“Black people like to ski?”

My boss, Bret DuMonde, asks me this on the deck of the La Mirage Ski Resort.

He sips a hot toddy and wears a pair of matte silver MYKITA sunglasses, which he’s reminded me at least three times is a Berlin-based brand with a store on Crosby Street. Sarah Jessica Parker has several pairs, and she once complimented him on them in the store. I glance to my right, playing off my annoyance as if it’s from catching sunlight in my eyes. I’d bought a new pair of Ray-Bans for the weekend, but they accidentally broke in my years-old North Face jacket when the Delta stewardess forced me to stick it in an overhead bin. No bags, no jackets in the front row of a cabin during take-off always pisses me off. I lock eyes to commiserate with a gorgeous woman across the aisle in Comfort+, whom I know as a former actress in a string of Kevin Hart comedies, now mostly known for The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. She smiles at me for a second as if she remembers me. “Kevin?” she mouths. I get that a lot. We look alike. But I’m not that fucking short. Realizing her mistake quickly, she grimaces and puts her headphones in. We don’t make eye contact the rest of the flight, and now I’m here at the La Mirage, being asked if black people ski by my boss.

“We do,” I say. “I come here every year with a group of college friends from Princeton.”

“Well, of course, black people from Princeton ski. I meant regular black people.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” I’m 100% sure what he means.