Uganda Be Kidding Me

  As I passed others who were skiing together, I felt sorry for them for being so dependent on each other.

  Once I was able to eye the base of the mountain and the main chairlift, I felt elated. I skied right down and made a sharp left to cut into the singles line. Single, sexy, skiing, and headed south, I thought. I saw the run at the bottom. Here we go. I’m doing it and living it. You go, girl.

  When I had advanced far enough in line to actually board the lift, I shimmied up to a couple and asked if I could share their chair.

  “Lift ticket?” the ski lift operator asked me when we got to the front of the line.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Lift ticket!” he yelled over the noise of the machinery.

  “I don’t have a lift ticket. I’ve been skiing here for two days, and no one has asked me for a lift ticket.” That was a lie.

  “I’m staying at.…” I had no idea whose house I was staying at. “His house is up there.” I motioned uphill. “He’s a member, and I’m his guest.” The couple I was hoping to tag along with had already moved onto the chairlift and and left me behind. People behind me in line were shuffling past me, realizing long before I did that my argument was futile, and without a lift ticket I was not getting up the mountain. In an effort to use my fame as a form of expression, I took off my safety helmet.

  At this juncture, it dawned on me that I was humiliating myself. I dejectedly shuffled my skis in the opposite direction of the lift, through the skiers who were all in line to get on the lift (who all had lift tickets). This involved what is essentially referred to as cross-country skiing, something I loathe. Once I got to the back of the line, it was a pretty clear shot to the main lodge in sight. Someone there would surely be able to help someone like me.

  Trying to maintain the day’s spirit of self-confidence and self-reliance, I reminded myself that I was a grown woman who could handle this.

  I took my skis off and lumbered through the front door. “Hi,” I said to the woman at the front desk. “What’s the deal?”

  “Hi there,” she responded cheerfully. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, I’m staying at a house in Yellowstone Club and I was told we didn’t need any lift tickets here to ski. Is that correct?”

  “I don’t really know. You’re in Big Sky.”

  “What is that?”

  “Big Sky, Montana.”

  “Is that in Montana?”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed, excited we were finally agreeing on something.

  “And where is Yellowstone Club?”

  “That’s a private ski club that is next door to Big Sky. I’m pretty sure it’s that way,” she said and pointed to her left.

  I followed her hand and looked out the window, seeing nothing but skiers and snow. “Do you have any idea if I can ski over there?”

  “Yes, I’m sure you can.”

  “Do you know how I can do that?” I asked her very slowly.

  The very nice lady found another very nice lady who gave me instructions on how to get back to Yellowstone Club.

  “You can purchase an all-day pass or a one-lift pass. All you really need is a lift pass because at the top of this lift, you will need to bear left on Rocky Mountain Fever. It will take you through the woods and there will be several runs to your left, but don’t take them.”

  I checked in my pockets and found two hundred-dollar bills. Another reason to pat myself on the back. I separated the bills from the Fritos and thought about taking a bite of one, and then thought better of it. Who knew where the day would take me, and I didn’t want to end up like that guy who had to eat his own arm.

  I bought the lift pass, thanked the two women profusely and then returned to the chairlift that had rejected me earlier.

  “Hello again,” I said to the chair operator from earlier, exposing my day pass. “Guess who’s got a lift ticket?”

  “You just have a one-lift pass,” he told me, eyeing my newly applied sticker.

  “That’s because I’m going back to Yellowstone Club. That’s where I thought I was actually.” I didn’t know why this guy was being such a dick, since people at ski resorts are usually quite the opposite, but I somehow manage to always bring out the worst in people.

  Once on the lift—alone—I called my half-black lover on his phone to ask for instructions on what my next move should be.

  “I’m in Montana,” I told him.

  “Right. What’s the problem?”

  “Sorry. I mean, I’m in Blue Sky, Montana—ski resort. I’m not in Yellowstone Club.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I did what you told me to do and skied right out of the house and down the mountain.”

  “You were supposed to cross over the mountain and go all the way to your right.”

  “Well, I don’t think I did that.”

  “Okay, well, can you find a run called Goldfinger?”

  “They told me to take Rocky Mountain Fever. I’m just going to follow their directions.”

  “Why don’t I just have someone come and get you?”

  “No, no, no, it’s not a big deal. I’ll just ski over to you,” I told him. “They gave me directions. If I get lost, I’ll call you.”

  It was important for me to do this on my own. My reliance on other people was driving me to drink… more… and I desperately craved being self-sufficient. Plus, there was no reason Benjamin needed to know what kind of basket case he was really dealing with. After what happened on the plane, I had the upper hand and I wanted to keep it that way.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll do this run a few more times until I hear from you.”

  “Cheers,” I said, and hung up.

  I followed the woman’s instructions precisely and stayed left, but somehow when I skied down the mountain, I ended up at the exact same chairlift I had just come from.

  I went back to reboard the same chair lift, only to be told by the same asshole that I had purchased a one-way lift ticket and not a day pass. Once again, I found myself clumsily side-stepping past the people behind me in order for me to traverse back to the original lodge and buy a fucking day pass.

