A Girl Named Maria

There were no lift lines – it was simply too cold out for most people. Too cold to even think about getting out of a warm bed to go out and ski, especially when the wind was howling and a new storm was barreling in, especially when that bed was so nice and warm and your thigh muscles were still burning from skiing the day before.

But even so, when all was said and done, there were still a few good reasons to go out on such a day. No lift lines meant no crowds on the slopes. No crowds on the slopes meant the snow conditions might be pristine. Only then, the man knew, when just a few die-hard skiers are out, can you take quiet, solitary meditations down untracked runs, your body lofted along on a magic carpet of downy snow – and perhaps most important of all, looking out over some of the most majestic scenery on earth with nothing but your own beating heart for company.

So, yes, there were no lift lines, and the man skated onto the boarding ramp of the high-speed quad by himself. The lift attendant, a kid perhaps twenty years old and still standing in the foothills of his life, looked at the man like he was crazy, because only the lonely ski when it's twenty below up top – and the winds are gusting to forty-five in the trees. Still, the kid was envious, if only because he too wanted to be up on the mountain making "first tracks", and not down here at the bottom of the mountain standing around with half-frozen feet herding three skiers every fifteen minutes onto "his" chairlift.

The next chair swung around into position and the man plopped down onto the snow-crusted black vinyl slab some called a seat. He scrunched his butt around on the slab, trying to get comfortable even though he knew it was impossible, then marveled that this miracle of modern engineering would carry him twenty-six hundred feet up the mountain in just a few – bitterly cold – minutes. And the lift was empty!

The lift attendant had barely croaked out "have a nice day" before the chair grabbed hold of the high-speed cable overhead and whisked the man onward and upward into the howling wind.

Snow bit into the small patch of bare skin under his goggles, skin not covered by his neoprene face mask, and as always, his nose began to run, forming a nice rim of frozen goo on his upper lip.

He pulled the overhead footrest down and lifted his skis onto the bare little perch, then reached down and unfastened a too-tight buckle on his right ski boot, right over his barking instep. He let his left leg dangle from the perch to increase circulation, and he swung that leg back and forth to help pump blood throughout his leg.

A vicious gust tore across the mountain and the chair swung from side to side, yet he barely noticed the upset. He had been skiing most every winter, for most of his life, for well over sixty years and counting, and such things barely registered anymore, though when he was riding up the mountain on lifts packed with teenaged girls from places like Houston or Ft Lauderdale, they always squealed when gusts like this caught them unawares, and he always smiled with them. He could almost remember what it had been like – once upon a time – to have those kinds of feelings. To have been so innocent. To have had no need to hide such feelings.

To cherish the isolation of cold winter mornings.

Another gust slammed into the lift and swung the chair violently, and the operator up top must have decided it was time to slow the rate of ascent a bit, and the man groaned as he heard the cable overhead slowing down. His five minute trip up the mountain was going to turn into a ten minute ride, and so he knew that when he reached the top of the mountain he was going to resemble a cherry popsicle: red all over and frozen to the core.

But the wind fell off a bit and the man thought his luck was holding when a moment later the chairlift sped up again; soon he could begin to see the top of the mountain through swirling mists of snow and scudding cloud, and he lifted the footrest back overhead and dangled his legs in earnest.

"Come on legs...you can do it!" he said to the wind.

When the unloading ramp drew near he casually raised the tips of his skis, then pushed himself off the chair when the tails of his skis slapped down on the snow covered ramp. He skated off to an area a few meters away and adjusted the buckles on his boots, got his poles strapped to his wrists, then, after flicking windblown snow off his goggles he pushed off and started down the mountain.

It was exhilarating. This first run of the day almost always was, no matter the conditions. Up on top of the mountain, there were almost solid walls of pine trees lining the trails, and these silent sentinels were sheltering him from the worst of the wind. After a quick series of tightly linked turns he stopped and took in the completely untracked carpet of powdery snow that lay ahead, and smiling, he pushed off again and centered himself over his skis, found his rhythm, began soaring down the mountain.

