Double Black Diamond
Fictional story about a child of 9/11
He has a few hours to kill before his dishwashing job at Garfinkles, and in Whistler, free time means ski time. He’s on the lift, its early and the mountain has just opened. The sun is sending out tentative fingers of light into the dark frozen forest, the lift machinery is emitting its exuberant hum and chatter, the ice crystals are seeking exposed flesh. He smoked a lot last night, stayed out late with a bunch of people from the restaurant, jammed into tiny worker apartments. Pipes and beer. Crazy man. Good times. Many were from Australia, surfers turned boarders now shredding frozen waves.
Today he’s gonna do Climax, the hardest run on Whistler. He’s ready. His legs feel like steel cables after weeks of going for it. When he first got here, he was shocked by hard the black diamond runs were, they made the runs back east look like bunny trails and he’d been scared boarding for the first time in his life. The skis hanging off his feet still feel weird, the boots feel tight and claustrophobic, but to get into ski patrol he had to switch from boarding. It’s his dream — ski patrol, he wants to be one of the red jackets. He’s just finished his first aid training and he’s itching to use it, he can’t wait for the first broken leg, concussion, blood. Bring it.
He feels his phone vibrate, deep inside a pocket of his jacket, but he doesn’t fumble and try to answer it. Its probably his mom again. When are you coming home? You need to go back to school…stop wasting your life.
He loves Whistler. Everyone here is from everywhere else. The corporate facade of the village, its “designed resort community,” is in direct contrast to the colourful motley crew of workers who keep the place running. They work the restaurants, the hotels, the lifts. A young crowd, modern cowboys and cowgirls pulsing with life, they view the tourists as pampered cattle. No one talks about what’s happening in the real world much, they’ve all pledged allegiance to the mountains. Even when they are shrouded in clouds and can’t be seen, they are always there waiting, cradling the village and all its disciples in its embrace. Weather, inches, untouched territory, smoke, hookups, apartments, employment. These are the topics of conversation. Conquer the mountain and then party like soldiers.
Today, there are few tourists around, too early in the season. But the odd overly equipped German or American — skis barely used — jackets expensive, ride on the chairs ahead. They look like boats disappearing into the mists of an ocean as they float into cloud. Here, he can forget for a long time, days even. This place was made for forgetting, that’s what people come here for. But then its the anniversary, its everywhere, he can’t escape. Last night it was playing in the bar, on three TVs. The towers. The planes. Sixteen years. Could it really be that long? How can it only be that long?
He ran away from the TV coverage and ducked back into the kitchen, washed dishes like a mad man. Water sloshing down his arms beyond his gloves, soaking his clothes and filling his shoes. Even the manager said chill dude. He can’t stop moving.
The snow is falling thicker now…it covers him lightly in a layer of soft white. The chair is rocking him like a cradle, he leans his head back and lets the snow fall onto his eyelids and lays his arms out wide. He feels it coming and he lets it.
He’s back in his room in TO. His rock and mineral collection are spread out across his desk, he’s just gotten a tumbler and he spends hours polishing and smoothing stones. Pokemon cards and lego litter the floor and last night’s attempted french homework lays open on his desk. Its early dawn and its a school day, a Monday and he’s woken up in a nightmare, his pajamas and hair soaked he sits up gasping, startling the cat sleeping at the end of the bed who looks at him annoyed. What?
He creeps down the stairs towards the kitchen. His father is sitting at the table, he’s dressed for work, reading the newspaper, his tie is hanging dangerously close to his cereal bowl. He stops and leans against the door, listening to his father chewing granola. Dad, he says in a small croaky voice.
Hey bud! What are you doing up already? Comin’ to see me off?
He curls up in his father’s lap, too big but not caring.
Hey you’re all sweaty. Have a bad dream?
His father curls an arm around him and continues eating. He pushes against his father’s neck, breathes in his aftershave, the pulse of his blood, his freshly shaved skin.
I gotta get going bud, but I’ll be back on Thursday. He gently lets go of his son and gulps down the rest of his coffee.
He stands up, the sun from the window blocking out his face so that all his son can see is his father’s outline. He looks electrified. He gives him a quick hug, swings on his suit jacket, and grabs the handle of a small suitcase. His dad seems to be moving in fast forward, it makes him feel frozen.
You be the man of the house while I’m gone OK?
OK.
I promise, I’ll be back in time for soccer practice. Bye Buddy.
He watches his father leave. He wants to bawl his eyes out, scream, make him stay. But he doesn’t. It was just a stupid dream, don’t act like a baby. His mom comes down the stairs and finds him standing there, stunned looking.
All day he feels numb, disconnected. He doesn’t hear the teacher ask him a question, or his friends yelling at him to pass the ball. He can’t concentrate. That night his father calls from New York, but he refuses to go to the phone. He lies in his bed with the covers pulled up tight, his mother takes his temperature. Its normal.
Then, on the Tuesday, came the TV broadcasts, the images replayed over and over again.
The fallling man. The plane aimed straight for the tower. The people running, covered in ash.
His mother, her hand held over her mouth, eyes watching in horror as she talked on the phone with dad’s employers.
But he already knew. He knew when he woke up from that bad dream and he hadn’t said anything.
He skis off the lift, adjusting his gloves and poles while he glides. The cold air blasts his lungs, wakes him up and blows everything else away. He skis to the entrance of Climax and studies the sign. He likes its clear warning, the two diamonds: ski at your own risk. He will be the first of the day, a couple of inches fell last night and no other tracks mark the entrance to the run which disappears into a steep drop off that seems to have no bottom.
He stands and looks out over the mountain for a moment. Two hawks are circling high above and small animal tracks dart in and out of the the trees that are covered in drooping blankets of frozen snow like ancient statues guarding the trail. Everywhere is silent except for the sound of his own breath. The mountain always keeps her promises. He opens his arms wide, tucks and drops out of site.
Photo by Laurie-Anne Robert on Unsplash
