New Year’s Revolutions
We started the morning off right by rolling out of bed and downing cocktails almost immediately when we woke up for the day. I don't think we bothered getting dressed into clothes, other than the pajamas we slept in, before the three of us began mixing drinks. We certainly didn't worry ourselves with making apropos breakfast beverages like mimosas or Bloody Marys. The only orange juice in attendance was mixed with vodka and those screwdrivers were just the beginning. No, this wasn't some scene from a future Intervention episode. We were just three life-long friends ready to celebrate the last day of the year in style. And inebriated.
It was New Year's Eve, circa 2003. I had flown into St. Louis from Los Angeles for the holiday. Two friends from high school were hosting me for a few days before I flitted off to New York to begin a new life. The three of us broads were newly twenty-one-years-old and wanted to celebrate the holiday ALL day. I was brushing off my experiences in LA and moving to New York. Monica was diving further into her degree, and Alisha was jumping into the theatrical production realm at her school. We were all on the precipice of new lives and new experiences, but we realized that this New Year's Eve could be the final time any of us saw one another.
As a last hurrah on the childhood journey of “us”, Monica, Alisha and I really wanted to commemorate the occasion. Was it that we were www.bombed.com at 11 a.m. or just really feeling good? Did it even truly matter if we lacked a motive to get mad and crazy other than celebrating that we were young, free, together, and evolving? As far as I was personally concerned, nothing would ever be the same tomorrow as I looked toward my future in New York. I was headed for the big time; no longer able to depend on a university, a car, or my parents anymore. The three of us were running away from being kids and sliding into the adult home plate.
Over the above said cocktails, we discussed the problems of the world and what we would be doing with ourselves for our last twenty hours together. I told the gals I felt that today was going to be a day I remembered for a long time. We clinked our glasses to that comment and “cheersed” to our future successes. There were to be fireworks at midnight over Forest Park, so it seemed like spending "the Eve" under the stars would be the best way to experience our night.
We had only hours to hang with one another and we wanted to make the day count, too. Once the firework decision was made, on a random whim we also agreed to each do something crazy. Monica wished to get her nose pierced. Alisha craved a belly button piercing. And I wanted a tattoo. Maybe we were just silly kids on a mission to remember a night forever, but in the end when it was all said and done, I think we succeeded. At least by desecrating our bodies we wouldn't soon be forgetting our experiences with one another. Either way, Monica, Alisha, and I were excited to make our mark on the day.
An hour or so later, it was time for our body makeovers. Alisha was voted least drunk, so she was the one who drove us all to the Loop to face our destinies. I chose this area of St. Louis because the eight or so blocks in front of Wash U on Delmar Boulevard was my hipster-paradise stomping-grounds growing up in The STL during the nineties. As far as my limited-self knew, it was the center of my universe as a teenager. Head shops, antiques, second-hand stores, Vintage Vinyl, Blueberry Hill, the Jazz walk of fame, etc. made this part of town a prime destination for young people: college life meets contemporary urban realness.
When we arrived, Alisha parked her car, we hit a puff of some ganja, and Monica swigged a big chug-a-lug of the vodka-cranberry roadie that we had made to help us succeed in our debauchery. I followed suit and downed so much potato water and cran that I thought I would lose my lunch all over the inside of her car or all over Fitz Root beer’s parking lot. We pulled it together just enough to not completely fall out of our carriage upon exiting like an episode of Absolutely Fabulous.
The Loop was fun shopping, even if I hardly remember the entire experience. I'd walked the loop around The Loop so many times when I was a teenager that I could do it blindfolded. We browsed for classic rock in Vintage Vinyl: one of the best record stores on the planet and perhaps one of the few left. We stopped in a few head shops to check out their 'shroom necklaces and pot pipes. We Macklemored-it at the thrift shop, and finally, we dined with drinks at Blueberry Hill. The Loop was dutifully living up to her lovely legacy
I was just drunk enough to the point that I was still insistent upon acting on my decision but not so drunk that I'd get thrown out of anywhere. So, we stumbled down to the tattoo shop. The girls' piercings took a grand total of, like, eight minutes each, so I felt bad for them that they had to wait for me to get my first ink. I thought their piercings looked totes fetch, though it was hard to see with the little dried blood and swollen redness around their new holes.
I know it seemed like something drunk frat guys do in Vegas, but I actually put a lot of thought into my tattoo. Obviously, I had to have it for the rest of my life, so I wanted something significant that I wouldn't regret in ten, twenty, or thirty years’ time. I looked at this tattoo as not just commemorating hanging with my friends and the occasion, but also as a souvenir for my transition from one coast to another. Leaving behind my normal college life and trading it for the unknown. Moving to Manhattan just felt like my first major decision toward becoming a man, and this visit to my birth city Saint Louis was me closing the door on my adolescence.