  Then I called Benjamin, who I was now reduced to calling Ben, to inform him that things were becoming more complicated than I had expected. I told him it would be easier for me to just ski at Big Sky for the day, as I had now purchased a day pass. He told me that was ridiculous and that he was coming to get me.

  This new lover of mine was being very helpful. I found it sweet, but I was also happy that I was having such a good time all by myself and not panicking at the idea that I was definitely lost and had no idea where I was going. I tried to recall if I had taken an ecstasy tablet by mistake.

  “No, it’s fine,” I told him. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “This isn’t a caper movie, Chelsea.”

  I ignored this comment because it made no sense at all. “Let me just meet you,” I insisted.

  I felt we had already spoken too many times that day for two people who barely knew each other, and I hung up the phone.

  I got a map when I purchased my second lift ticket of the day. The chairlift operator was more sympathetic this time around. He told me there was a wooden fence that ran the length of the property separating the two resorts and that if I followed the fence, there would eventually be an opening. “Or you can hop over it, but I didn’t tell you that,” he said. “If you see a parking lot, you’re going in the right direction.”

  Two runs and thirty-five minutes later, I was at the bottom of a run facing a parking lot.

  I saw something peeking out of the snow across the parking lot and it looked like the top of one of those wooden livestock fences. I looked at the empty parking lot, which had been snowplowed and barely had any snow on it, and thought, Fuck it. This is going to have to lead somewhere.

  I just had to get to the other side of the parking lot. At this point I didn’t give a shit about ruining the bottom of my skis. I
had never skied on cement, and I have to say if snow didn’t exist, people would have ended up skiing on pavement. It was a lot of fun.

  The terrain gradually turned from pavement into four feet of snow. Luckily, I wasn’t going fast enough to do anything more than shock myself when I plowed into the fence. In conjunction with this discovery, I looked up to discover that a couple of feet to my right was a DO NOT ENTER sign. This is usually the indicator for me that I’m headed in the right direction.

  I leaned on the fence and tried to figure out how I was going to get over it and on to the other side, where I could see a road and a house. I tried to lift one leg up with the ski on, but I would have to have been able to do a back flip and have a leg attached to one of my ears.

  I decided that I was going to get over that fucking fence. I unclicked both of my skis and did what every ski guide tells you not to do in deep snow: I stepped out of the skis, took one step, and dropped to my waist in snow. This is exactly the kind of shit that always happens to me, I thought. There was no one in sight, and I was submerged in snow. This had basically turned into the female version of Into the Wild. “Help!” I screamed.

  It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, but by grabbing the fence, I was able to pull myself up until I was spread-eagled facedown on the bottom wooden beam of the fence.

  From that position, I grabbed both skis and poles and tossed them as close to the road as I could. Then I managed to maneuver myself so I was sitting on top of the fence. I took stock of my situation. There was about six feet between me and the snowplowed road. I had to get myself from the fence to the road without drowning in the snow. I lunged as far forward into the snow as I could. I landed face-first but close to my poles, which I used to get myself up. I then trudged onto the road.

  I looked around for somewhere to sit but there wasn’t a chair in sight, so I just fell over on my side in the middle of the road and lay there like a melting snowwoman. I tried to think of a worse experience I had had in life, and all I could come up with was a James Franco art exhibit.

  I collected myself and stood up. I wiped all the snow from my body and my ski bindings and made sure my boots were secure, and then I got my shit together.

  Through the trees on the other side of the house I could see people skiing, and it was clear what needed to happen. I pushed off with my poles in order to get into the deeper snow, and once I hit it, I took off through the backyard of this person’s house, going past all their back windows rather fast. The house was huge, so I just kept my eyes straight ahead and prayed to god if anyone was home they didn’t watch Chelsea Lately.

  The terrain changed slightly, and the surface underneath suddenly felt quite unfamiliar. I realized after looking behind me that I was skiing over a tarp-covered pool. The woods were straight ahead, and I kept my speed up in order to get the hell out of this person’s backyard. I ducked when I hit the trees and got through to the other side. I saw signs lining the run that read YELLOWSTONE CLUB.

  “I made it!” I yelled to the sky. “I made it!” I got down to the bottom of the run, where the chairlift attendee confirmed I was in fact in Yellowstone Club. The main lodge was just one lift away. I could smell a margarita. I took out the two Fritos and noticed they had a pungent aroma. I put my hand back in my pocket and pulled out a bud of weed. I hadn’t skied since the season before, so the pot must have been in my ski jacket for many months. I liked this prospect. A lot.

  By now, it had started to blizzard, so I asked the next person I saw to take a picture of me. This is it:

  I found Benjamin at the bar in the main lodge where I had a margarita and a bite to eat. Feeling warmed up from my adventure, I asked if we could take a few runs together.

  Benjamin was very concerned about me, and knowing what I knew, I felt he had every right to be. I gave him the breakdown, which was wildly amusing, especially since the outcome was so positive.

