Blinding or not blinding, that sunlight meant skiing abandonment. By my calculations, skiers assumed that was it. Time for ski slope suicide.
Ski-lift chairs landed, finally finding refuge from human abuses. They ejected a very questionable statistician, Dr. Howard Winston, who’d vouched for me when the shit hit the fan.
Conceptually, it surprised him that we were too heavy for the mountain to bear. He thought having tenure would save him. I shrugged. The statistician smiled, “Anything has to be better than teaching kids how to figure.”
This was it, apparently. It was our time to go. As far as my own ambitions (to launch my own local food eatery, etc.), it was easier not to accomplish them, probably.
“Dr. Winston,” I acknowledged, but Dr. Winston just winced, which meant that the ski slope avalanche was commencing. Later, statistics would prove that Dr. Winston could’ve saved us by tossing one of his several calculators.