Luckily for me I was crunk enough that getting tattooed wasn't too painful, though I won't deny that it did fucking hurt. A lot. (However, my tattoo is the size of a quarter, so I shouldn't really complain about the pain too much.) I wanted a tat that could be concealed, so I got it done below my waistline, on my lower abdomen, right below my right-side "penis-pointer" muscle. It probably took the artist thirty minutes to needle me up, and when I looked down at my body art, I immediately fell in love. And I'm still in love with it today.
Back at the house, we regrouped by having a little Kiki and getting decked out in our finest. After a phone call from her boyfriend, Alisha decided to leave us to get some dick and ditching out on ringing in the new year with Monica and me. We were a little upset, but we washed down our animosity with a few sips of our cocktails. Monica made her agree to drive us to Forest Park, and Alisha was OK with playing our chauffeur. We took pictures, made to-gozie drinks, and bounced out of there.
Traffic was horrible getting to the Central West End, but our time at Forest Park was awesome. The city had done up a lot of the perimeter trees in fairy lights, so the park looked lit up like a whore at Christmas. We didn't mind that Alisha wasn't with us, because the park was packed with people and we were just drinkin', laughin', jokin', and tokin'. The two of us were totally being social butterflies, too: chatting it up with anyone and everyone who would talk to us. When the fireworks came, we had our heads cocked up to the sky like everyone else soaking in the beautiful display. There was a break in the show for the countdown, and when the clock struck midnight on January 1, 2004, the firework finale began and blew us all away.
Even if we were inebriated, that was one of the best pyrotechnic displays I had ever seen. We were floored by it, and when the show was over, the whole park erupted into applause. All five-hundred-thousand of us. Monica and I turned to one another, hugged each other, and were so happy to be there enjoying the new year together.
Until we came to a very urgent and horrible realization: We were out of alcohol and it was only 12:30. And as far as we knew, the bars were ALL closing within an hour!
What the hell were we going to do? This being my old hood, I knew damn good and well there weren't any liquor stores anywhere near. And hello! We were in a park. How the hell were we going to get out of there to begin that voyage, even if there was some alcohol oasis in the vicinity? We hadn't a car, and it never occurred to us that we needed further plans after the fireworks show. We both agreed we had made a terrible lapse in judgement by not bringing backup vodka with us. Monica and I were not grandparents ready for bed and certainly didn't want to just call an end to our adventures. Now we were faced with impending sobriety at a time of night when the party should have just been getting started. Our good spirits instantly sank down to feeling like shit.
We were out of options. The only thing we could do would be to get out of the park and find the nearest bar. Maybe we would get there before 2:00 and make last call. Maybe not. Neither of us was in love with this plan, but what else could we do? The stress and worrying alone were sobering, and that was a position in which neither of us wanted to find ourselves. Concerned for the rest of our evening, we didn't talk much as we hustled back toward the nearest busy street. Sure, we could have just hung out and not drunk, but we wanted to keep the party going and were ghetermined to succeed. By the time we got to the art museum at the top of the hill, it was already nearly one in the morning. My heart dropped momentarily when I saw a sea of red from the stacked mile-plus-long line of cars trying to leave Forest Park. In an effort not to dampen our spirits even deeper, I chose not to mention that this totally minimized our chances of any success. But Monica saw it, too.
"Shit! How the hell are we going to get drinks if we can't even get out of the park?" She asked. "We'll never make it in time."
I didn't want to agree with her, but I knew she was right. Forest Park is surrounded by mansions owned by rich white people, and the last thing any of them wants is a bar near their neighborhood. (Which I cannot understand why not.) So, I knew we were fucked in terms of finding a watering hole nearby. Monica was right. Even if we found a taxi and even if he didn't get us stuck in too much traffic, we would be very, very lucky if we made it in time. That would be if—and only if—he even knew where a bar was in the first place. As Monica and I started down the stairs, you could have cut the frustration and regret in the air with a knife. All hope seemed totally lost.
Suddenly, a woman's wallet just seemed to fall out of the sky to our feet. Was it dropped from the heavens or someone from the large group in front of us? Monica and I looked down at the wallet. Then at each other. Then back down at the wallet. Then at each other again. Telepathically or body-language-ly, we knew to both reach down and grab it. We each held the wallet at either end, like some sacred scroll from God Herself, and lifted it together to examine its contents.
