Story: Rapture, Pt V

It was getting later in the night, and already I could see snow falling outside through one of the windows. As I looked at the window, I noticed the balcony on the second floor.
"What better place to wait for Jeff? I’ll be able to see him the minute he arrives." I thought as the inspiration hit me. I moved across the floor over to the grand staircase that led up to the second floor and its balcony. I climbed upward quickly, taking the steps as an anxious child would, two at a time.
I reached the balcony and discovered that, to my surprise, there were low, padded benches lining the wall all along the balcony. A few of these benches were occupied by people, mostly couples engrossed in serious discussions about the important things that couples discuss. A gray-haired old man sat on one bench, staring at the ceiling. His hair, frizzy and unkempt, gave him the appearance of a mad scientist. Ancient spectacles covered his eyes, and he had his hands interlaced, resting in his lap.
Walking over to the railing in a space away from the people in the balcony, I surveyed the room below. Still no sign of Jeff. I ran over all the possible scenarios as I continued to survey the room. He could have wrecked up on the ski slopes and be trapped right now out there in the blizzard. Or he could have gotten lost in the blizzard on his way here. Or.... The possibilities overwhelmed me. I shook my head to stop the analyzing.
"Where are you, Jeff?" I asked in a whisper.
"Looking for someone, young man?" a voice inquired. The voice rustled and crackled like leaves in the autumn wind. It was the old man I had seen when I'd first entered the balcony. Now he was standing next to me, leaning on the rail with his forearms.
"Yes, sir," I replied, glancing only far enough to see that he wore an old, red sweater. "I'm looking for my friend Jeff Bardot. He said he would meet me here just after 6." I looked at my watch, which said 6:35. "It's already past 6:30, and he's still not here."
The old man said, a touch of amazement in his voice, "I've heard lots of people talking about Jeff, but I always thought he was some character, like Paul Bunyan. You know, something somebody made up to inspire people to ski well. After all, some of the accomplishments on the ski slopes which they say he did seem a little too amazing to me."
To hear my friend dismissed as fictitious startled me, but I regained my composure before answering, "Oh, no, Jeff's real. I've known him since I was in grade school. We used to hang out together all the time. In fact, I came up here to ski with him. He comes here often." I turned around, looking out the window across from me.
"I don't believe it," the man answered indignantly. "You're just making all that up! I've been coming here for years and never met any world-class skier named Jeff."
I could not understand the old man's indignation. It was as if I had just told him that everything fell up and the sky was orange. "Sir, I'm not going to argue with you," I countered calmly, turning to face him. "I merely ask you to believe me when I tell you that Jeff is real. And he's here, somewhere, at this resort, although I don't know where. He said he'd meet me here in this note. Then, you can see for yourself."
The old man huffed in response. I looked at him more closely. His cotton-like eyebrows were drawn downward together in a scowl. After several seconds of awkward silence, he limped away from me, muttering snippets of statements, reassuring himself that he was right and that I was a raving lunatic.
As his mutterings faded into the distance, I glanced out the nearest window. The blizzard was raging strongly now, the snow falling almost horizontally. I once again regarded the room below me. Many skiers had arrived during the short time which the old man and I had conversed, turning the lower level from an open wilderness into a bustling metropolis. I decided to go down and join the throng of people. Maybe one of them had seen Jeff.