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.