The Cubicle Next Door (11 page)

Manitou was only about eight blocks wide. Cottonwood-lined Fountain Creek divided it lengthwise into halves. From Manitou Avenue, the main street in town, the ground rose on either side at nearly a 15-degree angle. Lots had been gouged out of the cliffs. Houses with no backyards hung on for dear life. Down in town, some of the shops were only ten-feet wide—the exact amount of space available before butting up against a cliff.

I slipped down a side street filled with antique shops waving colorful flags and dangling artful signs, crossed Manitou Avenue in front of the clock tower, and then I ducked down Canyon Avenue and unlocked the door to the shop.

I opened the door and then switched the “Out Skiing” sign around to “Yes! We’re Open!” After turning on the computer and the cash register, I walked to the small office in the back to get the packing lists for the new merchandise Grandmother said had come in. I skimmed the line items. It looked like a shipment of trekking poles. Grandmother was probably hoping summer tourists would scoop them up as souvenirs of their Colorado vacation.

The bell on the door rattled as it opened. Jingled as the door shut.

After folding the list in half and tucking it in my pocket, I shut the office door and went out onto the floor. A small group of people, cups of coffee in hand, were strolling in different directions. Picking up merchandise, turning it over, putting it back down. I knew what they were doing: killing time until the rest of the stores in Manitou Springs opened. They only had about an hour left to wait.

I plucked the list out of my pocket and took it to the counter. I smoothed it out and started entering the information into our database, one I had created for Grandmother when I was 12 years old. With only minor modifications it had survived intact for two decades.

The door opened again. A woman walked through it. She started toward the wall of ski accessories and tools but then was distracted by the glass display case of altimeters.

The coffee drinkers had all circled back past each other and now they were heading toward opposite corners of the store.

I kept on with the data entry.

The door opened again.

“Hey!”

Everyone in the store turned toward the voice.

Only Joe could have matched the cheery tone of our “Open!” sign at 8:15 on a Saturday morning. He came right up to the counter and leaned against it.

I flicked a glance up toward him and continued with my data entry. “Hi.”

“Just out walking around.”

“Good for you.”

“Thought I’d buy some skis.”

“We don’t do downhill here.”

“I already have a pair. I’m interested in cross-country.”

I gestured to the inner aisles of the store where skis sprouted from the display racks. “Take your pick.”

“Anything in particular I should be looking for?”

“Your favorite color maybe?” I interrupted our scintillating conversation to help a customer. A real one. She was interested in wax. Mostly because she was leaving for New Zealand on a ski trip later in the afternoon.

By the time I finished helping her, another customer had come in and Joe was talking to him. They had gravitated to the center of the store and were looking at Grandmother’s Rossis.

I walked over to them. “Hello.”

“Good morning. Lovely day, isn’t it?” It took me a moment to decipher the customer’s English because it had been spoken with a British accent. The man had twin dollops of gray fluff sticking out from either side of his head. He was wearing a button-down shirt with a buttoned-up sweater vest. And while he had been holding the Rossis close with one hand, the other had been skimming their glossy length.

I looked at Joe.

He winked at me. “This is Mr. Finley from England.”

“Welcome. Are you thinking of buying those or marrying them?”

“Cheeky sort of girl, isn’t she?”

Joe dimpled. “Part of her charm.”

Mr. Finley pierced me with his gaze. “Then it must be in the eye of the beholder.”

Something about him made me want to stick my tongue out, but I didn’t because I’d figured out who he was. “You come in every day to look at these, don’t you?” He was Grandmother’s customer.

Mr. Finley sighed as he replaced them. “I do.”

“Why don’t you just buy them?”

“I might.”

“Today?”

“I don’t think so. No. A purchase like this would be an extravagant luxury not to be indulged in with someone who is merely selling ski equipment. Skis like these must be purchased from someone who appreciates them as the fine work of a master craftsman.”

“My grandmother will be here on Monday.”

“Ah. Just so.” He reached out to shake Joe’s hand and nodded at me. “Well, goodbye then.” He walked out of the store. The door closed behind him with a tinkle.