Deep powder was like flying, he'd always thought, a feeling as intense today as it had been the very first time he'd tried skiing, sometime back in the early sixties at Heavenly Valley, high above South Lake Tahoe. Some things never change, and he smiled at the thought. Some needs never change, too.

The trail wound down the mountain, crossed open meadows, slashed through narrow glades of trees, wandered past little cabins where you could stop for a hot chocolate, and today as always he felt some sort of special magic up here on the mountain. He was cold, he was uncomfortable, and he had never been happier in his life...

Too soon he was coasting through the runout at the bottom of the mountain, but he slid to a stop near the bottom, but still well away from the lifts at the very bottom. Instead of skiing down to the bottom of the run, he skied off the main trail into a group of very expensive looking houses, and he stopped and unbuckled his boots by the side of a gray four story house clad entirely in redwood, a crisp, contemporary house of glass, wood and steel with a weathered copper roof. This was his home, and he took off his skis by an alcove on the south side of the imposing structure. He entered a code on a numeric keypad by the side door and slipped quietly inside, put his skis and boots away in a special room dedicated to his ski gear, then took the elevator up to his bedroom on the fourth floor. He stripped off his one-piece Bogner ski suit, went into the bathroom and, setting the water temperature for the shower just so, stepped under the spray and let the warmth penetrate his body. He usually went off into a trance under the shower's spray, but today he soaped up and rinsed off rapidly, before getting out and drying off. He shaved, dressed, then went over to a huge expanse of glass that looked out over the mountain and, shaking his head, looked up at the storm now enveloping the mountain.

Yes, he told himself, a good day for one run. And it had been a good one.

He took the elevator down to his study, opened his Mac and looked over his morning emails, saw a new script had been sent along from his agent and frowned. He read the message, groaned when he saw who the director was but downloaded the file anyway, opened it, then quickly parsed the synopsis. Mildly interesting, he thought after reading the overview, but more than likely a box office flop in the making. Not sure he wanted to get involved with a questionable project like this one, he sent his agent a curt 'thanks but no thanks', then went back upstairs to finished getting dressed. With a heavy winter coat and snow boots on, he went to his bedside table and picked up the book he'd been reading the past couple of nights, then took the elevator back down to the ground floor. He grabbed a long scarf and went back out into the storm, and began the short walk down into town.

He remembered the town when it had been considered "new", that is, before it had been discovered by the Glitterati. It had been a mining town, or so the legend went, located high in the Rocky Mountains of central Colorado. Then, in the sixties, it had been discovered by a new breed of American adventurer, a group of kids who lived and loved somewhere along the ragged edge of human existence, lost under the south side of the sky. This new breed had, generally speaking, not a lot of cash on hand but more than a few had trust funds hidden away from prying eyes, and so they skied all winter long, at least when the weren't screwing their brains out. As it happened and in the beginning, they tended to migrate from one undiscovered ski area to the next for the five or so months of winter in the American Rockies, then they were off to Maui to get in some surfing over the summer months. These folk tended to smoke a lot, but by and large not tobacco, preferring instead something known locally as Maui-wowie, so after a few months surfing and toking it was back to Colorado or California, and usually the pot came back with them.

And so the worm turned. America went to Vietnam in a Purple Haze, before the great Manic Depression in Berkeley.

Still, in a great shift that happened over the next couple of years, the freaks settled down in the town, and by the late sixties had become home to these nomads. Not long after a few uncharacteristically adventurous singers and actors got into the groove of the place and bought houses there, then, as such things go, within a few more years more actors than singers moved to the town, and it became the epicenter of a new Rocky Mountain High. It was all over when even New York intellectuals began to pay attention to the place. Houses that had cost five hundred dollars in the early sixties were soon selling for a hundred thousand, then a million dollars.

By the late eighties, property values had grown to obscene levels and all the local color, all the hippies, simply vanished, but by then the town's new reputation was cemented into the global gestalt, and that was that. In the "new" town, money was everything. If you had it you were in. If you didn't have money? Well, you just didn't last long, did you, Slick.

