(35 weeks)
WEDNESDAY, 7:10 P.M.
Tucker calls to see what I’m doing for New Year’s Eve.
“Catching up on my reading,” I say. “I’m going to be forty soon and I’ve only read one Tolstoy novel. No, New Year’s is kid’s stuff.”
“Come on. I’ll make you a sash and you can pretend to be the baby new year,” he says. “It’ll make you feel young.”
After putting down the phone, I can’t bring myself to read Tolstoy. I instead reach for the Stephen King novel I keep on the TV for when the cable goes off. I begin with the dedication page and find myself wondering if, after so many dozens of books, Stephen King fears running out of family and friends to dedicate his work to. Perhaps he’ll soon have to start making dedications to casual acquaintances, like the guy who holds the door open for him at his local convenience store. When he has to start dedicating books to people he can’t even stand, he may realize it’s time to get out of the writing business.
8:30 P.M.
Marie-Claude phones to see if I want to come over and celebrate with her and the kids.
“Celebrate what?” I ask. “The march to the grave?”
“You know, you can afford to be a little more receptive to the world around you.”
“Next time I’m in a restroom I’ll keep the stall door open to shake hands and pass out business cards.”
“Baby steps,” she says. “Next time you’re in a restroom just try washing your hands.”
9:45 P.M.
My mother calls. When I tell her I’m not going out, she starts to worry.
“You’re sick,” she says. “You sound nasal.”
“I was born nasal. I’m just not in the mood. It’s not a big deal.”
“Even your father’s having a party,” she says.
She explains that, as we speak, he’s seated at the kitchen table, eating crackers and listening to the radio.
“And not talk radio, but the music kind,” she says. “Let him have his fun. It’s New Year’s, after all.”
Tony phones from his future in-laws.
“I’m not doing anything,” I say, pre-emptively. “It’s going to be a new year tomorrow whether Jonathan Goldstein dances on a coffee table with a lampshade on his head or not.”
“You remind me of a girl I once dated who always fastforwarded through the opening credits when we watched videos,” he says.
“She sounds like a keeper.”
“We broke up after two weeks,” he says. “It could have probably lasted at least a month or two, but she fastforwarded us. The point is, you can’t rush to the end. Life shouldn’t be about that.”
We get off the phone. I hit the metaphorical pause button and stare out the window.
11:15 P.M.
Characters in books and on TV shows often learn about what really matters in life through the guidance of helpful supernatural beings who know more than we mortals ever will.Take Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, for instance, or the family from Alf.
Staring out the window, I consider how in real life, all we’ve got are our hunches about what matters. And, of course, we also have our family and friends to steer us a little when we’ve a hunch our hunches are wrong.
Marie-Claude’s probably already put the kids to bed, so I call up Tucker to see if I can still come by, and he says sure.
“I’ll bring some chips,” I say. “It’s New Year’s, after all.”