I looked at Joe.
He winked at me. “This is Mr. Finley from England.”
“Welcome. Are you thinking of buying those or marrying them?”
“Cheeky sort of girl, isn’t she?”
Joe dimpled. “Part of her charm.”
Mr. Finley pierced me with his gaze. “Then it must be in the eye of the beholder.”
Something about him made me want to stick my tongue out, but I didn’t because I’d figured out who he was. “You come in every day to look at these, don’t you?” He was Grandmother’s customer.
Mr. Finley sighed as he replaced them. “I do.”
“Why don’t you just buy them?”
“I might.”
“Today?”
“I don’t think so. No. A purchase like this would be an extravagant luxury not to be indulged in with someone who is merely selling ski equipment. Skis like these must be purchased from someone who appreciates them as the fine work of a master craftsman.”
“My grandmother will be here on Monday.”
“Ah. Just so.” He reached out to shake Joe’s hand and nodded at me. “Well, goodbye then.” He walked out of the store. The door closed behind him with a tinkle.
I turned to Joe. “How about you? Still interested in mere ski equipment?”
“Do you have something in neon green?”
“We just might. I don’t suppose you’re a groomed trail type of skier?”
“Why ski someone else’s trail when you can make your own?”
“Just wanted to be sure. The first decision to make is whether you want a metal edge. It makes skis better for turning, but it also makes them harder for touring.”
“So it’s either one or the other? Turning or touring?”
“You could buy partial. Almost have the best of both.”
“Good. That’s what I’ll take.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a pair of waxless, would you?”
“And take all the fun out of skiing? Nope.”
“But do you plan to be truly faithful about waxing?”
He held two fingers up in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
“Because if you are, then you’d get better performance out of a sintered base ski. But if you aren’t, then your skis will just collect a bunch of dirt and pine pitch and they’ll end up being slower. Your choice. But you better not lie to yourself about how often you’re willing to wax.”
“Let me think about it.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“Two twenty.”
“How tall are you?”
“Six feet.”
“And how much control do you want to have?”
“I’m totally out of control.”
I couldn’t help myself from smiling, but I tried very hard not to laugh. “Yes, I know. But because you’re a novice, I’d recommend a wider ski. It’s more stable. It would give you more control than a narrower one.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Listen, are you serious about buying or are you just here to torment me?”
“Both. Seeing you six days a week isn’t enough.”
I felt my cheeks warm. I was being ridiculous. He was only flirting. “Then what about sidecut?”
“Who what?”
“The difference in the width of the ski, taken in three measurements.” I pointed at the Rossis as an example, starting at the bottom. “At the tail, the waist, and the shovel.”
“You’re the expert. What would you recommend?”
“The more sidecut, the easier it is to turn. The less a ski is sidecut, the easier it is to ski straight. And fast.”
“Can’t I have it all?”
“In cross-country skiing? No. Sacrifices must be made.”
“Well, that settles it. I have no idea what I want.”
“Why don’t you just rent a pair? Or two or three. Then you can try all the options and decide for yourself.”
“You guys do rentals?”
“No.”
“Bummer. Can I look at boots?”
“Sure.” I turned away from the racks of skis and started toward the boots. “But there’s no real standard for bindings, so you’ll have to get both at the same time.”
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
I walked him over to the display wall of boots. “We don’t appear to have any in neon green, but I can check in the back.”
“No need. What am I supposed to look for?”
“Well…there are control issues.” I took a black boot from the display. “Cross-country boots are connected to the ski only at the toe. The wider the connection point, the more control you’ll have over your ski.”
“So why would anyone buy one of these?” He picked up a boot with a narrow connection point.
“For racing. Which you don’t want to do.”
“I don’t?”
“No. You’re tall. If you fell at high speed, you’d break your head.” Not, of course, that it would make any difference to me.
“Then I could be the Headless Skier of Manitou. I could haunt my own house.”
I decided to just ignore him. I took the boot from his hand, returned it to the shelf, and picked up a different one. “You’ll want to check the torsion of the boot.” I handed it to him.
He took it by the toe and the heel and twisted. Or tried to.
“A rigid boot will also give you more control.”
“Then I’ll try it.”
“What size?”
“Twelve.” He sat down on the bench and slid his feet out of their Birkenstocks. “Socks?”
“Under the bench.” We kept a basket filled with them. No one in Manitou wore socks in the summer.
He tried them on. Stood up. Walked a few paces. “I don’t know.” He turned toward the display and grabbed another boot. Twisted. “How about this one? It’s lightweight.”
“It’s injection molded, but it’s not so good with metal edges. If you decide you want metal in your edges, try one of these.” I took a box from the shelf and opened it. Handed him a stitch-soled purple-and-black boot.
He sat back down and tried it on. Stood. Walked a few steps. Then paced the length of the store. Came back. “These feel great.”