I turned to Joe. “How about you? Still interested in mere ski equipment?”

“Do you have something in neon green?”

“We just might. I don’t suppose you’re a groomed trail type of skier?”

“Why ski someone else’s trail when you can make your own?”

“Just wanted to be sure. The first decision to make is whether you want a metal edge. It makes skis better for turning, but it also makes them harder for touring.”

“So it’s either one or the other? Turning or touring?”

“You could buy partial. Almost have the best of both.”

“Good. That’s what I’ll take.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a pair of waxless, would you?”

“And take all the fun out of skiing? Nope.”

“But do you plan to be truly faithful about waxing?”

He held two fingers up in the air. “Scout’s honor.”

“Because if you are, then you’d get better performance out of a sintered base ski. But if you aren’t, then your skis will just collect a bunch of dirt and pine pitch and they’ll end up being slower. Your choice. But you better not lie to yourself about how often you’re willing to wax.”

“Let me think about it.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“Two twenty.”

“How tall are you?”

“Six feet.”

“And how much control do you want to have?”

“I’m totally out of control.”

I couldn’t help myself from smiling, but I tried very hard not to laugh. “Yes, I know. But because you’re a novice, I’d recommend a wider ski. It’s more stable. It would give you more control than a narrower one.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

“Listen, are you serious about buying or are you just here to torment me?”

“Both. Seeing you six days a week isn’t enough.”

I felt my cheeks warm. I was being ridiculous. He was only flirting. “Then what about sidecut?”

“Who what?”

“The difference in the width of the ski, taken in three measurements.” I pointed at the Rossis as an example, starting at the bottom. “At the tail, the waist, and the shovel.”

“You’re the expert. What would you recommend?”

“The more sidecut, the easier it is to turn. The less a ski is sidecut, the easier it is to ski straight. And fast.”

“Can’t I have it all?”

“In cross-country skiing? No. Sacrifices must be made.”

“Well, that settles it. I have no idea what I want.”

“Why don’t you just rent a pair? Or two or three. Then you can try all the options and decide for yourself.”

“You guys do rentals?”

“No.”

“Bummer. Can I look at boots?”

“Sure.” I turned away from the racks of skis and started toward the boots. “But there’s no real standard for bindings, so you’ll have to get both at the same time.”

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

I walked him over to the display wall of boots. “We don’t appear to have any in neon green, but I can check in the back.”

“No need. What am I supposed to look for?”

“Well…there are control issues.” I took a black boot from the display. “Cross-country boots are connected to the ski only at the toe. The wider the connection point, the more control you’ll have over your ski.”

“So why would anyone buy one of these?” He picked up a boot with a narrow connection point.

“For racing. Which you don’t want to do.”

“I don’t?”

“No. You’re tall. If you fell at high speed, you’d break your head.” Not, of course, that it would make any difference to me.

“Then I could be the Headless Skier of Manitou. I could haunt my own house.”

I decided to just ignore him. I took the boot from his hand, returned it to the shelf, and picked up a different one. “You’ll want to check the torsion of the boot.” I handed it to him.

He took it by the toe and the heel and twisted. Or tried to.

“A rigid boot will also give you more control.”

“Then I’ll try it.”

“What size?”

“Twelve.” He sat down on the bench and slid his feet out of their Birkenstocks. “Socks?”

“Under the bench.” We kept a basket filled with them. No one in Manitou wore socks in the summer.

He tried them on. Stood up. Walked a few paces. “I don’t know.” He turned toward the display and grabbed another boot. Twisted. “How about this one? It’s lightweight.”

“It’s injection molded, but it’s not so good with metal edges. If you decide you want metal in your edges, try one of these.” I took a box from the shelf and opened it. Handed him a stitch-soled purple-and-black boot.

He sat back down and tried it on. Stood. Walked a few steps. Then paced the length of the store. Came back. “These feel great.”

“You’ll want them to be a little big.”

“They are. But not too big. I’ll take them.”

