Center of the Universe |
Issue 7
|
The mountain town of Elk Park is most remarkable under a cobalt blue sky on a winter day, a place where summer is only a short break in the cycle of snow ending and snow beginning. And it was on such a day as this that Greg Cooper had come into its majestic realm. No one ever called the boy by his first name; it was always Cooper. Losing his parents, he’d come to live with his uncles who owned one of the most popular restaurants in downtown Elk Park. To help out, he bussed tables, washed dishes, and emptied the trash. His uncles left him alone as long as he did his work, he loved his uncles, and as well, he had come to love Elk Park.
Many people came to Skier’s Sports Bar & Restaurant, but the people who fascinated Cooper most were the old men that were once athletes, among them, a skier, a baseball pitcher, and a football player. Cooper learned the football player was highly regarded in high school and college but had gone unnoticed in the NFL draft. The baseball player, highly regarded as well, had suffered an injury that kept him from pitching. And the skier they said was fearless until after making it to the Olympics he’d fallen at a high rate of speed, badly hurt he’d recovered from his injuries, but lost his nerve and never regained it. The old skier still managed to manifest an outward appearance of dash and bravado, and he had aged well, and he told jokes, and laughed heartily; he had a handsome, intelligent face, and conducted himself as if he had never lost anything and this is what appealed to Cooper and made the old man his favorite. The baseball pitcher was careful not to show his arm and did very well with his left. Over the years, he had had to sell off most of his worth and was now down to next-to-nothing. But he had his plaque, ribbons, and clippings of his induction into the Elk Park high school sports hall of fame and that would have to do. Unlike the skier, the old baseball player was quiet and aloof. By contrast the old football player was haughty and arrogant, he sat alone, tended to assert himself and talk too loud. He took himself too seriously, acted too dignified and he never laughed. But, at one time, he had been a calm, capable, and popular quarterback. Regarded at the local college as a sure draft pick, he’d put up big numbers on the football field, enough to land him in the school’s athletic hall of fame. But the professional draft had passed him over and he had had to sign as a walk-on with a team that later cut him, and he’d never been able to re-sign with another team. As a result, his demeanor over the years had regressed to what it was now. Second raters all, having never gone far from Elk Park, they came to Skier’s Sports Pub at the end of each workday because the food was good and the drinks cheap. And, if they were not so prosperous, each one tried to give the appearance of having had some sports related success in life, even if that success had not been of the most highly regarded kind. They told stories of daring exploits on the gridiron, of having careened down slopes at breakneck speed, of having thrown a perfect game or no-hitter to anyone who would listen, like Cooper. And, Cooper, dazzled by the telling of such stories did not yet understand, was not yet able to recognize the depth of sadness and disappointment that belied each story told. The old men stayed telling stories until closing time or at least until their money ran out. |
DAVID SUMMERFEILD
is a graduate of Frostburg State University, Maryland, and a veteran of the Iraq war. He has been an editor, columnist, and contributor to various publications within his home state of West Virginia. His fiction, poetry, and photo art has appeared or is due to appear in Military Experience and the Arts, Rind Literary Magazine, and Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine to name a few. |
*
There were also a number of young athletes who came to Skier’s Sports Pub. Among those that Cooper knew were three regulars looking toward professional careers. One was a basketball player; the other two were soccer players. All three had been heavily recruited by the local college the old football player had attended and each could expect to sign a lucrative contract when and if an offer came, and could probably make in their first year what all three of the old-timers would have made together if they had had the opportunities that eluded them.
The young basketball player was by all accounts an excellent ballplayer, a tall thin young man with a goatee who wore clothing that was fashionably loose and baggy, he tended to argue, drink too much, and look hungrily at every girl he noticed and the two young soccer players would always sit across from one another in a booth drinking beer. Once Cooper had heard them talking. One expressed doubt about whether his dream of a career in soccer might ever materialize and the other had to remind him there was another reason they were in college, to study hard and to prepare for another career, and not be like the old ex-athletes around them who’d not done the same.