Still, the man remembered coming to the town for the first time "back in the day", back when he was a struggling actor, back when hippies defined the times and tie-dyed aquarian motifs were everywhere you looked. Skiing was just a part of the kultur, too. In summer rugby was the thing, jeep-trails beckoned and rock climbing was a big deal, while eating pizza at a place called Pinocchio's was the hip thing to do when you were stoned out of your mind and the munchies hit somewhere 'round midnight. Rich kids and their parent's – almost always from Texas – grazed at a subterranean Mexican dive called Toros, while the locals passed time at a saloon called The Red Onion, and for most of the sixties that was about it. The town soon became known around the country as the new cool, the anti-Elvis. The town was Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, while Conway Twitty wasn't welcome.

It was too good to be true...too good to last, and even then the man understood it could never last. Even then money was just too powerful.

But now? Well, it was somewhat different, the man mused. Now you couldn't find a lot to build on in town for less than ten million bucks, and a decent lunch at any of the tonier restaurants cost well over fifty bucks a head. Hotel rooms in season? A thousand bucks for a tiny space you could barely turn around in. Valet parking was mandatory...because you could never find a parking place.

The town had become what it never should have become: a little slice of New York City right in the middle of the Rockies, and while the man disliked what had become of the place, he knew it had been inevitable way back when, because there was no place else like it. Knowing this, he had bought the lot for his house after his second movie. The film had made some serious money, and he loved the town. That was when? 1978? He had never regretted the decision, even though it had taken him several more movies to afford the house he built.

But that was then and this was now, and he'd starred in more than fifty movies to date and made more money every year than many countries. He had his house in BH, or Beverly Hills, a beach house north of Santa Barbara and a flat in London, but they couldn't compete with his favorite. His favorite house was in his favorite little town in all the world, and his friends knew it.

Still, very few beyond a select group knew he lived here, and fewer still knew that he did so for most of the year. That illusion provided a cherished cloak of anonymity over the years, at least while he was here, because only a few real estate agents and bartenders knew the real score. That, and the fact the man was acutely aware of just how much a ball cap and a pair of Ray-Bans could conceal. Because in the end he was a very private person offscreen, and he avoided publicity, at least when he was here, "at home".

Even so, he was in some ways a local and as such had his haunts, his favorite places, and he'd decided to get lunch at one of those that morning. So, he lifted the collar of his sheepskin jacket to protect his neck from the bitter cold, then took off from his house on the side of the mountain. He walked carefully down a few snow and ice covered streets to the outskirts of the central district, to one of the last truly cheap, truly authentic Mexican places in the town.

Pepe's was a ramshackle old place, a white frame house with pink and green trim converted to a restaurant. The place was, generally speaking, dark inside, with wood walls stained a deep brown and warm lamps casting amber light all around the various little dining rooms. The glowing adobe floors seemed to absorb the light and radiate a peculiar warmness, and the overall effect was something like 'welcome to my home, please enjoy your time here.'

The man entered and, as he was early and the place still almost empty, he found his favorite corner table unoccupied. He nodded to Pepe and stealthily slipped over to the corner and sat down, then saw his favorite waitress and waved to her; she waved back, appeared genuinely glad to see him, and he smiled inside.

She had been working here for a while, maybe five or so years, and she was a knockout. She wasn't tall, some would have called her short, but she had a smile that made him feel alive, great legs and a face that oddly enough reminded him of Elizabeth Taylor back in the day, she was shy and no one knew anything about her, but everyone in town knew who she was nonetheless. There were stories about how she had come to America, and while these were awful no one really knew the score. She never talked about herself and, indeed, few people knew her name. She was painfully shy when forced out of her role as waitress, and few had the heart to press the point. Still, she was the reason lots of men ate at Pepe's, and if asked, the man might have admitted he was one of them.

She came to the table, brought him chips and salsa, a pitcher of ice water, and her smile, which he never seemed to tire of, but today there was a redness in her eyes, an unfamiliar sadness hovering around her like a dark cloud. He watched her, watched her eyes, and he felt something in his world lurch. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

"How are you today, Tio?" she said as she put the chips down on the table. She poured some water while he struggled out of his coat.

