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Photo:
Stephen Matera |
The Pylon High Club
By KURT VON LIEBEWITZ
I don't get on chairlifts looking for love. Darren, however, sees the rides as extensions of the bar: another way to turn on the charm in his endless quest to get laid more than anyone else. To his credit, he's pretty good. He plays the old-school ratios game of crappy lines and cheesy moves. It's all about the numbers to Darren; the more attempts, the greater the chance of finding a girl who can't get away. Thus Darren likes chairlifts. His targets have nowhere to go.
"Mate! Mate! Look! Ski instructor, twelve o'clock," he hissed frantically. It was mid-morning and we were in the lift-queue surrounded by tourists. Darren had that familiar tone in his voice.
I saw the shock of blonde hair swinging against a red Swiss Ski School jacket. The poor girl was struggling with a stubborn child. "Come on, let's get the lift with her," he beckoned, barging his way past a surprised German family. I followed sheepishly, making apologetic gestures to the Germans.
Darren sat down, the child between him and the instructor. I sat down beside Darren.
What followed was horribly painful. Darren started with the "So, how do I book you for a lesson?" question. It was swiftly followed by the "Do you wear red underwear that matches your uniform?" come-on. He was getting nowhere yet he blundered onward with the "Let me guess which perfume you're wearing" game, leaning unscrupulously across the pupil.
I felt genuine pain for the unfortunate, trapped victim. He's never forgiven me for what happened next. I was only trying to throw her a line, a way out.
"Do you fancy going for a drink with me sometime?" I asked, leaning forward. She had a panicked look in her eyes but realized what I was doing and nodded briefly, then looked away.
Turned out she was quite the girl for me. We're still together, years later. Love on a chairlift, it sounds romantic. I just try to forget Darren's involvement.
Next: number 3
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