I Wasn't Talking to You
One man's tale of multiple partners.
By HAROLD MACY

Besides the pleasurable and obvious, there are a few situations where physical intimacy is brought about by circumstance or inescapable proximity. Ballroom dancing, tandem bicycling, bobsled racing, elevators, or bus shelters in the rain come to mind. However none of these comes close to the attachment forced by an alpine chairlift.

For 20 years the mile-high summit of our local resort was accessed by a fixed-grip double chair. Slower than the metabolism of hibernating marmots snoring below the snowpack, Old Blue would eventually deposit us, two-by-two, at the peak.

Once committed, two skiers were joined as inextricably as Siamese twins. Usually this led to pleasant chatter about snow conditions, the drive up the then unpaved and potholed logging road, the day's weather, or other chit-chat. There were a few times, however, when the elapsed 12 minutes seemed an eternity.

One fine winter day I shuffled with the rest of the lemmings to the upload station. A storm cycle had blown through and blessed us with fresh sparkling snow, beckoning for the caress of my skis. Keeping my eye on the chair swinging around the bullwheel, I thought little about my companion.

We plonked down on the vinyl seats and dropped the safety bar. Once clear of the station, the fellow next to me said, "What run ya' wanna do this time?" in a familiar and jocular tone.

"Oh, I thought I'd try..." I stopped mid-sentence, silenced by the strange glare from my new neighbor.

"I wasn't talking to you!" He shouted and turned away. Only two of us on the chair and he wasn't talking to me?

"Let's do Powder Face!" he continued.

I opened my yap to respond, but a tingly feeling crept up my spine that had nothing to with the wind humming over the cable. I kept quiet.

"You can't ski that run." "Wanna bet?" "You're too chicken." "No way, I'll show you how good I am." The conversation escalated between the body adjacent to me and whomever else he brought on the double chair.

I slowly brought my poles across my lap, points towards the pantheon of rascals in what might be a futile defense. He, or rather they, were getting quite worked up now as we crested the rock knob signaling the halfway mark. Feigning great interest in the skiers carving the fall line below the chair, I kept my peripheral vision on Comrade Goofy and gauged the drop in case I had to eject quickly. Luckily it was a big-snow year and my chances of landing safely seemed immeasurably greater than surviving the next six minutes.

Then the cable stopped. As the fickle finger of fate would have it, some neophyte must've crashed at the load or unload. The chair swung to and fro in mechanical impatience. The pause seemed too much for my new buddies to take.

"Now whaddja do?" "I never did nothing!" "You promised to be good today!" "What are you bitching about, I bought the lift ticket." "Yeah, but you took the money from my jacket!" "Well, you can just have your damned jacket." The body flailed about trying to remove the bulky coat within the confines of the chair's steel clutches. Fortunately, the lift jerked into motion again and he/they calmed down.

In a few moments we unloaded and I nearly fell to the snow in tearful gratitude. Never had the peak looked like such a refuge. I thrust my hands through my pole straps and pushed off as fast as I could without looking back for fear of what might follow. Headless horseman's skull hurtling toward fleeing Ichabod.

About an hour later I saw him tearing down a run, knees locked, arms straight out to the side, body at a perfectly rigid 90 degrees to the slope, jacket flapping like duck wings. A cruciform scarecrow on skis.

At the end of the day I asked Ali, my friend on ski patrol, if she had anyone on a stretcher or spine-board. Her negative answer just proved the existence of God's Gore-Tex-gloved guardian snow angels working overtime on the halt and lame.


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