On the second full moon of the new year of 1975, there was another fateful knock on my door. Captain Goosebag was looking for a partner for an overnight cross-country ski trip.
I should tell you right away that I was probably not his first choice as companion on such an adventure.
You can readily imagine that anyone called Captain Goosebag, lauded far and wide as such a daring mocker of authority, would normally have nothing to do with Peabody, who had only the doubtful fame of cracking eggs for The Man. I was a lot steadier on a horse than I was on downhill skis, and I had nothing in the way of cross-country equipment.
But the balance was tipped by my one good trait: I was the sole person on the floor with the next two days off.
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