Post 88 / Hour 90: Slippery Slope
By Barbara Samuels
Port St. Lucie, Florida
[Barbara submitted this story for our fourth flash humor writing competition on the theme of “Bad Tourists.”]
Our local ski club rented a bus to travel six hours to the peaks of New Hampshire. Suffice it to say we arrived higher than the mountains we planned on skiing. Being hung over and a novice skier is never a good combo, but off I headed for what was to be my both my first and last run of the day.
Exhibiting no fear, I didn’t get off at the first station designated for beginners. I also didn’t lift my poles. Consequently the chair lift ran over them, leaving me with two pieces of L-shaped metal, now rendered useless.
At the summit I felt off the chair, belly-flopped to the ground, and split the backside of my pants in the process. My mitten, which had frozen to the bar, stayed behind and wisely took the chair lift back to safety.
I stood at the top with one bare hand, two bent poles and three different looks of terror on my face, while snow from the now blizzard-like conditions battered both sets of exposed cheeks.
The entire way down I crashed and burned. At one point I bit my tongue creating enough blood to satiate Bella and Edward. Exhausted and still out of control, I approached a beginner class lined up for instruction. I proceeded to run over twelve pairs of skis, knocking down student after student like metallic figures at a shooting gallery. To my surprise, the instructor took off his mitten. Apparently he wanted to share my experience as well as his middle finger.
During the ordeal, I had seen the light. And I followed it right into the pub.
Did I mention it was St. Patrick’s Day?
I cried into my first green beer, laughed along with the second three, and sang No Nay Never with additional rounds. I began to mingle with the locals who were also celebrating. I vaguely remember a three-legged race and a canoe. I must have won because I had a green ribbon hanging from the waistband of my ripped pants.
As I admired my prize — which at closer inspection appeared not to be a ribbon, but a wad of green toilet paper — a ski-club buddy appeared. Without warning he stripped, handed me his clothes and proceeded to prance around the bar. I cheered him on until I realized when he was finished he would be circling back to retrieve his clothing.
Every drunk has her lucid moment, this was mine. Enough. I ditched his clothes and made a quick exit.
It was a quiet bus ride home. Our group received a nice letter from the resort, asking us to find another place to ski in the future.
I never went skiing again. I gave up alcohol. And despite his shortcomings, the streaker and I got married. We played No Nay Never at our wedding.
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