For a host of what I believe are largely meteorological
reasons, the huge mountain resort typically receives abundant snowfalls as a
result of moisture-packed Pacific storms which routinely wallop the area in a
normal winter cycle. As a matter-of-fact, the average snowfall at Mammoth is
over 200” a year, but the two epic seasons I called the resort home (’81 and
’82), snowfall totals exceed 500” in each of the two years. No…that’s not a
misprint.
It wasn’t hard to distinguish yourself as a reliable
worker in the California ski culture of the early 1980s…especially if you were
a drug-free, tee-toddling choir boy who went to bed most nights by 10pm while
most of your peers were carousing the bars down in the Village. In my
first month at Mammoth my supervisor asked me if I’d mind coming in early at
about 6:30am, and I remember telling him I’d be happy to be there at 5:30am if that’s what he
wanted. As you might imagine, it’s not easy finding early twenty-something cats
living the ski-bum life to get up at the crack of dawn to come to work so I was distinguishing myself as the quintessential
butt-kisser early on.
It turned out my boss
was glad to have me there for the early rush
each morning, but he was lamenting one day that my 8
hours were up before the inevitable
slam of afternoon rental returns. I
suggested that I’d work a split shift (see butt kissing), starting at 6 and working until about 10…and then returning
sometime in the afternoon and working from about 2pm to 6pm. Each forenoon I’d
clock out about 10, hitchhike or run the four miles down to the Village (it was
at about 7,000 feet) to work out at the Body Shoppe Gym…and then thumb back up
the mountain where I’d usually work on my tan on the sundeck overlooking the hill
with a Molson Golden while listening to some soft rock on my stereo Hi-Fi
headphones.
Aside from being an instructor or maybe on ski patrol, it
was tough to get a better gig in the
hierarchical ski culture than working in the
Main Lodge Ski Repair Shop. Even the pompous poster-boy (and girl) ski
instructors in their navy and dark red sweaters needed their skis tuned and
waxed, so to say I was living the good life would be an understatement.
Early on Sunday morning after making my way over to the
Main Lodge, I was sharpening the edges on a pair of demo giant slalom rental
skis on the workbench in the sunrise light from north window at the back of the
old shop. The mountain had received about a foot of snow the night before, and
amidst sips of fresh black coffee, some old-school country music playing on
the radio and the beautiful scene out the window, it was a clearly the type of
epic mountain morning that made life in the Sierras pure heaven. Suddenly, the
morning meditation was interrupted by the unusual sound of the back door
opening (nobody else typically arrived for about an hour).
I looked up and to my surprise one of the Repair Shop
veterans…a guy named Rick* but that we all called Slick*, strolled in wearing a tweed sports jacket, jeans
and cowboy boots. I remember thinking he looked atypically overdressed for 0-600
on a Sunday, and blurted out something like “you’re looking awfully sharp for
early on a Sunday.”
“Well…I haven’t been home yet” he replied.
“What do you mean you haven’t been home yet” I answered.
“I mean we went out last night and I haven’t been home yet” he
explained.
Not even familiar with the concept, I again asked “you mean to tell me
you went out on a Saturday night, stayed up all night…and now you’re coming in
straight to work?”
“Yep” he said… “it was a one gram night.”
“One gram of what?” I said.
He looked at me quizzically and stated “cocaine.”
I remember my heart sinking. How could this guy that I looked up to do
drugs? He was always so nice, funny, surrounded by women…and now he’s telling
me he does cocaine?
“You’ve had cocaine haven’t you?” he asked.
“Nope…never” I responded.
“Well...” he said… “we’ll fix that sh*t right now.”
He reached into his sports coat pocket and pulled out a little mirror
and what looked like a little vile. It’s odd, but even after more than thirty
years I remember that little glass tube had a distinct black top. As he put down
the mirror, tapped out a little coke and formed up a small line with razor
blade, I remember rationalizing that I was 20 years old, that everyone was
doing it, and that it was time to see what all the fuss was about.
As a leaned over with a crisp rolled-up one dollar bill at my nostril…I
remember Slick saying the following…
“Just lean over, put the bill up nose…hold your other nostril closed with
your finger tip and inhale the line.”
I was just about to do as instructed…and then he added this…
“Go ahead…you won’t be sorry. I remember the first time I tried it…and I
knew instantly was better than sex.”
I remember hearing that more distinctly than just about anything in my
entire life.
“What did you just say?” I asked.
“It’s better than sex” he repeated confidently.
“Do you mean that?” I asked.
“Yep…without question.”
Well…it’s not like that should have mattered to me at the time. As best
I can recall it’s not like I had anything other than expectation to contrast it
to, but his comparison immediately resonated with me. If that was indeed true…it
would certainly explain why so many good people had their lives screwed up by an
unshakeable addiction to that little white powder.
So…I put down the bill….pushed back from the workbench…and decided not
to try test Slick’s comparison. Oddly, I’ve never been even tempted since.
It’s funny…I still remember all those ski shop cats now…even
after some thirty years. Billy Glenn, Jimmy Cefalo,
Glen Miyatta, Dave Maughn, Donnie Riederson, Steve, Tim, Spike, Pam, Donna, Brett…my lord we were all
so cool. At least that’s the way it was in all our heads…and over a couple of
blended margaritas at the end of a long double-shift ski day in paradise…what
else really matters.
Those of us in the IBEW family lost another
true giant this passed Wednesday, and the pain associated with such a passing
was accentuated by the fact that this genuine legend was just too young to go.
It was yet another reminder of the fragility of life, and another vivid
signpost screaming the need for all of us to follow his lead by making the most
of our time here on this earth.
It’s Friday, so if you can, try to do
something meaningful with the people that matter most to you. Much of what
stresses us out the most is not really all that important…and at the end of the
line, it’s going to seem even less so.
Have a great weekend...and start with a little music.
*Name changed
Sorry for all the misspellings, terrible grammar and abysmally poor writing.
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