"Good, good. How about you?"

"Oh, I'm good." Her shy eyes darted away from his, he failed to make contact, and he flailed about for words.

"Oh?"

She looked at him now, parried this thrust. "Do you need a menu today?" She spoke with an accent he found charming; maybe it was real, maybe not, but he didn't give a damn as long as she seemed to want to talk.

"A menu? Not for the last twenty years, I reckon," he said as he chuckled, struggling.

"What can I get you today? Some guacamole?"

Pepe's guacamole was the best he'd ever had, anywhere, and they always served it freshly made, prepared table-side, and always with soft, warm homemade flour tortillas.

"That'd be great," he said as the front door opened and the Ghost of Christmas Past entered. "Oh, Hell," he groaned inwardly. "Why Renata? I can't deal with her today..."

Renata Colson was the local Supreme Bitch Goddess of Real Estate, a true White Queen if ever there had been one, and she looked around the room before her laser-beam eyes settled on him. When she saw him hiding in the corner she perked up and cruised his way like a hound on the scent, or more accurately, like the Titanic crashing through April seas – racing for New York.

"Jack! Darling! I was hoping to run into you today!"

Bottle black hair with prominent white streaks framing her face, a vapid assortment of pasty-white make up framing black eye highlights and a lipstick somewhere beyond red, she reminded him of Disney's Cruella de Vil – and he found himself involuntarily looking around for an escape route. He watched her approach and suddenly felt like one of Disney's Dalmatian puppies.

"Looking, for me? Were you, indeed? But really, Renata, I've already given blood this week. Surely you don't want mine?"

She laughed. "Oh, Jack, you can be such a fucking prick!" Her face was all smiles, but there was an undercurrent of pure, calculating menace in the woman's eyes.

"Will you be joining Tio for lunch today?" the waitress asked.

"No!" the man cried inwardly.

"Yes, why not?" Cruella de Vil snapped back.

"I'll get your guacamole, Tio..." the waitress said as she rolled her eyes and walked off.

"Tio? Tio? Why does she call you Uncle?"

"I fucked her mother's cat once. Up the ass."

Blank stare. "You are so charming, Jack."

"Thanks, I think. So, how are you, Renata. Still eating young children?"

"Oh, Jack, cut the shit, would you?"

"If it's something you really feel strongly about, sure." He looked at her, wanted to get this over with as fast as possible. "What can I do for you today, Renata? Need a new kidney, perhaps?"

She ignored him.

"Did you hear about the Segals?" she said. "They're getting a divorce?"

Frank Segal was a very big deal from Houston, something to do with trading oil and cornering the market on supertankers and owning at least twenty senators and half the House of Representatives, but more to the point he owned the lot just above Jack's house. Segal had plans to build a Texas-sized MacMansion just above his own little place, a phallic monster that would be the biggest ever built in town and, more to the point, effectively block almost everyone's view of the lower mountain. Segal was so reviled his name had become, Horror of Horrors, a verb, and the man had once considered taking Segal to court to block construction – but the town had come to his rescue and beat him to it. Things had grown so ugly so fast there were Vegas odds on when the divorce papers would be filed. C'est la vie. Few marriages survived building a house. Alimony made such partings sweet sorrows, too, didn't they?

"Oh? Couldn't happen to a nicer couple. Do you still not go to the little orgies they don't hold?"

"You are a prude, aren't you, Jack?! They're not orgies, Jack, just little parties. You really ought to come once, check things out."

"Sorry, we're fresh out of riding crops at my place, and no more strap-on dildos up the ass for me, Renata, not with my prostate."

Her eyes went round and grew full of transparent concern: "Jack, it's not cancer, is it?"

"No, too much Viagra. Now it takes me three hours to take a piss. One of those fun side effects they forget to mention."

"Does it still work?" she asked.

"What?"

"Viagra."

"Wanna come home and find out?"

She pasted her contrite smile back on her contrived face, then cast her eyes about covertly, as if checking under tables for spies, or worse.