  Once we were back on the chairlift to go to the top of the mountain, Benjamin went radio silent.

  “What’s your story?” I asked, as I saw his fists close and eyes shut. “Uh-oh.”

  “Please don’t speak until we’re off the lift,” he told me.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “What’s the problem now?”

  “I’m scared of heights, Chelsea. I’ll be fine once we’re off the lift.”

  “Why would someone who’s scared of heights go skiing?”

  “I like to face my fears, Chelsea. Please… stop… talking.”

  “No problem.”

  We had just gotten on the lift and had at least twenty minutes to go before we got to the top. Having had a long history with myself, I knew if I had found a bud in one pocket, there would be a lighter in another pocket, and you know what? I was right. I took the little map I had grabbed earlier, ripped it in half, and rolled myself a joint. Benjamin didn’t say a word until we got close to the top, which he must have sensed, because he opened one eye to confirm our location. I’m not exaggerating when I say that he was violently shaking by the time we were getting ready to disembark.

  Once we were off and skiing he was a completely different person, and he was actually a really good skier. But that didn’t matter. It was over for me.

  That night at dinner, he suggested we go helicopter-skiing the next day. For those of you who don’t know what that is, heli-skiing is where they take you in a helicopter and drop you at the highest point of the mountain, and then you ski down. I nearly spit out my wine.

  “Benjamin,” I said, as delicately as possible, “I have to be honest with you. I don’t have enough drugs to go heli-skiing with you.”

  “It’s important to face your fears,” he informed me.

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s true. But isn’t it pointless if your fear never subsides?”

  “I suppose you have a point, although I won’t stop trying.”

  “That’s admirable,” I told him gently. “But it seems like the only two things you and I do well together are dance and fuck. So let’s just do that.”

  That was the last time I saw Benjamin, but I will never forget that day as one of the best of my life. After everything that happened, I didn’t cry, I didn’t get scared, and I was confident even in my darkest moments that I was a grown woman who would get myself out of a bind without very much help. I had no idea one could ski over a pool, and I had no idea I could actually dance.

  This is the thank-you note I sent Benjamin a week later:

  Dear Benjamin,

  Thank you for taking me skiing in MONTANA. But more importantly, thank you for giving me rhythm. I haven’t stopped dancing since I met you, and people are loving it.

  XX, Chelsea

  I still have never been to Yellowstone National Park. I may never go.

  CHAPTER 11

  TRAPPED IN BEL AIR

  I woke up on a Sunday morning in my bed and felt something sharp in my underwear. When I put my hand down there to see what it was, I found my Invisalign.

  It was Emmy weekend. The previous night I had gone out with three of my girlfriends to one of the Emmy parties that are thrown every year.

  I had left the party around midnight and came home to my house, which was empty because my lesbian was off gallivanting with her new lover (also a lesbian).

  After I danced alone in front of the mirror in my bedroom for close to forty-five minutes, I decided to go through all my old photo albums, and I found some very insightful pictures.

  At around 1:30, I felt my Xanax kicking in, and like any responsible adult I got into bed. Then I heard my driveway gate open, heard a car in my driveway, and saw the beams of light eking through my window shades. It was exactly the way I’ve always seen my life ending—being murdered and raped in my own home—after dancing alone.

  This is proof that I did indeed graduate from high school and that my brother Glen was the founder of Al Qaeda.

  Proof that I was in fact bat-mitzvahed…

  … and proof that I did actually break
my arm. If you look closely in the left corner, you can see the cast.

  At two, I was already grabbing life by the balls, or at least by the ball.

  Proof that I had some serious problems very early on. Age eight.

  This is it, I thought. This is the end. I pulled down my eyeshades and willed myself to go to sleep. If I’m going to get raped and killed, I was intent on sleeping through it.

  The next morning when I woke up alive, I ran through the sequence of events trying to figure out why my Invisalign was in my underwear. I deduced that I hadn’t in fact tried to go down on myself but had put my mouthpiece in my underwear as a protective shield/bite plate against whoever was going to attack me.

  Every Sunday morning I play tennis at ten, so I had no time to ruminate—it was onward and upward. I sauntered downstairs and fed both dogs. I didn’t notice any foul play until I walked outside to my driveway and saw that my car was missing.

  Aha! I knew I wasn’t crazy. Someone had actually broken through my security gate and stolen my car. I would have to call the police after tennis and file a report. I reasoned that the lease was up on my Bentley, so the responsibility of finding the perpetrators might not even be on my shoulders. I walked down the driveway and across the street to play tennis on my neighbor’s court.

  When I returned from tennis, I noticed that my friend Shmitney’s Mercedes SUV was in my driveway behind where my car would normally be. I hadn’t noticed earlier, because I must have been more focused on the fact that my driveway had been vandalized. I realized that she must have left her car at my house the night before when she came over to get ready with me. My driver, Billy, had picked us up from the house and taken us to the party. Shmitney’s SUV was blocking the only other two modes of transportation available: Lesbian Shelly’s Mercedes, and her Harley-Davidson.