One evening most everyone had left save the three old athletes and one woman, the two soccer players and the young basketball player who’d been drinking too much, a local radio DJ who had also been drinking too much, and two visiting businessmen not trying to conceal the fact that they, too, had been drinking too much. At some point during the evening, each had bought all the others a round of drinks and this ritual continued into the night. Two young girls that attended the same college as the three young athletes and worked part-time as waitresses were also there. One girl had plans to attend a local Save the Canyon rally and the other girl had agreed to cover for her.
The old athlete who’d been a baseball pitcher was sitting face down now with arms folded on the bar. The one who’d played football was sitting staring grim-faced out a window, and the skier who’d aged well but lost his nerve was working on the taken woman sitting next to him trying to get her to agree to a liaison she was not sure would benefit her in any way.
He was saying, “Come on, it'll be okay.”
“Why should I?”
“No one will know.”
“No. Because I won't do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“But I tell you. No one will ever know.”
“NO.”
“Okay.”
The young girl, now late for her rally complained to the other girl how she thought they were all degenerates.
“Don't be so hard,” said the other young girl. “They generally tip well, and you don’t complain about that.”
“But they could all be drunk, drive out and kill or maim someone or themselves,” said the girl.
“Well, that could happen, but most of them ride-share,” said the other girl.
“But what if they don’t, it all started with us,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” said the other girl. “It’ll be okay.”
“But they smoke and drink like there’s no tomorrow.”
“They'll have had enough, soon.”
“They've had enough already. And if anything happens, we’ll be equally to blame. Well, I’m leaving now; I’m late for the rally.”
“Well, we have to work, so why not here, it’s not hard work, so go on to your rally.”
Cooper had heard this exchange. He didn’t necessarily understand it, but a peculiar feeling came over him to know that there was so much more to the world than what he knew. Even as he had lost his parents in an air accident, the girl's comments about drinking, smoking, killing, and maiming and how these might come from this place which had given him such a pleasant and secure existence were intriguing to say the least, but for now he put it aside. More important to Cooper was to be a skier, a downhill racer, like the old athlete he so admired who’d made it to the Olympics, and he thought of the brand-new pair of skis at home in his room he would soon be learning on.
“Go on to your rally,” said the other girl. “I'll cover for you, and you can repay me.”
“Thanks,” said the young girl on her way out. “I’ll repay you.”
As this last exchange had taken place, the old skier was hard at work again on the woman still sitting next to him. With all his skill, he’d taken her to a point where she’d almost broken down, but she had rallied and was now getting ready to leave and as she removed herself shakily from her seat, the old skier felt the loneliness of the evening suddenly envelop him. He was upset with himself because his skill had not worked as it once did, he felt the sting of her rebuke come flush in his face and smother his breath. Even now, as he had come to experience it more in his old age, he could not fully accept that crushing feeling of rejection.
His face took on a look he had no control over, it was not the affable rogue image he’d carefully crafted over the years, it was an ugly menacing look that came to him when he was in the foulest of moods, or when he felt everything was against him. He knew too, that if he could not change his face soon enough, that he might have to leave so the others would not see it, especially Cooper, and it set in motion something in front of him, from long ago what seemed like yesterday, the solid white snow, the rising, dipping, and slashing rush of being low in a tight crouch, poles tucked, picking up more speed, racing faster and faster, in what was the most confident and perfect run of his life. But like the woman he’d not held it, the earth suddenly plunging away beneath him, and then the endless crashing, thudding, rolling, and spinning that had not ended before everything went black. Yes, he could remember being excellent before losing his nerve. And what did some whore know about having been excellent. So, who was she? Just some whore. Just some old fucking whore.
The young basketball player now sat staring at the two young soccer players, and since there were no young women to stare at except the young waitress who was too busy to notice, he would at least stare at someone. By now, he had become a bit too aggressive, turning to glare mockingly at the local DJ who had stopped buying him drinks. The DJ had sensed the young man’s building hostility and had gotten up and left, leaving an order of fries. The young baller then glowered over at the two businessmen who’d stopped engaging with him as well, but unintimidated they continued their conversation.
