Possible replies:MeandYou know it!
“Oh, wow. What an ass face.”
Knox grunts. “I don’t really give a shit. But my dad just called and naturally is of the opinion that we can’t let something like this stand. Now I have to write something, and I have no idea how it works.”
“Seriously? You’re a star snowboarder, you’ve got…” I hit the back button and look at his own profile, “seven hundred thousand followers, and you don’t know how to do a poll?”
He pouts. “Help me.”
I laugh. “Okay. Take a photo from your own gallery or just take a new one. Wait a sec.” Our faces appear on the display as I switch camera positions. I change the angle so that only half of my face is visible next to his and scowl. The moment I push the button, Knox looks at me and laughs. It’s…a cute photo. Even if I hardly recognize myself. “Right, and now…”
“Wait.” Knox reaches for my hand before I cover the photo with a sticker. My heart plummets three floors down. He clears his throat, takes his phone, and turns it away from me. Then he gives it back.
“What did you do?”
He ignores my question. “So, how does this poll thing work?”
“Here, look. You see? These are stickers. You click on them and find one you like.”
“Okay, cool.” Once again he takes his phone back, clicks on the poll, and types:Who takes their big mouth too far?Answers:Jason HawkandThe Cheshire Cat.
Men.
We spend the trip downtown in silence, an embarrassing one that I try to break here and there with questions about tomorrow night’s event. It turns out that there are going to be a few of his sponsors, so, all in all, some fairly big fish. Knox asks me whether I know what I would like to serve already. When I reply that, in fact, I have no idea, he recommends a pot roast. “Those guys love that stuff. Especially Big Po.”
“Big Po?” Whenever I think of sponsors, I get the image of serious men in serious suits. Big Po sounds more like some big high-school football player. “Do I really need a dress when the guests have names like Big Po?”
Knox laughs. “That’s not really his name.”
Nooo, really?
“His real name is Dr. Edward Hansing.”
“Which would naturally lead one to think Big Po, I mean, of course.”
“He’s an insider.” He stops on a side street by the bell tower. William is right in the middle of having a lively discussion with a street musician. “Postands forpotato, actually.”
“Do I need to know what Dr. Edward Hansing and potatoes have in common?”
Knox grins. “I don’t think so.”
We get out, and Knox moves around his car to me. In the glow of the iron streetlamps, I see the snow whirl around him, a single flake landing on his cheek. He wipes it away and smiles. I catch myself wanting to reach out and caress his dimples. The thought frightens me.
“We’ve got to motor a bit,” Knox says with a glance at the big clock on the bell tower. “The shops are closing.”
“But that’s justnuts, William,” we hear the musician saying as we walk past. “You can’t mean that at all seriously.”
“It’s in the municipal code,” William responds severely. “It has been in the municipal code for years, and for years street musicians have respected it.”
“But I am theonlystreet musician in Aspen.”
William shakes his head in exasperation. Then he notices us. “Knox, how nice. Could you please tell Vaughn that he needs to respect the municipal code?”
“What’s up?”
A deep sigh breaks from the musician as he leans against his guitar case with his underarm. “I was singing Christmas songs. William, however, is of the view that that is only allowed from the twentieth of December onward. Any sooner,” he made quotation marks in the air, “and the municipal code forbids it.”
“Oh, Will,” Knox says. “Really? Right now?”
