The Last New Year (11 page)

In a surprisingly short time I am standing in front of
the house indicated by the address on the cup.

I check it multiple times to make sure, squinting at the
increasingly blurry letters and numbers, eroded by time and butt-sweat. Maybe
my back pocket wasn't the best place for it, but enough is there and readable
that I am able to conclude that the medium sized Colonial sitting a tasteful
distance from the road and sporting two ghastly bushes on either side of the
front steps is, in fact, my destination.

I don't know what time it is, so I pull out my cell phone to
check. It's dead. I don't know why I'm surprised. Everything seems to be
winding down as we get closer to the end. Even the few people I've passed on
the short walk to this place have been morose and barely bothered to be weird
or threatening. It seems the inevitability of things has really finally taken
hold. That's fine with me. I was hoping for a quiet evening.

So, this is it. I've placed my entire tiny sum of existence
on the successful completion of this quest. It's time to bone up, step to the
plate, put on my motivational galoshes... Just Do It, as the advertisement
says. It's time, right now, to stop considering, just walk up there, go to the
door, meet the girl you've come to meet, and see what happens. No more bandying
about. Now is the time to do it. It's time to shit or get off the pot. Shit or
get off the pot. It's time for me to... wait. Shit?

 
interlude
3.
(
gross
metaphors on a front porch)

It occurs to me that "shit or get of the pot"
is sort of a grotesque phrase to encapsulate a pretty simple concept.

I sit down on the front step. Why couldn't it be something a
little less bodily function oriented? Something pleasant like, "Enjoy the
honeysuckle scented air, or quit laying around in the verdant field". Or
"Eat the eggplant parmesan sandwich or give up the table for somebody else
who's hungry." Neither is as pithy, I guess, but the sentiment is the same
and I'd much prefer to think about fields of green or grilled cheese than some
poor constipated person who's being pressured to finish up. Pooping can be a
difficult process, especially if someone's watching, or if you're only halfway
through an article. So I decide that I hate this saying, and stand up.

Right.
Now that that's settled
there will be no more hesitation. It's time to get up there and knock on the
door and see where the chips fall. It's time to fish or cut bait, my friend.
Wait, that's a weird one too. Fish or cut bait? Either fish... or... cut bait?
What on earth could that mean? What kind of a--

As if to say, "Oh, for crying out loud, get on with
it, will you?" my feet just go ahead and carry me up the steps and to the
front porch and I am standing in front of the large white door. I raise my
fist, take a deep breath, and knock three times, in an authoritative way. Or I
like to think so.

The seconds tick by, slowly. No answer. Well, that's that,
then.

I start to turn, but obviously I can't turn because this is
bigger than just checking in on someone because you happen to be passing by. So
instead of turning I do this little awkward torso half twist that goes nowhere.

I'll knock again, I think, and do so.
Still
no answer.
Maybe she's gone out? It's certainly possible. There's no
reason to stay home. It's only the world ending. Or maybe she's really just
left. Maybe she decided to head west like
Thwacker
.

A terrible thought: Maybe she's heading west WITH
Thwacker
. Maybe he found the cup, memorized the address,
returned it, and came here to collect the girl before he left.
That bastard.
I thought we were friends.

I'm actually breathing heavily and sick to my stomach over
the massive betrayal by my second best friend. But then I think: that didn't
happen, almost certainly. I try to calm myself down, and actually succeed to an
extent. Of course
Thwacker
didn't. Of course she
didn't. She probably didn't hear because she's in the shower or has her head in
the washing machine or something. I start to knock again but instead my hand
goes ahead and turns the doorknob.

The door opens with a faint click. Oh, I think. Ok. I'm
doing this now. This is possibly not the best idea. I enter her house.

The front hall is lit up, as is the living room and kitchen
that I can see beyond it. I can tell the kitchen light is on because the dining
room light is not on and I can see a yellow spill of light from the kitchen.
It's a nice little house.
Tastefully furnished.
Some
Asian influences maybe, but nothing over the top.
Nothing
that screams "I'm complicated and terrifying."
Though I think
complicated would probably be okay. I recall talking and walking with her, the
way the outside corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles, and I think
complicated would not be a problem at this stage.

prostrate
on the couch: a small,
shaved cat lifts its head from its paws and utterly fails to be impressed by
me.

On a small table by the door is a small pile of mail. The
envelope on top has this address and her name, or at least someone with
coincidentally the same name. I think the laws of probability make it fairly
certain this is her, though.

"Hello?" I say to the empty house. No answer. But
I do notice a soft, rhythmic thumping coming from somewhere. It seems like it
could be from upstairs. Maybe
it's
music, or maybe
someone is bouncing a ball.

Reaching a decision, I slowly make my way up the stairs,
kind of ducking and weaving to try to see around the railing to the second
floor. The upstairs hall is dark and I can just make out a sliver of dim light
from behind a door. Something is obviously going on because the light is
undulating behind the door somehow, and I can hear the sound louder now: a
thump
thump
thump
that
doesn't sound like someone bouncing a ball. I am beginning to get a sinking
feeling about this.

One of the steps creak slightly, as old house wooden stairs
often do, and I wince, but I'm guessing that no one in the room is paying
attention to what's happening outside the room.