One said to the other, “We need to drop selling this idea of timbering and developing the canyon even though the canyon’s private land there’s too much public sentiment against it right now, they’re having that Save-the-Canyon rally over at the high school.”
“Yes, it’s too bad, a massive development of condos could put an enormous amount of money into the economy, wanting to keep it pristine is one thing, but it doesn’t look so prosperous around here, they don’t think of the jobs and growth it’d bring.”
“Maybe someday they’ll realize it and stop litigating and protesting against their own prosperity, for now we'll have to wait and see how the lawsuits and politics play out.”
The young basketball player stumbled up to the table and stood, staring.
“Any good at basketball?” asked one of the two businessmen looking up.
“Damn good,” slurred the young athlete, two fingers extended on each hand for emphasis that was the fashion of the day. Then they watched as he swaggered out onto the street in a bulletproof haze of alcohol and arrogance.
The two businessmen decided their mission was ended for now and seeing no one in the bar but a few regulars got up and left. The waitress cleared the table and collected a large tip that had been meant for the girl who’d left. No patrons remained except for the three old athletes and two young soccer players.
The young basketball player was by all accounts an excellent ballplayer, a tall thin young man with a goatee who wore clothing that was fashionably loose and baggy, he tended to argue, drink too much, and look hungrily at every girl he noticed and the two young soccer players would always sit across from one another in a booth drinking beer. Once Cooper had heard them talking. One expressed doubt about whether his dream of a career in soccer might ever materialize and the other had to remind him there was another reason they were in college, to study hard and to prepare for another career, and not be like the old ex-athletes around them who’d not done the same.
One evening most everyone had left save the three old athletes and one woman, the two soccer players and the young basketball player who’d been drinking too much, a local radio DJ who had also been drinking too much, and two visiting businessmen not trying to conceal the fact that they, too, had been drinking too much. At some point during the evening, each had bought all the others a round of drinks and this ritual continued into the night. Two young girls that attended the same college as the three young athletes and worked part-time as waitresses were also there. One girl had plans to attend a local Save the Canyon rally and the other girl had agreed to cover for her.
The old athlete who’d been a baseball pitcher was sitting face down now with arms folded on the bar. The one who’d played football was sitting staring grim-faced out a window, and the skier who’d aged well but lost his nerve was working on the taken woman sitting next to him trying to get her to agree to a liaison she was not sure would benefit her in any way.
He was saying, “Come on, it'll be okay.”
“Why should I?”
“No one will know.”
“No. Because I won't do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“But I tell you. No one will ever know.”
“NO.”
“Okay.”
The young girl, now late for her rally complained to the other girl how she thought they were all degenerates.
“Don't be so hard,” said the other young girl. “They generally tip well, and you don’t complain about that.”
“But they could all be drunk, drive out and kill or maim someone or themselves,” said the girl.
“Well, that could happen, but most of them ride-share,” said the other girl.
“But what if they don’t, it all started with us,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” said the other girl. “It’ll be okay.”
“But they smoke and drink like there’s no tomorrow.”
“They'll have had enough, soon.”
“They've had enough already. And if anything happens, we’ll be equally to blame. Well, I’m leaving now; I’m late for the rally.”
“Well, we have to work, so why not here, it’s not hard work, so go on to your rally.”
Cooper had heard this exchange. He didn’t necessarily understand it, but a peculiar feeling came over him to know that there was so much more to the world than what he knew. Even as he had lost his parents in an air accident, the girl's comments about drinking, smoking, killing, and maiming and how these might come from this place which had given him such a pleasant and secure existence were intriguing to say the least, but for now he put it aside. More important to Cooper was to be a skier, a downhill racer, like the old athlete he so admired who’d made it to the Olympics, and he thought of the brand-new pair of skis at home in his room he would soon be learning on.
“Go on to your rally,” said the other girl. “I'll cover for you, and you can repay me.”
“Thanks,” said the young girl on her way out. “I’ll repay you.”
