Fiction courtesy sugarloaf, Jamie Walter w i n t e r g u i d e 2 0 1 9 9 3 Eastern Bluebird By bruce pratt W hen I heard Tommy Hibbert’s raspy, rhythmic taunt, “Look who…waits for East- ern Blue…to join the crew…it’s Lazy Pru,” I dropped my skis and ducked for the snowball. I dodged the first, but the second grazed my helmet. “Prudhomme, you slacker,” Hibs shouted as he skated toward me. “Time you got off the couch, pinhead.” “Go back to bed,” I said. Hibs slid to a stop. “Working the race or poaching fresh corduroy?” “I’m TD,” I said. “Figured you’d given up officiating. Got too soft to play outside, you goat roper.” I tugged off my right glove. “Hand surgery. Couldn’t ski until late January. This is the first race I knew I could make.” “We had ten events in February,” Hibbert said. He stuffed a chew into his jaw. “They let you do that?” I asked. “Think they’ll fire me the week before Nationals?” Hibs is the last of the ski bums from the winter of ’92-’93 who still works at the mountain. His crew’s average age can’t be twenty-two. He’s fifty-three, same age as me. Five-ten, 165, wind-creased, and greying, Hibs can accomplish more than any two of his charges and will work all day in subzero temps to ensure a race is run by the book—for three bucks over mini- mum wage. “Don’t know, Hibs,” I said. “They should can you so the guests can’t see your ugly mug.” He arched his eyebrows. “Sandy Miller doesn’t think it’s ugly,” he said. “I’m living at her place in Little Creek.” “You swore you’d never live off mountain.” “Love works in mysterious ways, Pru, and it’s rent-free.” “Sounds more like mooching than love.” Hibs slipped on his aviators. “Don’t fret, there’s plenty of loving. Making it legal this spring. Don’t be a pain in my ass today, and you might get invited.” “Don’t know whether to congratulate you or offer Sally my condolences,” I said. “Your call, Pru, but listen up. Betsy Rounds is setting first run. She takes forever. Make her send them straight as you can so we get done before Reggae Weekend.” Hibs tapped his chest pack. “Jury channel’s three. Don’t wear it out.” He skated toward the lift. For March events, you ride the chair in the light instead of cramming into a box-cat at O- Dark-Thirty, and even with a rash of falls and gate repairs, the race is done before the light gets sketchy. And though wearied from a long winter, the crew is re-energized by the East- ern Bluebird days—full sun, highs in 30s—soft-but-stable snow and more time to free ski. With National’s looming, Hibs would give his guys time off and rely more on volunteers to work the kid’s races. The youth coaches would be winding down or “halfway to the beach,” as Hibs liked to say, and most of the lower-seeded kids would be looking forward to sleeping