been in the sport. I became disheartened; I was failing at the sport that I once loved. Skeet kept pushing me for a comeback. He started me on a new training program, on a new diet, on a new schedule. I trained harder than ever, and I grew miserable. I decided that I would fire Skeet at the end of the season and strike out on my own. Making the decision to fire him brought me more confidence. My competition results improved. I was ranked, not high, but ranked, and that mattered to me. I started to feel like my old self again. I thought I found the cure. I took chances, and they paid off. Then, I had my accident. I wiped out during a superpipe competition, and I said goodbye to my career. Skeet dropped me like a hot potato, and that was it for me. My snowboarding ended. As Emily Dickinson once said, “Fame is a fickle food.” Many of the people who once surrounded me disappeared from my life, and I never felt more alone. No, that’s not true. I felt as alone as I had the day that I realized I lost my best friend, but we’ll get to that later.
I guess it’s safe to say I feel lucky to have my job at the Chalet. I enjoy my job, it’s just not what I had imagined I would be doing with my life. I thought that I would be competing in my thirties. I never imagined I would give everything up so young. I guess the takeaway is that I have a good job, nice friends, and a place to call home. Do I really need anything more than that?
Off Season Page 2