As this last exchange had taken place, the old skier was hard at work again on the woman still sitting next to him. With all his skill, he’d taken her to a point where she’d almost broken down, but she had rallied and was now getting ready to leave and as she removed herself shakily from her seat, the old skier felt the loneliness of the evening suddenly envelop him. He was upset with himself because his skill had not worked as it once did, he felt the sting of her rebuke come flush in his face and smother his breath. Even now, as he had come to experience it more in his old age, he could not fully accept that crushing feeling of rejection.
His face took on a look he had no control over, it was not the affable rogue image he’d carefully crafted over the years, it was an ugly menacing look that came to him when he was in the foulest of moods, or when he felt everything was against him. He knew too, that if he could not change his face soon enough, that he might have to leave so the others would not see it, especially Cooper, and it set in motion something in front of him, from long ago what seemed like yesterday, the solid white snow, the rising, dipping, and slashing rush of being low in a tight crouch, poles tucked, picking up more speed, racing faster and faster, in what was the most confident and perfect run of his life. But like the woman he’d not held it, the earth suddenly plunging away beneath him, and then the endless crashing, thudding, rolling, and spinning that had not ended before everything went black. Yes, he could remember being excellent before losing his nerve. And what did some whore know about having been excellent. So, who was she? Just some whore. Just some old fucking whore.
The young basketball player now sat staring at the two young soccer players, and since there were no young women to stare at except the young waitress who was too busy to notice, he would at least stare at someone. By now, he had become a bit too aggressive, turning to glare mockingly at the local DJ who had stopped buying him drinks. The DJ had sensed the young man’s building hostility and had gotten up and left, leaving an order of fries. The young baller then glowered over at the two businessmen who’d stopped engaging with him as well, but unintimidated they continued their conversation.
One said to the other, “We need to drop selling this idea of timbering and developing the canyon even though the canyon’s private land there’s too much public sentiment against it right now, they’re having that Save-the-Canyon rally over at the high school.”
“Yes, it’s too bad, a massive development of condos could put an enormous amount of money into the economy, wanting to keep it pristine is one thing, but it doesn’t look so prosperous around here, they don’t think of the jobs and growth it’d bring.”
“Maybe someday they’ll realize it and stop litigating and protesting against their own prosperity, for now we'll have to wait and see how the lawsuits and politics play out.”
The young basketball player stumbled up to the table and stood, staring.
“Any good at basketball?” asked one of the two businessmen looking up.
“Damn good,” slurred the young athlete, two fingers extended on each hand for emphasis that was the fashion of the day. Then they watched as he swaggered out onto the street in a bulletproof haze of alcohol and arrogance.
The two businessmen decided their mission was ended for now and seeing no one in the bar but a few regulars got up and left. The waitress cleared the table and collected a large tip that had been meant for the girl who’d left. No patrons remained except for the three old athletes and two young soccer players.
*
In the kitchen, several years older than Cooper was the cook who Cooper had always thought to be clever and smart. It was dark and getting late, and the waitress who’d been covering decided to leave because it was no longer busy and there were things she had to do; besides, she was not feeling well. The cook told her he would double as server, clean up also, and that later he would close the kitchen, and then close altogether. Cooper said he’d help.
“Here, have a drink,” said the cook, handing Cooper a bottle of beer.
“Sure,” said the boy and took it.
“Here's to you,” said the cook, downing his beer.
“Thanks,” said Cooper, drinking his.
“I'm leaving, now,” called the waitress.
“Goodbye,” they all said.
The two of them were by themselves and Cooper took two-by-fours left by the remodelers who’d done some work on the kitchen, set his feet on them, and stood straight up. He then lowered himself into a crouch and swung his arms in the long sweeping motion of a downhill skier. He leaned on the right plank, then leaned on the left plank, gaining imaginary terrain and then in a quick, perfectly timed, dashingly bold swing of his hips, stopped, stood straight up, and waved to an illusory crowd.
The cook, whose name was Ricky, had watched carefully.
“How’s the surface?” he asked.
“Very good,” said Cooper. “Look.”