Once he’d taken them off, I took the box up to the counter. “Did you want the bindings now?”

“Might as well.”

I went behind the counter and into the storeroom. I grabbed several bindings and walked back to Joe. “You’ll have to make a choice. You’ll definitely want a reinforced brace like this.” I held one of the selections up. “But if you’ll be doing a lot of off-trail exploring, then you’ll probably want a riveted brace so you won’t get stuck in the back country with a broken binding. It’s an extra level of safety.”

“Where do you ski?”

“Pardon me?”

“When you ski, do you ski trails or do you explore?”

“Grandmother and I skied trails. That we made up. Mostly.”

He pushed the riveted brace bindings toward the box. “Then I’ll take these.”

“Not, of course, that I’ve skied in the last ten years. Or that I ever will again.” Although if I ever did, it would be nice to do it with someone like Joe.

He just smiled. “You never know. So, what else do I need?”

“Besides skis? How about poles? Over there.” I pointed toward a stand in the corner of the store.

He strode over and grabbed a set. “How about these?”

I shrugged. “Aluminum? They’re sexy, but the fiberglass have better shock absorption.”

While he looked at the poles, I gave directions to the Barr Trail to a different customer. “Turn left on Ruxton, drive past the Cog Railway. Take a right past the old steam plant. Park at the top of the hill in the gravel lot. They’ll tow you if you park at the railway station.” I’ve often thought about just posting the directions on the door to the store. And highlighting the part about being towed.

Eventually Joe came back with a set of poles in hand.

“Ah. The telescoping, jam-them-together-and-use-as-an-avalanche-probe poles. They’re our best sellers.”

“Really?”

“Psychology. No one wants to be in an avalanche, but everyone wants to imagine they’re the kind of person who can ski into places where they could start one.”

“Are you calling me a wannabe?”

“Are you?”

“No. I’m an am one.”

I just looked at him.

“I am. You should ski downhill with me.”

“No, thanks. Especially not now, Mr. Am One. I’d like to remain among the living for a couple more years.”

“But I’ve got the poles. Even if I did start an avalanche, I could pull you out.”

“Do you have a beacon? Or a shovel?”

“No.”

“Then even if you did pull me out, I’d probably end up dying before you could ski for help.”

“Nothing in life is safe. Living isn’t safe. The risk is one hundred percent. We all die in the end.”

“I’d at least like to arrive at death’s door…”

“Safely?” His dimples flashed. Disappeared. Flashed again. He was trying really hard not to laugh.

I scowled at him. “How did you want to pay for these?”

“You kill me. You really do.”

“Did you come in here just to flirt with me?”

Joe reached behind his back and brought his wallet out. Flipping it open, he pulled out a credit card and held it up like a badge. “
And
to buy boots and poles.”

“I’m not interested.”

“In what?”

I took the credit card from him and set it on the counter between us. “Listen to me. I’m only saying this one time. Leave me alone. I’m not interested. In anyone.”

“I’m not just anyone. Come on, Jackie. It’s me, Joe!”

“I’m not interested in you, Joe.”

“Not even a little bit? Give a guy a break.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m
not
.” I could feel my cheeks flush from pink to red before I finished speaking. I took his credit card and ran up the boots, poles, and bindings before I could make myself look even more foolish.

I handed the card to Joe. He took it from me, put it back in his wallet, grabbed the bags, and turned to go. But then he stopped. “You know, you’re making this much more difficult than it has to be.”

“You have no idea how difficult it already is.”

Because if I really, truly weren’t interested in Joe, then why was my heart racing? Why couldn’t I seem to catch my breath whenever I looked into his eyes? Why did my fingers itch to reach up and run furrows through his wavy hair?

After closing up the shop in the evening, I walked back through town, passing an odd mix of architecture. Buildings styled from logs and stucco were suggestive of the Southwest. There were buildings sided with varnished planks, imitating an Alpine look, and hotels topped with onion domes. Looking at them individually, you could imagine yourself to be almost anywhere, but taken as a collective whole, you could only be in Manitou Springs.