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Half Awake (standard:other, 0 words)
Author: AJAdded: May 31 2001Views/Reads: 2364/1314Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Two friends bond in a time of crisis.

Half awake, I poured myself a bowl of Fruity Pebbles.  Ceetee was
sprawled across the couch, spooning Ben & Jerry’s chocolate-chip cookie 
dough ice cream directly from the container, watching The Price is 
Right.  I sat on her Burton forward-tilt thick maroon snowboard socked 

“Ice cream...for breakfast, Ceetee?” I asked dubiously. 

The ice cream, Fruity Pebbles, packages of Cup O’ Noodles, Rice-A-Roni,
macaroni and cheese, jujubes, and the carton of Marlboro Lights that 
lined the cabinets and freezer were a result of yesterday’s celebratory 
shopping spree.  We were celebrating our newfound independence, and the 
fifty dollars a day EACH my parents had left for us.  Seeing Ceetee’s 
exuberance at our freedom, I’d pushed away the nagging thought that 
maybe my brother was really badly hurt if my parents, within hours of 
hearing the news of his accident, had so freely shed their money and 
their youngest child to fly to the hospital in Nebraska. 

Ignoring my ice cream question, Ceetee gave me her daily weather
forecast and fashion suggestion.  She liked to watch SkiTV, the 
Snowmass channel, which listed conditions, weather and grooming reports 
each morning. 

“It’s going to be warm and sunny today.  You should wear your red
tee-shirt and your black ski pants...and bring your grey sweater.” 

I took deep breaths of the thin, Rocky Mountain air as I clicked my
boots on.  My parents had left us Ski School tickets to use while they 
were gone, but Ceetee and I had unanimously voted down Ski School.  For 
one thing, they always put Ceetee in a lower class than me, no matter 
how much we complained, and for another, we always ran into the 
butt-touch instructor, who had been feeling our asses since we were 
ten.  We were thirteen, plenty old enough to ski alone. 

“Some people call me the Space Cowboy Some call me the gangster of love
Some people call me Maurice...” 

Ceetee and I ignored the annoyed glances of the people in the chairs in
front and behind us as we “ree-reed” at the top of our lungs. We swung 
our legs, making the chair rock dangerously, and threw snowballs at the 
skiers below.  We lit up our Marlboro Lights, our cheeks vibrating and 
sneezing out our noses to keep from coughing when we inhaled by 
accident.  We crunched our frozen strawberry mentos, and screamed at 
people we thought looked loserly (“Hey white shirt!  Hey white shirt!  
Do you think that hat is ugly enough?”). 

We went down Garrett’s Gulch, our favorite trail, a dozen times, skiing
straight down the huge moguls without turning, and helped each other up 
when we fell, harvesting sunglasses, mittens, and hats off the snow.  
We chatted with the lift operator, Tim, every time we finished, making 
fun of the lame trivia questions he scrawled on the dry-erase board 
daily—name all seven dwarves—and struggled to answer them correctly. 

With all of our money, we went into Aspen on the shuttle bus, splurging
on really cool sunglasses—mine had purple lenses and clear frames, and 
Ceetee’s were silver with black frames.  We ate hot pretzels from the 
Caboose, licking fake cheese off our fingers.  We walked boldly into 
bars, marveling at how the bartenders carelessly poured us beers, 
despite our obvious youth.  We chose the beers with the most 
interesting names...Pig’s Eye, or Zima.  They were disgusting.  When 
Ceetee wasn’t looking, I’d pour mine into her glass.  When I wasn’t 
looking, she’d pour hers into mine. 

We searched every inch of the town in search of celebrities, ignoring
Sylvester Stallone at the supermarket, not caring about Maria Striver 
in the Heather gallery, and shrieking as we attacked Will Smith on the 
streets.  We went to Skifoto and ordered mugs with the picture of Will 
and us on them. 

My parents called every day. 

“How’s Kevin?  Can I talk to him?” 

“No, honey, he’s still getting over his surgery.” 

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