Cooper imitated another quick jumping turn and crouching low again held out two pieces of trim behind him as poles tucked up tightly beneath his armpits, as if he were crossing the finish line in a blaze of speed, balance, and grace.
“You're full of shit,” said Ricky with his arms crossed and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “You act like you have no competition.”
"That’s right," said Cooper, “I don’t."
“Look at this.”
Ricky flung off his apron and tossed the cigarette into the sink. He pushed Cooper away and stepped onto the two-by-fours and imitated a run sliding, flying, whizzing on imaginary snow. He stood up and he went down. He leaned left and then right. He approached the finish line bracing his knees, sticks tucked tight, then turning sharply suddenly to a stop he thrust his arms up and shook his fists in victory.
“And I'm just a cook,” he said.
“How come you’re just a cook?”
“Because when I was on the amateur circuit, I fell a lot and I got too afraid of falling and the fear of falling kept me from being any good. I never amounted to anything. So it might happen to you as well. If winning was due only to skiing and good luck anyone could be a champion. But a champion has to learn to manage his fear, or you end up like me, or that bitter old fuck of a loser out there.”
“No way,” said Cooper. “I’ll never be afraid.”
“Bullshit.” Said Ricky.
Even as he was still a novice, Cooper had imagined it many times. The downhill run of his life. He had seen the swish of the snow under his feet, the rush of the landscape around him as though he were standing still as it speeded by. He had felt the sting of the spray and the wind on his cheeks as it buffeted and whistled in his ears. He had felt the stomach go out of him as the earth suddenly left his feet. And he had seen himself charging for the finish, a picture of symmetry, control, and elegance. Again, and again, he had visualized it, imagined it, until he could taste the spray on his lips, until he could see all the vivid colors of all the flags of the different countries waving, and all the faces of the people that were shouting and cheering for him. How could he be afraid? Ricky might be afraid, and the old man might have been. But, he, Cooper, never. He knew it all too well, for he had visualized it too many times, besides, he had great faith in himself.
“Absolutely no way,” he said, again.
“Let's try it,” said Ricky.
“Try what?”
“Here's the thing,” Ricky said. “You think of the race, and you don't think of the fall, which is good, mind you. The fall has so much impact, and the skidding, twisting, and tumbling that comes in its wake, it can shatter you. Here,” he motioned over his shoulder. “We'll go out back on the hill, and before you get started skiing at all, in that pile of debris out there, we'll pull out a couple good slats, rag tie em to your feet and you can go down the hill and practice your balance. I'll be your instructor and evaluate your technique.”
“Give me my parka,” said Cooper. “Let's go.”
“Then again,” said Ricky, having a sudden change of heart, “it might not be a really good idea to go up there and do that, with just a couple of slats and no good light. Let's just forget it, Cooper.”
“No,” insisted Cooper. “I'm not afraid.”
“You will be when you see the ground coming up to meet your face.”
“Let's try it,” said Cooper, tossing his apron.
“Okay, but let's filch a couple fingers of Bourbon first, just to keep warm,” said the cook.
“Okay.”
Ricky was at the bottom of the hill now, and Cooper had climbed several hundred feet to where he stood eager to make his descent and after strapping on two pieces of wood, he was ready to test his balance.
Cooper’s uncles had left early that day since it was not busy to attend the Save the Canyon rally and then to get ready for the country music show that was being put on at the college theatre. The two businessmen were in their motel room now in their underwear making last minute calls to anyone with influence who could help them with their plans to develop the canyon. All three of the old ex-athletes had made their departure from Skier’s by now. The old ballplayer had stumbled and fell out the door on his way to his truck. The old football player had stood at the front of the restaurant for several minutes staring into the darkness before finally ambling off to his apartment, and the old ex-skier had once again ride-shared his way home empty-handed.
The young basketball player was shooting pool in another bar he’d wandered into, telling two women the equivalent of prostitutes, and anyone else who would listen, how good he was. The two young soccer players, who always did things together had gone back to their dormitory to study. The young waitress at the Save the Canyon rally was not thinking now about the girl who’d taken her place, and the girl who took her place had decided not to do the things that caused her to leave early, besides, she was feeling better. The local DJ had ride shared his way home and was now in an alcoholic slumber that would last only a few hours which was okay since he did the morning show which caused him to be up early anyway.
