Ode to Carmine

Swooning over a mustache and a kiss

Every Thursday through Sunday, I find myself punching into skis at the bottom of the six-pack for work as a ski instructor at Durango Mountain Resort. As I pull up to the turnstiles, my eyes scan the lift line for one mustachioed face: “Sweet Prince Carmine,” as my dear, flirtatious friend Jenn Shelton calls him.

There’s something about this evenly tanned face with his bristly lips and soothing voice that’s held us spellbound since November and forced us to assume all sorts of romantic notions, such as he must be Italian; way too suave to be pure ‘merican. 

One bright, busy Saturday in early March, Jenn and I had the day off. We made a late start for the mountain, talking the whole way about how today would be the day that we’d capture our Carmine. Would we find him on break? Should we ask him to lunch?

Surely he couldn’t reject our 29- and 30-year-old youthfulness. We knew he thought we were lovely; he makes every woman feel lovely. It’s his Italian-ness.

We giggled our way through line in anticipation, searching. We couldn’t see him but he must be here, we thought.

“Where’s my Sweet Prince Carmine?” yelled Jenn to one of the lifties. She hardly ever speaks below a holler.

Right behind you, nodded the ticket scanner-bro over our shoulders.

And sure enough, there he was in all his swarthy glory walking toward us with a hidden smile, dark, dashing sunglasses and a secret we would soon unearth.

“We’ve been looking all over for you!” we fawn, our girlish glee for this Purgatory ticket-scanning icon oozing from under helmets and goggles, not too different from the chicks of yesteryear who screamed when the Beatles landed in New York.

“Two beautiful girls lookin’ all over for me? Why don’t we discuss it on a ride?” his debonair green fleece pulled snug over his thick torso.

He clicked into his bindings so fast that the cuff of his black ski pants caught, but he didn’t seem to care, his full attention already fixated on us smiley girls.

That’s the thing with Carmine: he’s one of those men who has the gift of making you feel like you’re one in at least 5,000 (the number of skiers at DMR on a busy day).

And so the three of us moved through the gates and, one by one, got scooped up by the leather-covered chair I’ve ridden no less than a hundred times this season. Jenn sat on my left, Carmine on my right. He faced us with an arm draped casually over the back of the chair, his caught pant-leg pulling ever so slightly as his skis swung over the snow-crusted glades.

I could feel Jenn’s excitement and my own heart leaping with the anticipation of solving a season-long mystery that would need to be wrapped up in less than 10 minutes. I tried mightily not to regret forgetting a pen and paper. Let the interview begin, I thought.

Though it’s a relatively fast chair for our blessed local slopes, I felt a panic rise in my throat: there was so much I needed to know, but the first question that came out of my mouth was undoubtedly: “Is your real name Carmine?”

The noon sun pulled out the multi-hues of his wiry mustache: browns, reds, grays, whites – an absolute marvel trimmed to fit the smooth lines of his darkened cheeks. He never stopped smiling.

“My real name’s Barry Kemler.” I pictured him winking with every word.

“Go on ... ,” we encouraged, thirstier for his tale than the pint of Euphoria we’d race to immediately following this whirlwind experience.

Turns out that Barry “Carmine” Kemler was given the nickname when he worked at Ariano’s, a longtime downtown Durango Italian restaurant that now houses the Golden Triangle. When dishes were ready to be delivered, the cooks would yell the name of the server.

Apparently, the name “Barry” just didn’t sound Italian enough, so the owner switched Barry to Carmine.

“So you’re not Italian?” I gasped while contemplating the native root of a name like Kemler. He was way too chill to be German.

“Polish-Russian,” said Barry.

OK, not exactly what I imagined, but no time to dwell.

This is his second-most favorite job ever, he explains of working as ticket checker supervisor for DMR, a winter gig he couples with Sunday - Monday night shifts bartending at Lady Falconburgh’s.

The abridged background of Kemler learned on the ride was that he moved to Durango in 1979 to open a racquetball court business with buddies from Albuquerque. The Durango Sports Club now resides in that locale.

I avoided hounding him with questions of familial history and moved straight for the most important query: “What’s with the mustache?”

Grin still in place, he told us that the mustache was founded in 1973. His daughter, who recently turned 30, has never seen him without facial hair. He grew it to fit his lifeguard persona on Long Island, his most favorite job ever.

“Would you shave it for anything?” I ask, walking right into a most obvious trap.  

He pauses. “Depends on what’s anything. Hair grows back.”

Jenn and I blush.

He also told us that he’s no longer interested in owning a business and enjoys relaxing at his home about 13 miles south of Durango.

Alluding to the beauty of wide open sky he’s afforded at his humble abode, he asks, “You ever seen a billion stars?” turning the cards as the top of the lift comes into view.

We say no, that we’d love to, which naturally led us into a final question:

“Are you married?” We can’t seem to control ourselves.

No, he says, explaining that he once was. As we ready our skis for departure, we suggest he might be Durango’s most eligible bachelor.

He might have laughed, but I didn’t hear him. Instead, he thanked us for the conversation and handed us each a kiss.

Jenn’s face dropped a little. He’d given her one on Valentine’s Day, and she’d been bragging about it to me ever since.

A bit injured, she asked him if he gave everyone kisses.

Yes, he said, his mustache grinning in full splendor. He calculated that he’s probably spent about $400 on Hershey’s kisses since he started at the resort nine years ago and enjoys making people’s day with this small token.

Jenn couldn’t be mad at that answer, so we exchanged high fives as he headed back down the front side and we slid off to Dante’s for a beer and giggly recap of the best date ever with the Sweet Prince Carmine.