The streamers, balloons, and champagne were everywhere. The music was turned up to an ear splitting level and it felt like the very floor beneath us was shaking from all the dancing. I was on my only second beer, and my fifth aspirin of the evening. This bass filled club music, which I despise, always gives me a splitting headache. I lean against the far wall of my buddy’s condo, which is where the party is happening, and I try to dull my head pain with more alcohol. I’m feeling trapped, like I need to escape this madness for a moment. I need some fresh air, no matter how cold it is. The music is getting louder, if that’s at all possible, and I can’t hear myself think and the flashing rave-like lights my buddy set up are not helping either. I am about to make my escape when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn and come face to face with smeared lipstick and running mascara. She looks to be about my age, maybe a touch older, she has a half empty (or half full, for you optimists) champagne bottle in her hand. Her eyes are half closed, and now her arm is now around the back of my neck and she’s leaning in. I think I know her, I think I’ve met her once. I think she works at the art studio with my buddy. She is staring into my eyes and I can see her lips moving. But with all the music I have no idea what she is saying. I lean and shout into her ear,
“I CAN”T HEAR YOU, IT IS TOO LOUD!”
She responds with.
“WHAT?”
I think. Whatever she is saying she has deemed it important enough to resort to alternative forms of communication. She tucks her champagne bottle under her arm, so both her hands are free, and begins to draw letters in the air, and make, what looks like shadow puppets. I try and concentrate for a moment on what she is trying to tell me. As her fingers and hands fly around trying to make a picture.
Dog. Dog running. Dog running with a biscuit? Smoking. No, a hotdog. Hotdog and a biscuit? Running with a hotdog? Is that a hotdog? A cigar? What is that? Scissors. Do I have scissors? I shouldn’t run with scissors. Biscuit? Hamburger? Is that a biscuit? OK, a biscuit a hotdog a pair of scissors and running. I have no idea.
Giving up, I smile and nod and mouth the word “watermelon” over and over, so that it looks like I am telling her something. Whatever she thinks I am saying, she nods and gives me a thumbs up, and kisses me on the cheek as she stumbles off into the crowd. I try to wipe her lipstick off my cheek and make a mental note to never to play charades with her. I finish my beer, and head towards the fire escape. I grab a fresh beer as I pass the cooler and walk over and pry open the window. I step out and the night air is cool, but not unbearable. I close the window behind me and I take a seat on one of the small chairs on the fire escape and sigh. The bass and the lights from inside are still coming through the closed window, and I decided that I needed more seclusion. I climb the fire escape stairs one flight up to the roof. It’s considerably colder, but the music from the party was reduced to just a soft repeating “thud, thud, thud.” The rooftop was pretty bare, just random vents and exhaust ports, and there was no one up here but me. I walked over to the side of the building that faced downtown and sat down n the ledge, letting my legs dangle over. The condo’s building was 15 stories tall, so it was quite a drop. But the ledge I was seated on was wide enough that I didn’t feel any danger of falling. I opened my beer and took a small sip as I stared into the lights of the city. I dug into my jeans pocket and pulled out my pack of smokes. I lit the last one in the pack and inhaled deeply. Quitting is my New Year’s resolution, so I decide that this will be my last one, I’d better try and enjoy it.
“So, I’m not the only one who needed an escape?”
The voice startled me, not enough for me to loose my balance and fall to my death, but enough for me to drop my cigarette, my last wonderful, glorious cigarette. I watch it fall the 15 stories and crash with a small shower of sparks on the concrete below. Damn. I turned around, completely defeated, to see someone walking towards me. The roof was not well lit, so I couldn’t make who it was, but I think it was female, at least judging by the voice.
“Happy New Year got a light, Bub”
Her voice was light and easy as she did her best Bogart impression And when the street’s light fell on her face, I realized I recognized her. Her name was Amy Alexandria Abbott, a walking alliteration. I had met her once last year and all those A’s stuck with me. Amy Alexandria Abbott. But I remember she went by a nickname, something to do with her hometown. Boise? Boston? Brighton? Billings?
“Hey aren’t you Elliot’s friend? Yeah, you are, I know you. Do you remember me? I’m Amy, but everyone calls me Brooklyn. Light?”
Brooklyn! That’s it. I hold out my lighter for her, and she takes it and sits down next to me on the ledge and looks over. She whistles at the height and smiles. She lights her cigarette and hands the lighter back to me. She blows the bluish smoke into the cold night, and stares up at the stars still smiling.
“Another new year, another round of mistakes. Speaking of mistakes, can I get a sip of that?”
She points to my beer, and I hand it to her. Usually I can be a bit of germaphobe but for some reason she made me feel at ease. I watch her take a long drink, and she hands it back to me. I take a drink as well, and I can taste her lipstick on the bottle. We sit in silence for awhile, handing the bottle back and forth staring at the stars. At some point I bum a smoke from her and further confirm my resolution failure. Eventually we empty the bottle, which she drops off the top of the building and it shatters below. I offer to go get us some more, but she declines. And we sit watching the sky on New Year’s Day. And this year already seems better than last.
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