“You’ll want them to be a little big.”
“They are. But not too big. I’ll take them.”
Once he’d taken them off, I took the box up to the counter. “Did you want the bindings now?”
“Might as well.”
I went behind the counter and into the storeroom. I grabbed several bindings and walked back to Joe. “You’ll have to make a choice. You’ll definitely want a reinforced brace like this.” I held one of the selections up. “But if you’ll be doing a lot of off-trail exploring, then you’ll probably want a riveted brace so you won’t get stuck in the back country with a broken binding. It’s an extra level of safety.”
“Where do you ski?”
“Pardon me?”
“When you ski, do you ski trails or do you explore?”
“Grandmother and I skied trails. That we made up. Mostly.”
He pushed the riveted brace bindings toward the box. “Then I’ll take these.”
“Not, of course, that I’ve skied in the last ten years. Or that I ever will again.” Although if I ever did, it would be nice to do it with someone like Joe.
He just smiled. “You never know. So, what else do I need?”
“Besides skis? How about poles? Over there.” I pointed toward a stand in the corner of the store.
He strode over and grabbed a set. “How about these?”
I shrugged. “Aluminum? They’re sexy, but the fiberglass have better shock absorption.”
While he looked at the poles, I gave directions to the Barr Trail to a different customer. “Turn left on Ruxton, drive past the Cog Railway. Take a right past the old steam plant. Park at the top of the hill in the gravel lot. They’ll tow you if you park at the railway station.” I’ve often thought
about just posting the directions on the door to the store. And highlighting the part about being towed.
Eventually Joe came back with a set of poles in hand.
“Ah. The telescoping, jam-them-together-and-use-as-an-avalanche-probe poles. They’re our best sellers.”
“Really?”
“Psychology. No one wants to be in an avalanche, but everyone wants to imagine they’re the kind of person who can ski into places where they could start one.”
“Are you calling me a wannabe?”
“Are you?”
“No. I’m an am one.”
I just looked at him.
“I am. You should ski downhill with me.”
“No, thanks. Especially not now, Mr. Am One. I’d like to remain among the living for a couple more years.”
“But I’ve got the poles. Even if I did start an avalanche, I could pull you out.”
“Do you have a beacon? Or a shovel?”
“No.”
“Then even if you did pull me out, I’d probably end up dying before you could ski for help.”
“Nothing in life is safe. Living isn’t safe. The risk is one hundred percent. We all die in the end.”
“I’d at least like to arrive at death’s door…”
“Safely?” His dimples flashed. Disappeared. Flashed again. He was trying really hard not to laugh.
I scowled at him. “How did you want to pay for these?”
“You kill me. You really do.”
“Did you come in here just to flirt with me?”
Joe reached behind his back and brought his wallet out. Flipping it open, he pulled out a credit card and held it up like a badge. “And to buy boots and poles.”
“I’m not interested.”
“In what?”
I took the credit card from him and set it on the counter between us. “Listen to me. I’m only saying this one time. Leave me alone. I’m not interested. In anyone.”
“I’m not just anyone. Come on, Jackie. It’s me, Joe!”
“I’m not interested in you, Joe.”
“Not even a little bit? Give a guy a break.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you blushing?”
“I’m not.” I could feel my cheeks flush from pink to red before I finished speaking. I took his credit card and ran up the boots, poles, and bindings before I could make myself look even more foolish.
I handed the card to Joe. He took it from me, put it back in his wallet, grabbed the bags, and turned to go. But then he stopped. “You know, you’re making this much more difficult than it has to be.”
“You have no idea how difficult it already is.”
Because if I really, truly weren’t interested in Joe, then why was my heart racing? Why couldn’t I seem to catch my breath whenever I looked into his eyes? Why did my fingers itch to reach up and run furrows through his wavy hair?
After closing up the shop in the evening, I walked back through town, passing an odd mix of architecture. Buildings styled from logs and stucco were suggestive of the Southwest. There were buildings sided with varnished planks, imitating an Alpine look, and hotels topped with onion domes. Looking at them individually, you could imagine yourself to be almost anywhere, but taken as a collective whole, you could only be in Manitou Springs.
Grandmother wasn’t at home when I arrived.
I made enough dinner for two, assuming she would return at any moment. But by the time I’d finished my dinner, she still hadn’t come. I put away the leftovers, washed the dishes, and then dried them, all the while contemplating calling Adele, Betty, and Thelma. I had to weigh the pros and the cons. I might find out where she was, but I might also cause needless worry. A sleepless night. Maybe even a heart attack. You never knew, at their age.
Deciding finally to make the calls, I had begun walking to the living room to the phone when I heard footsteps on the porch.
I pivoted and half-ran, half-walked to the back door. I pulled it open just as Grandmother put her hand out toward the knob. “Where have you been?”
She blinked and put a hand to her heart. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.” I let go of the door, took hold of her arm, led her over to the table, and pulled a chair out for her.