I get to the top of the stairs, and creep down the hallway
toward the door. The sounds are becoming recognizable, and when I get to the
door itself and start to align my eye to the slight opening I am not at all
surprised to hear the low moans of approaching orgasm coming in guttural heaves
from inside.

A man's naked back, shoulder-length dark hair spilling and
hiding his face, muscles moving beneath sweaty skin, a light spattering of acne
barely visible in the soft light.
But more important than
that, small female hands clasped at the small of his back, pulling him toward,
and presumably, into her.
I can just make out a silver ring with a small
green stone on her finger.

He is grunting, she is moaning. The headboard goes thump
thump
thump
against the wall.
Both are absorbed in the act, it seems. Both apparently have plans already for
the evening and probably don't want to be interrupted.

By this point my heart has stopped beating and devolved into
a fist-sized ball of black sludge that is sliding hopelessly past my internal
organs to my feet. Apparently it's in a race with my stomach to get to the
lowest point in my body.

"Oh, yeah," I hear the guy say. "Oh, fuck.
You like being fucked."

"
NnnnnNNNNnnggh
," she
replies.

I decide not to stay for the rest of the conversation. I
consider throwing up on the stairs, as sort of a calling card, but one, I
haven't really eaten enough today to make much of an impact, and two, I really
don't hold any animosity toward her for wanting to spend her last hours having
sexual intercourse with someone not me. Under different circumstances I might
have done the same thing. So I keep the cookies and tea where they are and go
down the stairs.

The hallway is still lit, but seems dark. Greasy waves of
misery pulse through the house, aimed at my midsection. I consider what to do
next, what possible way to move forward with everyone else on the Eastern
Seaboard toward oblivion. I was really looking forward to talking to her. And now
she was with someone else. I guess I would have to find someone else as well.

Or I could just go into the kitchen and find a sharp knife
and draw the silvered blade across my wrists to vent my crimson despair onto
the cold cruel tiling of humiliation and crushing ennui.

Sigh. I realize that, on top of everything else, I've sunk
so low my train of thought has descended to the level of a Freshman English Lit
major with a book of Tennyson poems and a thesaurus.

I take the crumpled address cup and put it on the table, on
top of the mail. Chances are she'll never come back down here and it will burn
unnoticed along with everything else, but I want some kind of proof that I was
here, that I exist and made it here despite the obstacles. Despite the dead
neighbors and runaway cars and arsonists and murderous bowling ball
tossers
, I was here. I made it. And you were here fucking
some guy with pimples on his back.

I decide that I'm not going to kill myself right this second,
but that maybe I should get a knife in case I decide to later.

I cross the living room and dining room and enter the
kitchen.
Em's
sitting at the kitchen table, wearing
headphones and eating a pretzel.

She looks up at me and smiles, her eyes crinkling at the
outside corners. She pulls off the headphones and says, "Squiggles!
you
made it!"

"I wasn't sure if you were going to,"
Em
says, getting up. I am motionless and speechless and I
think my mouth is hanging open like a fish, but she hugs me anyway. Her arms
are small and warm and her cheek is smooth against mine. She smells faintly of
pretzels. "Oh my god," She says. "You're freezing. Were you out
there without a jacket?" She puts her hand on a
cheek,
my head fills with mildly electric candy floss.

I nod, dumbly, my stomach having found itself recalled from
occupying my feet and currently following orders to do somersaults in my
midsection.

"I'll get you a blanket in a minute," She says.
She turns away and I see the ring on her finger, the one with the green stone.
I store this information away for later consideration.

"I'm, uh, I'm ok," I say. "It's warm in here,
and I'll be fine. I'm just... have you been here the whole time?"

She turns her head at me, a box of Ritz Crackers halfway out
of the cupboard. "Oh, no," She says, "Were you outside knocking?
I didn't hear. I had headphones on because Matt and Crystal can get pretty, you
know, loud."

I grin. I can't help it. I grin huge like an idiot.
"Matt and Crystal."

"Yeah, Matt's my housemate. Crystal's my best friend.
It's a thing." She tears open the crackers.
"You
hungry?"

I am, I think. Now that my stomach has quit its calisthenics
routine, I feel hungry and thirsty and all sorts of things I suddenly realize I
hadn't felt all day. A tingling warm wave of relief falls over me like a bed
sheet just out of the dryer.
A sheet with a really high
thread-count.

I notice the table is made up with all kinds of snacks:
Pretzels, nuts, fun-sized candy bars, licorice, tortilla chips,
pigs
in a blanket. I see in the corner there's even a big
bowl of punch next to the toaster.

"Wow. Yeah," I say. "This looks great. I
guess you sort over-planned, given the circumstances. Not a lot of people
showing up on a day like today."

She
laughs,
my heart reconstitutes
and goes back to where it belongs. "Actually, this was kind of for you. I
just didn't know what you like."

"Oh," I say. I take a licorice. "Well. I like
all of it." I bite down on the red tube, yank off a chunk.

"Good, I'm glad." She goes to the punch.
"Thirsty? It's not really strong. Matt drank like, most of the rum earlier
and didn't tell me."

"That's fine," I say around
a
the
mouthful, "I'm feeling pretty buzzed already just being
here."

Pouring a cupful, she turns halfway.
"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She frowns with a smile, and turns back to the punch.

"So did you have any trouble getting here?"