Surviving New Year’s Eve

December 31, 2023

New York, New York 

11:00 am

I dress for cold weather and pack cigarettes, cat ears, and a small assortment of weapons in my coat pockets. I would have brought my SIG P365 and a jar of cocaine, but I can’t find the SIG and I don’t have a jar of cocaine. I fill my pockets with protein bars – dense bricks of caffeinated calories designed for short-term hunger management and long-term constipation. Any benefit is offset by the sheer nutritional damage. I would name the brand, but a class action law suit has yet to be resolved on account of three or four recent deaths. On my way downtown, I stop into a bookstore to buy a paperback of Daisy Jones & The Six which I have been meaning to read for some time.

12:00 pm

Times Square is empty, having been blocked off by the police. I arrive at the barricades on 49th and 8th, one of two intersections which will allegedly be opened to the public at an undisclosed time. There is already a mad crush of people gathered, many of whom, if their overheard conversations are to be believed, have been waiting since the early morning. 

I begin reading. The crowd is docile and quiet. As the hours slowly tick by, the boredom is occasionally punctuated by a chorus of Sweet Caroline, or a sudden interest in a pigeon who completes the final act of digestion over the helpless crowd below. 

3:00 pm

The police open the gates and the veneer of civilization is instantly shattered as all manner of greed and violence is unleashed on the world. The cannibal crew of murderers and thieves I’ve been milling with makes a mad dash for the empty streets ahead. After navigating a maze of security lines, we arrive at 45th Street where we are corralled like cattle behind metal barricades. The police circle the perimeter, watching us warily as the realization slowly dawns on us that we are trapped here without food, water, or bathrooms. I have come prepared for this, but many have not. They believed in the American promise of prosperity, hope, and 24 hour food and bathroom availability. I find a spot against the barricade and continue reading. 

5:00 pm

We were somewhere around the Disney Store on the edge of 45th Street when the drugs began to take hold. I’m battling a chemical cocktail including but not limited to caffeine, tobacco, psychedelic honey, second hand pot, and a couple yellow pills a stranger in line assured me were genuine quaaludes held-over from the late ‘70s. I have had nothing to drink and six protein bars. I haven’t used the bathroom since the war. The gentleman next to me has turned into a gila monster which is disconcerting because I happen to know they are not indigenous to the Northeast.

8:00 pm

The crowd is eerily quiet. I’m reading about a great rock ’n roll band from the ‘70s and notice the sharp contrast to the absolute horseshit passing for music these days being pumped through the overhead speakers. Overproduced, auto-tuned, backing tracks take the place of live performance, and no one cheers when the songs end. Flickering lights from the giant screens illuminate the night air like an old TV at 2:00 am, the volume off, playing for an audience that has long since fallen asleep. Our host for the evening is doing his best to drum up the illusion of energy and fun. But he is undermined by a series of guests representing businesses that paid a lot of money to pitch their cruise line, or hotel line, or gym membership. Cheap, branded merchandise is handed out to the crowd and they wear the silly hats, but do not smile, or talk, or buy the bill of goods being sold. We just stand silent and numb like beasts without food, water, or bathrooms. This is late capitalism and we are at the center of its once beating heart.

10:30 pm

I finish Daisy Jones & The Six.

11:00 pm

I look around to find someone to kiss in the new year. There is a cop across from me and I’m not fond of the police as an organization, but she’s blonde, so I say something clever. She’s heard this one before, and dismisses me with a gratified smile. There is a goth girl several rows down the line. Beginning the arduous trek through the dense crowd, I get close enough to hear her say something distinct to the girl I now realize is not her platonic friend, and painstakingly return to my post. 

11:45 pm

The crowd is energized now. It wasn’t disillusioned or detached before like I thought. I had mistaken the crowd’s mood for my own. I was the one on the outskirts, my back to the action, morosely judging everything to pass the time. They were just saving their energy for this final push.

I think about the places the past twelve months have taken me, and am filled with pathos. I’m grateful for the year, but it is also a reminder of the relentless march of time. New Year’s Eve is as much about mortality as anything else. The year ahead no longer looks as bright and promising as it did when I was younger. “Maybe next year,” we invariably say like a seasoned Chicago Bear’s fan, sooner and sooner each year. Until eventually we come to accept that this won’t be our year and whatever possible joys await us are offset by the probable horrors.

The number 59 suddenly filling the screen hits me hard. This is it. It’s really over, it’s really about to begin. 47, 46, 45. A false sense of hope breaks through the surface against my will. A clean slate, a fresh start. 33, 32. Possibility, uncertainty. Time. 24, 23. I am here with these people in this place. The epicenter of the New Year. I hear my voice tear out of my throat and roar into the night, joining the chorus. 10, 9, 8. There are no thoughts now, no intellectual snobbery or self-consciousness; everything is visceral and alive. We are caught up together, screaming as if by force of will we can bring it to us. 5, 4. Everything is electricity and light and noise. 3, 2, 1. The air is split with screams, tongues are rammed down throats, confetti pours from the sky. In this brief moment together, our souls are set free. It is New Year’s in Times Square and we are alive and we are here.

For auld lang syne, my dear

For auld lang syne

We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet

For the sake of auld lang syne

J.

Jan. 1, 2024