“Thanks.” She bent over and then lifted a foot up onto her knee. Untying the laces, she slid the shoe off and put it down. “I haven’t walked so far in…” She was smiling as she looked up toward the ceiling, contemplating just how long it had been. “Must have been years.”
“You were out walking? By yourself? You could have broken your hip again!”
“Hmm?”
“You were all by yourself?”
“Of course not.”
“Then with whom?”
“With Oliver. We walked the springs.”
“You walked through town?”
“No. We each took a cup along and we toured the springs.”
Springs. The nine springs from which Manitou derives its name. From Iron Springs, up by the Cog Railway, to Seven Minute Springs down by Memorial Park. “That’s over three miles.”
“Is it? It didn’t seem like it. They all taste different. Did you know that?” She put her foot down. She bent to pick up her other one, placed it on her knee, and took off her other shoe.
“Who is Oliver?”
“Oliver? You’ve never met him?” She bent to return her shoe to the floor. Straightened. “But he said he met you just this morning.”
“You mean that ill-tempered Englishman?”
“He has a lovely personality.”
“It didn’t seem like it to me.”
“You’ve never been good at first impressions yourself. So you, of all people, ought to be a little more understanding.”
“Do you know anything about him? Because he could be…anyone.”
“I know he likes to cross-country ski.” That was typical of Grandmother. She didn’t trust downhill skiers more than was necessary. It was a sport that was too flashy in her opinion, involving people of dubious character going too fast on skis that were too short. Cross-country skiing, on the other hand, involved work. And work was always good. Therefore, cross-country skiers were also good people.
“Oh. Well, then he’s golden! We might as well give him a halo.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic. I’m so hungry, I could eat just about anything you placed in front of me.”
That was as subtle as Grandmother ever gets. I rummaged for leftovers and heated them up. She ate them all.
Later in the evening, after Grandmother’s snores had begun rumbling through the upstairs hallway, I sat down at my computer.
I checked out several message boards and a few systems administrator support groups. There are a very few people in the world who actually read computer software and hardware manuals. As far as I could tell, they were all systems administrators. I sent e-mails of encouragement to the posters of the day’s worst horror stories.
Posted a blog.
Checked my e-mails. Received notification that my blog had received Readers Top Five status from the Weblog Review, based on the modifications I’d recently performed. Cool.
I hadn’t looked at my blog statistics for at least a couple months, so I logged back onto the blogging website and brought up the reports. I felt my jaw drop. The last time I’d looked, I’d averaged ten visitors each week. And none of them had been new visitors. For the past month, I’d averaged two hundred visitors a week. Most of them new.
Strange.
I’d noticed a few new people posting aside from the stalwart “justluvmyjob” and “philosophie.” I thought they’d just been surfing by. Guess my modifications had been worth a sleepless night. Nothing else could explain the jump in traffic.
I logged out. Returned to my e-mail program and deleted the message.
Moved on to my next e-mail.
THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG
Mr. Please Deflate My Head
Have you
ever met anyone who assumes he can do anything? Assumes that just because he’s good at one thing, he’s good at everything else? There’s nothing about John Smith that bothers me more than this. What kind of parents did he have that made him so confident? The kind who did backflips whenever he accomplished the smallest little thing? The kind who went to every single sports event he ever had? Parents like those are just plain reckless. Don’t they know they’re creating monsters the rest of us will have to deal with?
Posted on August 5 in The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink
Comments
God save us all from Supermen!
Posted by: wurkerB | August 5 at 10:14 PM
If we only had the hindsight to have some foresight.
Posted by: philosophie | August 5 at 10:30 PM
Is John Smith my boss? Because they sound a lot alike!
Posted by: justluvmyjob | August 5 at 10:44 PM
My condolences.
Posted by: The Cubicle Next Door (TCND) | August 5 at 11:04 PM
Twelve
I picked Joe up at 7:45 the next morning, Sunday, with some misgivings. He’d called me on my fascination with him. But while I could admit to myself I had one, it didn’t mean I had to act on it.
We ate breakfast at the same Waffle House before heading up the interstate. Ordered the same meal, joked with the same waitresses.
We tried a church someone else in the department had recommended. By the time the service was over, we were just as satisfied with the experience as we’d been the Sunday before.
“Two down. Tons left to go.”
“Do you want me to start marking up the phone book?”
Joe winked at me. “No. Next week’s church will be the one. I can feel it.”
Yeah. Just like I could feel winter coming.
The next morning Joe was hard at work by the time I walked into my cubicle. According to my nose, he’d already gotten himself a cup of coffee.
I peeked around the wall.
He was standing, hands on his hips, glaring at piles of paper stacked neatly across his desk. As I watched, he grabbed two stacks and switched the order. Stared at them again.
The Cubicle Next Door Page 9