At the scene on the hill behind the restaurant, Ricky peered into the darkness as Cooper readied himself for a descent. Cooper knelt slightly on his slats now with two pieces of trim stuck straight in the snow.
“Look Cooper,” shouted Ricky with apprehension. “The snow is slick, don't do it, it's too dangerous.” He was sweating.
Cooper stood, not listening.
“I'm coming, like a bullet,” he shouted. “Straight at you.”
“Will you please stop?” Ricky pleaded, “wait until we have the right equipment and can see better.”
“No way,” yelled Cooper. “I'm coming now.”
And he did. Under a bright full moon in a full crouch, Cooper came toward Ricky in a rush down the hill. He dipped and rose, picking up speed, coming faster and faster. As he kept his center of gravity as low as possible, he knew it was too fast, but he would not let go. He refused to fall. He refused to be afraid. But, he was too close to the debris pile now, and a soft patch of snow sent him tumbling into a mound of old roofing, fiberglass insulation, and rotten boards, where a shard of shattered glass punched into his thigh helping to slow his descent in a most unfortunate way. When he first felt it, he did not think of it in any particular way, until he looked to see in the moonlight the blood, and then he felt it, hot and scalding, coming from the point where it was stuck in and had broken off. Ricky came up the hill shouting in a frightened panic as Cooper turned onto his back, pieces of trim still held. “Let me get it out!” he cried, and Ricky pulled at it as Cooper felt it turn and slip out easily as it went in.
The shard was out now and Cooper sat in the snow in a widening pool of blood.
“Put this rag over it, and hold it tight, to stop the bleeding!” said Ricky. “I'll get help.”
“I came straight, that's all I wanted to do,” said Cooper. He was crying now.
“Don't panic,” said Ricky, his voice trailing off. “I'll find help.”
As he pressed the rag to his wound, Cooper thought how unbelievably short his life was going to be. He realized, too, he would never be like the old athlete he so admired.
Ricky ran down the main drag to the police station while Cooper sat in the snow, in his own blood, cold and alone. First he stopped crying, then he prayed, and then he was afraid. This had happened all too quickly, he thought now, as he was losing awareness, first sitting there, then slumped over, until the life and breath finally seeped out of him. He had tried not to be afraid, but fear was the last thing he felt.
A policeman, two paramedics, and the cook had hurried back to the hill behind the restaurant, as Cooper's uncles left the country music show they remarked at how it was one of the best shows they’d seen, and how the featured group, though not as well-known, was as good as any of the well-known one's, and how almost certainly, judging from the crowd reaction, everyone in attendance would want to be at their next show. At this time also, the two businessmen had given up for the night and finally resigned themselves to bed. The young basketball player had stopped shooting pool and was preparing to leave with the two women who were the equivalent of two prostitutes and all of the others who had been at the restaurant were all doing whatever it was they were doing or not doing.
Young Greg Cooper would be spared the ravages and disappointments of the old athletes and did not know about any of this, about the old athlete who went out in his truck and rolled over two people, not now, nor would he ever. For these people would be doing what they're doing, today, the next day, and beyond, and he would never know it. He would not ever know anything more about them, he had died with such little knowledge, without any time to have had his own thoughts, knowing only that in the end the fear he rejected was all he really knew.
He would not even know about the country music show that thrilled all of Elk Park as shiny, new skis freshly waxed emblazoned with the logo ‘No Fear’ stood in his room.
“Here, have a drink,” said the cook, handing Cooper a bottle of beer.
“Sure,” said the boy and took it.
“Here's to you,” said the cook, downing his beer.
“Thanks,” said Cooper, drinking his.
“I'm leaving, now,” called the waitress.
“Goodbye,” they all said.
