A Hunt for Tickets

“Sooo…guess what?”Porter phrased to me, outside the ticket window.

“What?” I said.

“Half day ski tickets are $139.” Porter informed me.

“My god…yeah, I can’t afford that.” I ached, grasping for some type of solution.

Lake Tahoe was pummeled with snow over the previous few days, providing ample powder for all skiers. In addition, the weather was comfortable: beers were drank on the Squaw Village patios. It was a perfect weekend for skiing, except for the fact that we hadn’t seized tickets yet.

I swooped down to the closest parking lot, aiming to hustle a couple of tickets. I scanned the perimeter and approached any departing skier. I was hopeful.

“Hey, can I buy your ticket?” I said.

A common response was: “Sorry, I have a season pass.”

No dice; the hunt carried on. The time was nearing towards 1 p.m. and the chairlift shuts down at 4. I expected more people to call it quits around this time, but my parking-lot scavenger hunt provided no results. Eventually, I mousey back towards the outdoor patio, where Porter and Becca were drinking, to reconfigure our search.

They milked their beers, as I attempted to galvanize them with a sense of urgency. The ski conditions were too optimum to pass up. I rose from my chair and scalped outside of the bar patio, shamelessly.

“Hey, does anyone have a ticket that I can buy off them?” I hollered, aimlessly at the incoming crowds.

I turned back at Porter and Becca as they watched on.

“Hey, you need a ticket?” A man in his mid-thitires asked me.

I approached him, uneasy about what his proposition might be.

“Umm, uhh, yeah, how much do you want for it?” I inquired.

“You can just have it.” He proposed.

I offered him some money and at the very least, a beer at the bar, but he declined my compensations. I shook his hand, thanking him for his generosity.  I flaunted the winning ticket at Porter and Becca, and in moments, they guzzled their beers and charged out of the patio.

Within the next twenty minutes, we scored two more tickets off of two worn-out skiers. It was roughly 1:30, with a couple hours worth of skiing still remaining. I buckled on my boots, strapped on my helmet, and lugged my skis and poles to the chairlift. I had never skied out west, I thought.


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