New Year's Day

We didn’t walk over to Second Street until two o’clock in the afternoon. The day before, I had watched men in coveralls set up the barriers. A long line of silver metal stretched from Washington all the way down to Oregon Avenue, separating the street from the sidewalk. I was expecting the wood barriers I had seen at Memorial Day parades back in Connecticut. The type that fit together like Lincoln Logs and always seem to linger days after the parade. According to Don, my cubicle mate, the City had made a decision three years ago to phase out the wood barriers in favor of metal ones. Apparently young children were slipping under the wood planks and joining parades. Don had even witnessed his nine year old niece disappear behind a float two blocks from City Hall. He said it ruined his New Year’s.
I spent the previous New Year’s at my girlfriend’s house in Burlington, Vermont. By “her house” I am referring to the house of her childhood, where her parents still reside. Her mother, Nan, cooked a thick puttanesca sauce, and talked incessantly about her students at the University of Vermont. Her dad drank a large glass of Scotch and fell asleep in his leather La-Z-Boy. Charlene and I were able to sneak away around eleven and watch the fireworks over the lake. We kissed at midnight and shared some cheap champagne. When we returned to the house, all the lights were off but the dinner dishes were still sitting on the table. We fooled around quietly in her twin bed and then talked a bit about moving to Philadelphia. I remember going to sleep smiling into my pillow.
By the end of January we had signed a lease for a one bedroom apartment on Federal Street. Moving had always seemed like a dirty and sticky experience, so I was happy Charlene and I had found a place during the winter. Unfortunately, the Sunday we decided to move was cold and rainy. At some point I dropped Charlene’s oil painting in a puddle. She had made the painting for her senior project. I thought the damage was minimal; however, the event initiated an hour of silence where I dubiously placed books and dishes in the new apartment, only to have her move them within seconds of me leaving the room. When she finally addressed me, she characterized my fumble as a larger issue stemming from my anxiety with the move and my inability to commit to any woman other than my mother. Once everything was unloaded and the UHaul returned, we passed out on the bare mattress, fully clothed.
We didn’t have a housewarming party until late spring, when Charlene was finally satisfied with the artwork on the walls and the layout of the kitchen. I think it was my friend Tim who suggested we have a New Year’s Day party. “You guys have the perfect location,” he said, almost as if he had been planning the party since he heard about the apartment. “Bloody Mary’s, Mummers, drunk girls.” He smiled and patted me on the back. It seemed like a great idea. It would be “our” thing, and maybe even turn into one of those traditions like shore house weekends or Sunday dinners. Charlene was on board.
So we planned and promoted our little party. When the mid-August humidity was turning our one bedroom apartment into a middle school locker room, we pictured the party. We thought about stumbling onto Second Street with a drink in a plastic cup.
On New Year’s Eve day, I gathered all the supplies. Ever since we first discussed the party, I had envisioned a lavish spread full of deli meats and pickled products. I stocked the bar and made sure we had plenty of Bloody Mary mix. Charlene complained that I had overspent on the party. “We just don’t have that many friends,” she said and feared most of the food would go to waste.
We heard brass instruments and string bands early in the morning, but the parade didn’t snake back to Second Street until the afternoon. Face painted Mummers dressed in sequined, flowing costumes invaded South Philadelphia. Some of them danced and locked arms. Others staggered down the middle of the street yelling to people behind the guard rails. Box trucks blasting bass heavy dance music coasted in front of each brigade. An old man in a feather cowboy hat was selling boiled hot dogs. I was drunk and the scene was starting to swirl like an ocean. I grabbed Charlene and we ran back to the apartment. All our guests were outside. We mixed two drinks and stared at the mounds of thinly cut turkey and corned beef. It was our first New Year’s in Philadelphia.

Sully's Offer

My grandfather loved to tell old jokes. The types of jokes that don’t have owners, just tellers. They just sort of waft through the steamy air of men’s locker rooms and Passover tables. Always getting passed down and retold.

A guy gets off work and decides to have a drink at the bar across the street from his office. Within a few minutes he is approached by a drop dead gorgeous blonde with a plump, tear drop ass. She’s wearing a sequined dress cut so low you’d think she was on her way to feed a nursery full of hungry babies. The blonde dips her glossy lips inches from the man’s ear and says, “Baby, I know what you like,” and drops that plump teardrop on the stool next to him. The man just spent twelve hours at the office, getting chewed out by his boss for last month’s sales numbers. He is not amused by the blonde’s proposition and tells her he’s not interested. “C’mon Daddy,” she says, “one hundred bucks and you got all of this.” The man is unfazed and keeps his eyes on his drink. The blonde leans in again and says, “Daddy, I’ll do anything you want.” She slaps her tongue against the bottom of her mouth to accentuate the “T.” The man loosens his tie, shifts his weight and stares into her green eyes. He leans in closer to her and says, “You’ll do anything, I want?” Sensing a new customer, she moves in again and in that soft staccato that only a lady of the night could master, she says, “A-ny-thing.” The man leans back in the stool and drains the rest of his drink. He digs in his pocket and comes up with five crisp twenties which he puts under his empty glass. He leans back towards the blonde and says, “Paint my house.”

The joke always got laughs. Even my grandmother who hated dirty jokes liked that one. It works because the buildup is so carefully crafted, and the punch is so unexpected. It’s not a deep belly laughing sort of joke, but one of those long sustained laughs that makes the teller look like the smartest guy in the room. Anyways it always stuck with me.
My phone started ringing just as I merged onto Hoover Drive. Hoover was by far the most scenic route home but was a virtual parking lot between four and six. Sully was calling. He probably wanted me to pick up something at the store. I let it ring four times then answered.
“Wow four rings, eh? What’d you want to finish up your post work pump up before talking to me?
“Fuck you, what do you want?”
“All right, all right don’t let the elastic waistband of your greasy sweats snap back on your tiny dick.”
“Sully, I had long day. What the fuck do you want?” Sully and I had known each other since freshman year of college. My university assigned roommate had expressed suicidal urges in the first week of class, and the Eagle Scout RA named Todd had him shipped back to Long Neck before rush. Todd was eventually accused of sexual harassment by two eighteen year old freshman boys. Last I heard he had a burgeoning sports betting business in the suburbs. Sully and I did not meet until October. He had managed to sleep with both his roommates’ girlfriends and Todd gently asked to him to move in with me before midterms. We stayed in touch throughout college and when we both found jobs in the City after college, we decided to once again be roommates. The thing is, Sully is a real piece of shit. He’s not one of those charismatic assholes from a John Hughes films that waits till the eleventh hour to conjure up that respectability that had been masked for years by fag jokes. Sully was not that guy. At his best, Sully was a duplicitous snake, who would betray his mother for his own good. At his worst, he was the bottom feeding sewer rat that somehow got promoted to the human race. I did not trust one word that spewed from his filthy mouth and was counting the days until I could move out of the apartment. If Sully was drowning in a sea of medical waste, I would not so much as through him a pool noodle. Fuck him.
“Listen I got good news, I got an offer.” I loosened my grip on the steering wheel and looked to my left. A middle-aged woman was driving an SUV. A boy, most likely her son, was sitting next to her playing a video game. That’s what normal, respectable people do, get jobs, meet their mate and make a family. They move up the social ladder, buy a house and surround themselves with people who support them. Why can’t I do that? Why must I always fuck life in the ass rather than slip it in gently? I stared at the cars that expanded in front of me.
“Ok Sully, don’t do anything without me. I’ll be home in a half hour with some beer.”