The two of them were by themselves and Cooper took two-by-fours left by the remodelers who’d done some work on the kitchen, set his feet on them, and stood straight up. He then lowered himself into a crouch and swung his arms in the long sweeping motion of a downhill skier. He leaned on the right plank, then leaned on the left plank, gaining imaginary terrain and then in a quick, perfectly timed, dashingly bold swing of his hips, stopped, stood straight up, and waved to an illusory crowd.
The cook, whose name was Ricky, had watched carefully.
“How’s the surface?” he asked.
“Very good,” said Cooper. “Look.”
Cooper imitated another quick jumping turn and crouching low again held out two pieces of trim behind him as poles tucked up tightly beneath his armpits, as if he were crossing the finish line in a blaze of speed, balance, and grace.
“You're full of shit,” said Ricky with his arms crossed and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “You act like you have no competition.”
"That’s right," said Cooper, “I don’t."
“Look at this.”
Ricky flung off his apron and tossed the cigarette into the sink. He pushed Cooper away and stepped onto the two-by-fours and imitated a run sliding, flying, whizzing on imaginary snow. He stood up and he went down. He leaned left and then right. He approached the finish line bracing his knees, sticks tucked tight, then turning sharply suddenly to a stop he thrust his arms up and shook his fists in victory.
“And I'm just a cook,” he said.
“How come you’re just a cook?”
“Because when I was on the amateur circuit, I fell a lot and I got too afraid of falling and the fear of falling kept me from being any good. I never amounted to anything. So it might happen to you as well. If winning was due only to skiing and good luck anyone could be a champion. But a champion has to learn to manage his fear, or you end up like me, or that bitter old fuck of a loser out there.”
“No way,” said Cooper. “I’ll never be afraid.”
“Bullshit.” Said Ricky.
Even as he was still a novice, Cooper had imagined it many times. The downhill run of his life. He had seen the swish of the snow under his feet, the rush of the landscape around him as though he were standing still as it speeded by. He had felt the sting of the spray and the wind on his cheeks as it buffeted and whistled in his ears. He had felt the stomach go out of him as the earth suddenly left his feet. And he had seen himself charging for the finish, a picture of symmetry, control, and elegance. Again, and again, he had visualized it, imagined it, until he could taste the spray on his lips, until he could see all the vivid colors of all the flags of the different countries waving, and all the faces of the people that were shouting and cheering for him. How could he be afraid? Ricky might be afraid, and the old man might have been. But, he, Cooper, never. He knew it all too well, for he had visualized it too many times, besides, he had great faith in himself.
“Absolutely no way,” he said, again.
“Let's try it,” said Ricky.
“Try what?”
“Here's the thing,” Ricky said. “You think of the race, and you don't think of the fall, which is good, mind you. The fall has so much impact, and the skidding, twisting, and tumbling that comes in its wake, it can shatter you. Here,” he motioned over his shoulder. “We'll go out back on the hill, and before you get started skiing at all, in that pile of debris out there, we'll pull out a couple good slats, rag tie em to your feet and you can go down the hill and practice your balance. I'll be your instructor and evaluate your technique.”
“Give me my parka,” said Cooper. “Let's go.”
“Then again,” said Ricky, having a sudden change of heart, “it might not be a really good idea to go up there and do that, with just a couple of slats and no good light. Let's just forget it, Cooper.”
“No,” insisted Cooper. “I'm not afraid.”
“You will be when you see the ground coming up to meet your face.”
“Let's try it,” said Cooper, tossing his apron.
“Okay, but let's filch a couple fingers of Bourbon first, just to keep warm,” said the cook.
“Okay.”
Ricky was at the bottom of the hill now, and Cooper had climbed several hundred feet to where he stood eager to make his descent and after strapping on two pieces of wood, he was ready to test his balance.
Cooper’s uncles had left early that day since it was not busy to attend the Save the Canyon rally and then to get ready for the country music show that was being put on at the college theatre. The two businessmen were in their motel room now in their underwear making last minute calls to anyone with influence who could help them with their plans to develop the canyon. All three of the old ex-athletes had made their departure from Skier’s by now. The old ballplayer had stumbled and fell out the door on his way to his truck. The old football player had stood at the front of the restaurant for several minutes staring into the darkness before finally ambling off to his apartment, and the old ex-skier had once again ride-shared his way home empty-handed.
