“Our pleasure,” Vince said, and the others agreed before going back to their own conversations.
“Julian,” she said, turning back to me, “how ever was the trek?”
“Not bad,” I said. “It gets easier.”
“Well, I don’t know when you’ll quit this ruse and just move to the mountains.”
This was the third time I’d interacted with these people, and they were asking me to move to their town. The line between flattering and creepy was hard to place.
I motioned to Vince. “We were discussing that, actually.”
“I think it’s a splendid idea,” she said. “Skip the drive, be with friends. You have no ties to Boulder.”
I nodded and said I’d think it over. Then the piano started again, and she was back to the stage.
15
The next day, I packed my things. It was easy, being they all fit in a single duffel bag, but it felt symbolic. In the late afternoon, I said goodbye to Anthony and Julia, thanked them profusely for their hospitality, and told them they must come visit once I got settled. They said it was their pleasure, come back anytime, and of course they’d come visit. They stood on their front porch and waved as I drove away.
Vince was right. Suzanne was right. There was no reason to waste my time in Boulder anymore. I was a burden on my cousin and his wife, and I had no job, nothing to occupy my time, and no prospects. There was nothing for me there. I could be unemployed anywhere, and I had no problem paying for a place to stay, at least not yet.
They were not creepy. They were good, salt-of-the-earth people who wanted what was best for me, no matter how fresh our relationship was. I needed to start accepting people’s goodwill rather than shunning it.
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 Suzanne’s place. A little apartment between Frisco and Otter Ridge she shared with another woman who wasn’t home. Everyone hung around the bar for an hour after she finished then disbanded. When we got to her apartment, we split a bottle of wine, listened to Patsy Cline on vinyl, and went to bed.
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. Suzanne pushed me to stay with her while I looked for apartments, but it was best to decline. I enjoyed her company, but it seemed presumptive. I thought about Megan, and what she might be doing right then. I thought about Brent. If I stopped moving for long enough, I’d feel the pull of loss. I’d start to miss her. So I kept moving.
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 beginning to learn the temperature could swing wildly from day to night. The sun was shining over the tops of the pines, and the weather forecast called for a high of seventy-eight degrees.
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, scanning the real estate listings for rentals. The pickings were slim and the prices were steep. After breakfast I called the phone numbers of three apartments in my price range. There was one answer, so I got my car and met the agent at the property.
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 flannel button-down. In my wrinkle-free dress shirt and designer jeans, I was dressed nicer than she was, and again I was the one who felt out of place. The apartment, she said, was just under seven hundred square feet, but it felt even smaller. The amenities were nice, if a touch rustic; clean and working appliances that were only a decade out of date, natural finished walls, and dusty hardwood floors. It was partially furnished—a bed, small couch, and one dresser—which suited me perfectly. I loved it, put a deposit down on the spot, and agreed to move in the next day.
16
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 Suzanne, always, entering together and leaving together, a regular couple. Except we weren’t.