Photo:
Stephen Matera

The Doppelmayr Doppelganger
By JOSH ROBBINS

The lift remains closed due to repair, but oddly the bullwheel begins rotating as I stand in the lift maze, alone. I'm cranky. Haven't seen my bartender girlfriend, Evangelina, in three nights. In a ski town this small, I probably have an alter ego who's in the same situation, only in reverse.

All I feel is the cold. My hands are balled up inside my gloves, so I clap out some Bonham to get the blood flowing. Feeling my fingers again, I drum some Neil Peart, but in attempting that complexity I overcook it and nearly lose my thumbs.

A patroller exits the lift shack, bragging about his latest conquest to a storm-faced liftie. "Hey," he calls over to me. "Lift won't open for another hour, but you can ride up on recon."

I herringbone to the platform. The liftie glowers, like he has a beef with me for some reason, but he bumps the chair for us helpfully.

The old double creaks, taking its first weight of the morning. The ground falls away, the cable buzzing softly, and we ascend into the low clouds. "Got lucky last night, huh?" I offer.

The patroller smirks. "Yup." Then his eyes narrow in sudden recognition. Mine do the same. "Hey," he yells, "you're that pissed-off dude who was calling for Evvie last week!" We reach across, in perfect symmetry, to push each other off the chairlift.

We struggle, holding each other over space by the scruffs of our stormhoods, looking at the ground way, way down there, when it dawns on me. In the last week I haven't made a single phone call to anyone. I desperately point this out, gasping for air, and we let each other go.

"Who then?" The patroller mutters. His walkie-talkie crackles.

"Hey!" the liftie says through the radio, suddenly cheery. "Check your pocket."

The patroller does and fishes out a cotter pin still shiny with grease. He stares at it, dumbly, and presses transmit.

"This better not be the retainer clip we replaced this morning on Tower 8."

"Sure is!" the voice crackles back. "Cable'll come off there, bouncing both your asses into orbit. That's for messing with my old lady."

I peer ahead at the steely shadow of the lift tower looming out of the fog, and can just make out the "8" on the number plate.


                                                                                        Next: number 2


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