Company Ski Trip by Christopher S. Bell

Company Ski Trip
    
    Joanie felt the cold sitting in her green Nissan watching them all load their gear. There’s was an underlying sense that she’d forgotten something even after compulsively checking her bag. It’d only get worse the closer she got to fifty, winter slowly weakening her marrow despite daily gym trips. A lot of the men stared from their bikes and treadmills, most of them married. She’d flirt when prompted, but usually felt a great sense of accomplishment if the routine ended without a single word.  Songs filled in those silences forcing worries to deeper corners.
    It wouldn’t be so easy this time, Joanie lugging her skis to the elderly Greyhound driver hunched over the bottom compartment. “I’ll make sure to keep ‘em good and tight for you,” he grinned as she filed in behind the other comatose employees of Salem Industrial. Not a single familiar face, Joanie sitting towards the back, immediately impatient. With each new arrival, her eyes lifted then descended again; the bundled scarfs and zipped collars blending together until Manny.
    He’d signed the sympathy card with less tension, the rest of her department glossing over their sentiments, blaming shaky wrists on carpal tunnel.  They hadn’t spoken since it happened, Joanie scheduling her brief lunchroom trips before him, then hiding in her cubicle, hoping each crunch didn’t register with the others.  Manny usually went out, a conversation with his new bride occasionally filtering over the walls.  Joanie had signed something nice but generic, letting Eileen buy the group wedding gift.
    “Good morning,” Manny took a sip from his green coffee mug.
    “Hey Manny,” she replied as he sat in the neighboring seat.
    “So what’re you gonna hit up first today?”
    “Oh, I don’t really know.  Whichever trail’s the least crowded I guess.”
    “Got ya,” he grinned and faced forward.
    “So is Holly not coming today?”
    “Nah, she wasn’t really feeling it.  I think the winter’s finally caught up to her.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Oh I don’t know.  Sometimes hibernation seems like the best policy.”
    “Right, of course,” Joanie nodded.
    She shifted to the window, a family of four hopping aboard and filling the surrounding seats. The next hour passed in eavesdropping and cellular beeps, downloadable content trumping conversation nine times out of ten. Their voices made her regrets hollow, a broken engagement far less stressful than the alternative. Joanie spied children and religion, a corrective tick remedied with medications meant to stifle intended outcomes. It was impossible to decipher where she’d be and whether her perception of happiness would have shifted substantially.  A comparison to other shining examples was far too unhealthy that early in the morning.
    The mountain made her sigh, most passengers racing their gear to the lodge immediately after the bus stopped. Manny held his arm out like a gentleman, smirking.  “Ladies first.”
    “Thanks,” she replied, keeping him close until their skis were fastened.  “Good luck out there,” Joanie yelled as they hopped off the lift.
    “You too,” Manny fastened his goggles and was quickly out of sight.
    Her first run felt a bit awkward, father’s words repeating with each momentary divot in the trail. Keep your head up, dear. Don't let this damn hill get the best of you. As the morning rose and passed, these same remarks faded along with other memories. Joanie continually caught herself trying to forget as if his tone would simply cease from existence. There were other voices, but none quite as strong or forthright.  They whirled around the present, up the hill and back down again.
    At lunch, she only heard chewing, a small but vital pop in her left ear no better with warmth. Tiny scraps of information bounced perpetually between mouths, opportunities often disguised in casual displays; a firm handshake barely reciprocated, or two wives finally understanding their husbands’ weekly grind. There were impulses to top one another, bragging over Photoshopped baby pictures and overpriced wine. These women had barely broken a sweat, Joanie slowly drying out in the ladies’ room; her stomach somehow torn from expectations. She thought the day would be inaudible.
    Light flurries made her squint, constantly slowing to wipe her goggles then skidding off again. Traffic grew sparse with each new elevation; kinfolk blurring to blue and red splotches breaking free only to merge again at the bottom. Joanie couldn’t feel her cheeks as the sun reflected back in the dark green Fitbit. Father’s Rolex still needed batteries, not to mention someone worthy of its band. Her brother couldn’t handle such responsibility, every other male in her life completely unaware. Even if she finally met the right one, he’d never understand its full significance. There was a true art to being alone, making each impulse just a little more rigid and refined.
    It coerced her to try for one last run despite the waning darkness. Halfway down The Dead Bull, Joanie’s shoulder nicked a branch, the swelling making her teeter with each subsequent push. Minimal visibility only amplified her heartbeat, each flake slowing towards the steepest junction. She hopped just before a cluster of bushes, catching air then landing in a magnificent catastrophe, arms halfway in then out, balancing on one leg before both.  Thankfully, it wasn’t a qualifying round.
    Joanie felt young rushing to the lodge, carelessly tossing everything together again as half familiar faces periodically dispersed. The driver appeared distraught when she dropped off her skis, still grinning from the adrenaline. Sunken bodies filled every seat on the bus, some children stretching out their legs. Manny waved from the very back, significantly amused by the circumstances. “Crazy, right?” he said as she sat.
    “Yeah, I didn’t think there were this many with us.”
    “Maybe a few made some new friends.”
    “Maybe,” Joanie sighed.
    They talked for ten minutes then stared forward, other conversations continuing in their absence, Manny eventually apologizing as he leaned against the window and shut his eyes.  She let her head bounce back and forth with each stop along the way, far too much noise to sleep. He shifted in time, breath ultimately slowing as she glanced over every so often, pleased by the sight. Manny was peaceful and ultimately aroused, biology acting counterproductively on colder days.
    At first she’d barely noticed, the bulge carelessly peaking from a tiny fault in his oversized snow jacket and pants. Twinkling, Joanie looked away, then back one more time, bored enough to move her glove closer.  She grazed it quickly, then pulled back, anxious for any kind of reaction. Manny barely flinched, his co-worker again advancing closer, touching softer this time then moving her hand out towards his leg. Peripherally, she checked the mother and daughter sleeping far sounder in the neighboring seat.
    He started to groan slightly, baron murmurs fogging small portions of their window.  She waited for his eyes to open then go wide, before Joanie gently covered his mouth with her free hand.  “It’s okay,” she whispered. Manny tensed as she paced herself a second, then gradually sped up, like the final quarter mile in a marathon. There were already sign-ups for lost causes posted throughout the breakroom. Perhaps she’d try for a win this year, if only because just placing had lost its luster.

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Bio: Christopher S. Bell has been writing and releasing literary and musical works through My Idea of Fun since 2008.  His sound projects include Emmett and Mary, Technological Epidemic, C. Scott and the Beltones and Fine Wives.  My Idea of Fun is an art and music archive focused on digital preservation with roots in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. (www.myideaoffun.org).  Christopher’s work has recently been published in Linden Avenue, Noctua Review, Yellow Chair Review, Crab Fat Magazine, Pot Luck Magazine, Crack the Spine, Unlikely Stories Mach IV, Foliate Oak, The Gambler, Lime Hawk and Talking Book among others.  He has also contributed to Entropy and Fogged Clarity.