Gavin Gibson    
   
 


Headlong into a winter of driveway hopping and shower sharing, the meticulous planning of my downtime rotation comes unraveled with one note.

“People with cars live here.”

Public parking isn't very public if someone has a house on the other side of the sidewalk. Bozeman has become so damn civilized that it's unconscionable for someone to round an extra corner with their own feet due to the lack of consideration by other people with cars. Either way, my less-than-stealthy home has finally become noticed, and I fear I'm only a late night window knock away from the title of public menace.

So, when Friday comes with clerical error that artificially inflates my bank account for at least an extra three days, I make a run for it.

History teaches us that there's always a chance my money won't be there when I go to withdraw it, and I sure as hell know the money I gamble with won't topple any markets.


The bank never tells you that the overdraft fees are cheaper than the Fast Cash place in your local Corporate Multiplex next to the Olive Garden and in front of the Best Buy/Amc24/Petco combo. You don't need to pawn off your guitar to have a good time, and if you checked the “Overdraft Protection” box, sometimes you'll receive a free short-term loan.

Stop.

What is this, anarchy?

History teaches us that there's always a chance my money won't be there when I go to withdraw it, and I sure as hell know the money I gamble with won't topple any markets.

I'm already jittery before I take my coffee, and climb down the ladder of experimental money management. Doors on the van slam the same today as any other, but I wanna go. Go. Go. I keep my passing in no passing lanes to a minimum. We'll call it risk management.

Midnight arrivals make for shitty sleep, sounding like spirits splashing ice and glasses clinking. Flames drowned, bags unrolled, butts burnt, engine off. Extra stumble to steps and lights out.



Powder Mountain, Utah is best for the brunch skiing crowd. Too much space and not enough skiers. Record low tide doesn't matter when there's nobody in the line-up. We spend most of the day right under the chair. Storms turn to sun, and we turn 'til sunset.

 

Thomas only gets a mild tazing at the Shooting Star Bar. He admits he was asking for it but the shock in his face is just as electric. We still staple dollars to the ceiling. Not everyone gets zapped with a smile from big breasted bartenders.


The couple hot-tub-poaching outside my window erupt in joy with the sunrise. Say anything about Utah's watered-down beer but for some reason I'm just not sharing their enthusiasm for the solar cycle today. Bacon sizzle, snap. Cold beer because it's Sunday, Crack.

The traffic in Little Cottonwood Canyon is nearly clear by 10:30 and so is my head. Sorta. Alta is for tired arms. The High Traverse—a high speed game of ski hopscotch, and one of Alta's more premiere terrain conundrums—swallows pole-less Thomas and instead of blindly down climbing cliff faces with the rest of us, he skis powder. The rest of the day is restricted to high speed laughter.

Monday morning comes with the empty bank account I'm supposed to have, and a stack of smiles that can't be returned, making me all the richer.


Gavin Gibson

   
   
 

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