Perusing through the ID, credit cards, money, and receipts, we learned that It belonged to a woman by the name of Laura Beachman. We knew this because there was her ID along with credit cards, money, photos, receipts, and other papers just hanging out. Monica and I looked at each other again. We both knew what the other was thinking. It wasn't hard to figure out what our collaborative next move would be without even saying a word. Turning to the crowd, we both shouted in unison:
"Laura Beachman?! Laura Beachman!”.
Of course, we could have just kept it. But we were lushes, not karma button-pushers. Nor are we that petty to have taken someone's wallet and run. Besides, it was New Year's Eve and the night was winding down. How shitty would it have been to have had your wallet lost on New Year's? Lord knows I coulda used some extra cash for my big move to The City, but I didn't need to profit off of someone's misfortune. Then we heard her.
"Yes?"
As the crowd kept moving, a blonde woman in a long trench coat appeared before us. She was holding a twelve-pack of beer in one hand and clutching her purse strap with the other.
"Laura Beachman?" I asked her just to be sure.
"That's me," she said. Before we could even tell her what happened, she saw her bling in our hands. Her eyes widened, she looked in her purse, and realized we had somehow got her wallet.
"You dropped this," Monica said, giggling nervously a bit under her breath.
I kind of felt like we were drunken sleuths or Scooby and Shaggy—having just solved the case and returned the diamonds to the original heiress owner.
"Oh my gosh!"
She walked closer to us and reached out to retrieve her cash container from Monica, who held it out to her like it was a religious offering. Setting her beer case down, Ms. Beachman opened up her billfold, and a look of relief washed over her face at the recognition of the entirety of the contents being completely untouched. She closed her wallet and brought it to her chest where her chest. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes for a few seconds before opening them and looking at us.
Laura smiled: "Thank you so much! I'm so grateful to you both."
You could see some kind of lightbulb went off in her head and she again opened up her wallet. Laura was rooting through her money obviously trying to compensate us for her its safe return.
"I should really give you something," she began, doing math in her head. Monica and I looked at each other gleefully, then toned it down and shook our heads.
"No, we can't accept anything, ma'am." Monica said it and I agreed with an affirmative head shake.
"What?" She stopped digging. "Can't I give you a little something? The time and money you guys saved me! These pictures of my kids are irreplaceable. I can't thank you enough."
"It's ok Ms. Beachman," Monica reassured her.
"Yes," I said. "We just hope you have a good New Year's."
"You kids are so sweet! I really can't thank you enough. Isn't there anything I could give you to show my appreciation?"
Before we could even think of a price, I looked down at Laura's feet and got a really good idea.
"Well, if you insist...we are out of alcohol and by the time we get anywhere, all the stores will be closed..."
She looked at me for a second without really getting it. Monica's eyes lit up at my stroke of genius like I had discovered the cure for cancer or something. Laura suddenly understood as well.
"Wait...you want some beer? You want some of my beer? Yes, please have it! Take it! Take as much as you want!"
Just as we thought our night was coming to an end, she laughed at our request and was more than willing to hand over twelve cervezas to us. Who knew our little act of "kindness" (more like basic human consideration) would instantly, karmactically come back to us? Instead of exiting with the crowd and sitting in a cab for forty-five minutes along with the other sheeple, we decided to just chillax on the steps in front of the art museum and revel in the new year: 2004. Our stroke of luck seemed so amazingly fitting that Monica and I clinked beers together to cheers our good fortune.
It was an interesting feeling to be sitting there with one of my childhood best friends in the place I grew up. I left the “Missouri life” behind me three years before for some Californication. Was I really ready to leave Los Angeles behind? Did I really deserve to be moving to New York? I honestly didn't even know where I was going to stay the following night or what I was going to do once I landed in the Empire State, but it didn't matter. None of my fear of the uncertain future at my doorstep stopped me from just being there on those stairs with Monica and really taking it all in. I pushed aside every angsty bit of anxiety and just lived. And I really enjoyed it.
I glanced down at my stomach and lifted my shirt. My new lowercase "k" tattoo pretty much winked back at me in all its glory, even though it began to throb a little. I looked over at Monica, and she was twirling her new nose ring stud. I smiled to myself. We both had our own new little trophies that were imprinted on our bodies forever as remembrance of that evening and the New Year's we spent together. It was a night I'll never forget and probably my favouritest of all New Year's Eves, ever. Nearly 13 years later and I'm still just as much in love with that December 31st as I am with the K for Koelen that remains tattooed on my belly to this day.
-New Year's Revolutions is the first chapter in my new anthology: VOLUME, TOO
available now on amazon and store.bookbaby.com/book/volumetoo
