By G.D. Maxwell
It seemed particularly odd to be sitting on Dusty’s patio on a blazing spring day and not see a single soul wearing ski gear. Whistler was open; I could hear the distant din of mechanical activity and feel the force of skiers and boarders working on racoon tans and cramming as many final turns as they could into a perfect spring skiing day.
Mountain’s open, Dusty’s is open, people are skiing, the gondy’s not turning? Something in the equation seemed bizarre. It was as though the day’s new sun had popped up over the wrong mountain, clock hands started turning backward… or George Bush had said something that made sense. Peculiar. A bit unsettling. But nothing another refreshing beverage wouldn’t help set straight.
"There’s a different Zen to spring skiing," I said to no one in particular, there being no one other than myself at the moment to say it to.
"Spring skiing challenges a vast segment of the skiing population who fail to grasp that not so subtle point," I answered, agreeing completely with myself.
"Why do you think that is?" I asked, beginning to get just a little uncomfortable carrying on a Q&A with myself but rationalizing that you’re not really crazy unless you begin talking to yourself out loud.
"Because the key to spring skiing is this: Less is More. That’s a concept that scares the Generation of Swine, my generation, to death. It’s as unsettling to a generation who’s bought into the notion that more is more – but nowhere near enough – as watching a Prius come out of a dustup with a Hummer without a scratch, leaving the Hummer a smouldering heap of scrap.
"To wring the most from spring skiing you have to start late. That’s a hard concept for keeners to grasp but it’s the difference between skiing creamy, forgiving, ego-boosting slurry versus skiing rock-hard ice. Not to dis ice but ice just doesn’t dance to the rhythms of the season. Starting late though is anathema to a generation who heard the clarion call Carpe Deim as Carpe Meim and made it their own."
"Whoa, Dude, that’s too cleaver by half," a gravelly voice behind me said. "But only crazy people talk to themselves. I’d watch it if I were you."
"J.J.?" I asked, already knowing.
"You were talkin’ to yourself, man. People’ll stare at you if you do that too often, ya know?"
"Sorry, I thought I was only thinkin’ to myself. What are you doin’ here?"
Somehow, seeing J.J. on a perfect spring day in a setting I was having trouble figuring out seemed, well, seemed perfectly appropos. J.J. unsettles a setting by his very presence, like a tiny, dark cloud in a perfectly clear sky.
J.J., Whistler’s only private eye and generally scary guy, seemed both pensive and effusive, a rare combination to pull off.
"What’re ya up to these days, J.J.?"
"I’m spookin’ the spooks," he answered.
"Come again?"
"I’m tailin’ the tailers. There’s some new PIs in town, up from the city, and I’m tailin’ them to see what they’re up to."
"That seems weird even for you. What do you care?"
"They’re poachin’ my turf, man. I’m barely making a livin’ up here and they’re movin’ in. What do they know that I don’t? I figured if I tail ’em…."
"You mean to say you’re not the only private eye in town anymore?"
"How many of those have you had, dude? Of course that’s what I’m saying."
"So, what have you found out by keeping an eye on the competition?"
"Well, nothing. I’m going to tail them. Soon. Right now, I’m workin’."
"Which brings me back to the original question, what’cha workin’ on?"
"Dude in a big house hired me to figure out what the heck’s going on with the muni."
"Sounds like your kind of gig… impossible and totally pointless. Hope you got a big retainer."
"Actually it’s kind of cool. Talk about your dysfunctional family. I mean, you’ve got the top dog guy who’s, like, starting to feel frisky and flex his muscles. But talk about shootin’ at the wrong targets. Like the limp microphone thing wasn’t bizarre enough, now he’s all over elevatin’ staff to some sort of untouchable caste and axin’ his main rival from the Housing board because she’s not playin’ ball or is disruptive or whatever.
"In the meantime, the rest of council is pickin’ sides, trying to figure out how to give the appearance of doin’ something. Ya got the feisty one who wants to bring in outsiders to figure out why the family’s so dysfunctional. Ya got the new one who’s internal compass is on the fritz and who’s lost her voice. Ya got the other new one who’s finding his stride and settlin’ in to…"
"It’s fascinating, J.J., but I don’t think I really need a blow-by-blow description of the cast members. Besides, whatever’s going on at muni hall doesn’t have that much to do with the elected ones. If that’s where you’re lookin’, you’re stumblin’ around the wrong alley."
"Yeah, I know. But I’ve gotta start somewhere and trying to fathom the grand fromage is like trying to find vampires at high noon. The dude casts no reflection, dude. It’s like a black hole. I know all power resides there but there’s no way to penetrate the defenses. The Death Star is operational."
"Isn’t that overstating things a bit."
"You think so? What’s the biggest beef you hear about what’s going on in town? Nothing, that’s what. Nothing’s going on. All the balls are up in the air but none of them are coming back down. Gravity’s been suspended. I mean, let’s look at the track record. This council’s dithered half its term away waiting for the CSP. Lots of smoke; no fire. And you can bet when that puppy’s delivered you’ll be looking at a work bound to gather dust on someone’s shelf. Council before that put everything on hold for the Olympics. More smoke. Something else to wait on. The one before that, a grand envisioning of the future. Let’s face it dude, we’re into an endless planning cycle run by an endless planner who’s got the vision but’s never turned a wrench. No one moves; no one gets hurt. Appear to be doing so much no one will actually notice nothing’s getting done at all. Hell even bridge painters eventually get the bridge painted before they start over again."
"I’m having even more trouble following you than usual, J.J."
"Why should you be any different. Hell, the keep’s so well protected by zombie yes men this castle will never fall. It’ll be way too late before enough people get wise to the Wizard’s secret. It’s all illusion."
"Of course it is, J.J. Can I buy you a beer? And change the subject?"