The young basketball player was shooting pool in another bar he’d wandered into, telling two women the equivalent of prostitutes, and anyone else who would listen, how good he was. The two young soccer players, who always did things together had gone back to their dormitory to study. The young waitress at the Save the Canyon rally was not thinking now about the girl who’d taken her place, and the girl who took her place had decided not to do the things that caused her to leave early, besides, she was feeling better. The local DJ had ride shared his way home and was now in an alcoholic slumber that would last only a few hours which was okay since he did the morning show which caused him to be up early anyway.
At the scene on the hill behind the restaurant, Ricky peered into the darkness as Cooper readied himself for a descent. Cooper knelt slightly on his slats now with two pieces of trim stuck straight in the snow.
“Look Cooper,” shouted Ricky with apprehension. “The snow is slick, don't do it, it's too dangerous.” He was sweating.
Cooper stood, not listening.
“I'm coming, like a bullet,” he shouted. “Straight at you.”
“Will you please stop?” Ricky pleaded, “wait until we have the right equipment and can see better.”
“No way,” yelled Cooper. “I'm coming now.”
And he did. Under a bright full moon in a full crouch, Cooper came toward Ricky in a rush down the hill. He dipped and rose, picking up speed, coming faster and faster. As he kept his center of gravity as low as possible, he knew it was too fast, but he would not let go. He refused to fall. He refused to be afraid. But, he was too close to the debris pile now, and a soft patch of snow sent him tumbling into a mound of old roofing, fiberglass insulation, and rotten boards, where a shard of shattered glass punched into his thigh helping to slow his descent in a most unfortunate way. When he first felt it, he did not think of it in any particular way, until he looked to see in the moonlight the blood, and then he felt it, hot and scalding, coming from the point where it was stuck in and had broken off. Ricky came up the hill shouting in a frightened panic as Cooper turned onto his back, pieces of trim still held. “Let me get it out!” he cried, and Ricky pulled at it as Cooper felt it turn and slip out easily as it went in.
The shard was out now and Cooper sat in the snow in a widening pool of blood.
“Put this rag over it, and hold it tight, to stop the bleeding!” said Ricky. “I'll get help.”
“I came straight, that's all I wanted to do,” said Cooper. He was crying now.
“Don't panic,” said Ricky, his voice trailing off. “I'll find help.”
As he pressed the rag to his wound, Cooper thought how unbelievably short his life was going to be. He realized, too, he would never be like the old athlete he so admired.
Ricky ran down the main drag to the police station while Cooper sat in the snow, in his own blood, cold and alone. First he stopped crying, then he prayed, and then he was afraid. This had happened all too quickly, he thought now, as he was losing awareness, first sitting there, then slumped over, until the life and breath finally seeped out of him. He had tried not to be afraid, but fear was the last thing he felt.
A policeman, two paramedics, and the cook had hurried back to the hill behind the restaurant, as Cooper's uncles left the country music show they remarked at how it was one of the best shows they’d seen, and how the featured group, though not as well-known, was as good as any of the well-known one's, and how almost certainly, judging from the crowd reaction, everyone in attendance would want to be at their next show. At this time also, the two businessmen had given up for the night and finally resigned themselves to bed. The young basketball player had stopped shooting pool and was preparing to leave with the two women who were the equivalent of two prostitutes and all of the others who had been at the restaurant were all doing whatever it was they were doing or not doing.
Young Greg Cooper would be spared the ravages and disappointments of the old athletes and did not know about any of this, about the old athlete who went out in his truck and rolled over two people, not now, nor would he ever. For these people would be doing what they're doing, today, the next day, and beyond, and he would never know it. He would not ever know anything more about them, he had died with such little knowledge, without any time to have had his own thoughts, knowing only that in the end the fear he rejected was all he really knew.
He would not even know about the country music show that thrilled all of Elk Park as shiny, new skis freshly waxed emblazoned with the logo ‘No Fear’ stood in his room.