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There was something about the mountains. Something about that little town nestled in a valley, and the little towns around it, and all the roads leading into the thicket. Something about Vince’s hilltop chateau dropped in the middle of nowhere. There was a spirit to the mountains, and like a whisper from a friend, quiet yet powerful. That spirit—that whisper—is why I came to Colorado. To deny it would be wrong.
After she sang that night, I stayed at Suza
I was invited to a party later that week, again at Vince’s. I realized then there was no weekdays or weekend with these people. None of them seemed to have to wake up early for anything, be it a Tuesday or a Saturday. Work was a necessary part of adult life, no matter how freethinking you fancied yourself, but I hadn’t yet heard anyone mention a job. There was no week or weekend, just one constant stream of life, socialization, and partying.
I drove up to Frisco and checked into a motel. Suza
My first morning in the hotel, I awoke without an alarm just after dawn and stepped outside for a walk. The air was cool, almost cold, which I was not used to in the summer. At over nine thousand feet of elevation, I was begi
I strolled down to Lake Dillon, a conspicuously large body of water that the highway wrapped around. It was early, but there were already boats hoisting up sails and navigating slowly through what little wind there was. The sun reflected off their white canvas, and again off the tiny ripples in the water. I made a mental note to get myself on a sailboat.
I stopped into a bagel shop and got a coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I ate and drank and read the local newspaper, sca
It was a small walk-up studio, in a natural wood building with a shared porch. The complex was near downtown Otter Ridge, but a mile off the main road. It felt secluded. The agent was tired-eyed but helpful, no doubt just starting her day. She held a large coffee and wore a fla
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Vince put me in touch with a man named Wes, who managed the Lounge, another bar in town. I went to see him one afternoon about a job.
“You know Vince?” he asked from behind the bar. He was a handsome man. Strong. Brown hair slicked back, sleeves rolled up, tattoos down his forearms. Short stubble on his face.
I nodded.
He looked satisfied. “Friend ‘a his is a friend ‘a mine. You got any experience?”
I nodded again. “A little. Back in college, in New Hampshire.”
“You from out east?” He loaded glasses into a washing machine.
“Yeah. New York most recently.”
His eyes brightened. “You bartend in New York?”
“No. I was…something else. A financial analyst.”
He looked puzzled.
I paused. “It’s like…a stockbroker.”
“Hot damn,” he said. “The hell are ya doing here?”
He gave me a job. The pay was low, but there would be tips. I would start Friday.
For two weeks I worked nights and explored during daytime. I hiked around the area, kicking around trails, gaining elevation, and stopping frequently to breathe. The views were gorgeous, and the trails uncrowded. I liked the feeling it gave me, to go up and gasp for air and sweat. I didn’t scale any mountain peaks, but there was always a reward—a lower summit or a big rock to sit on. One morning I saw a herd of elk, and fumbled with my camera until they moved on.
The job was fine. At first it was exciting, almost adrenaline inducing; it had been so long since I’d been behind a bar, slinging drinks to thirsty customers, sweating as I paced from one end to the other. I had to relearn certain drinks, get familiar with the computer system, and be on my feet for six or seven hours at a time, while trying to keep a bar full of patrons happy and drunk. The wall of people waiting for drinks was often two bodies deep. It was the opposite of staring at numbers and sitting at meetings, and in that way, it was excellent. But as the days went on, the work got monotonous, and I mostly opened bottles of light beer and mixed vodka with sweet liquids. I calculated the money I was making, and it would be enough to cover my rent and necessities, but not much extra. I remembered why I took the Wall Street job in the first place.
And then there were more parties, or gatherings, or soirees, or whatever, always at McNeil’s or Vince’s place in the hills. To each I was invited. Sometimes I didn’t go, but sometimes I did. With Suza
I didn’t plan on taking a girlfriend while I was still legally married, for whatever sort of salvaged decency that was worth. My justification about seeing Suza
Suza
Still, we spent time together, and attended the parties together. And it was at one of these parties when Vince approached me about making runs.
It was supposed to seem as if I was approaching him, and at the time that’s exactly how it felt. But looking back, I know it was his plan, regardless of who initiated that very conversation. He’d planted the seed that night at McNeil’s, and he knew what would happen. He was very good.