A woman at the passage between subway cars held the door open and screamed into the void. The rest of us kept our eyes to ourselves, acutely aware of her every move. It takes a while to learn New York subway posture, but it’s pivotal: always aware of others, never make eye contact. Survival by choreography.
I was on the 2 train to a New Year’s party in Brooklyn. Strangely, few people were out. The woman had been sitting across from me until we pulled out of Borough Hall, then the train’s grinding nearly swallowed her screams. At Hoyt Street, she stepped off calmly, and we all continued pretending.
Being invited to a New Year’s party two years in a row felt like a moral victory. Meager triumphs kept my outlook tilted to brighter shades than came naturally. Two months earlier I’d stopped taking my meds on a whim, a fucking stupid thing to do, and lost that time to blankness. I stayed up late watching videos of hearing-impaired people getting implants, forcing myself to feel. My eyes would well, but never run over.
By New Year’s Eve I was medicated again, back to myself, ready to be excited about things.
The party was in Prospect Heights, a short train ride. I brought six bottles of sparkling wine, same as last year. I wanted to be “the guy who brings half a case.” Less altruism than insurance: I could drink freely and know I’d contributed more than I took.
I got off the train at Bergen and walked over to the brownstone apartment where the party was held. I said hello to the host, whose name was a palindrome, and stashed the wine. I got a drink and looked around. My partner, Pia, was already there. I saw her blue hair in conversation with a long-haired blonde guy in the living room. I gave her a formal nod as I walked by, the kind of joke we shared, and sat on the couch nearby.
I liked parties. They’re exhausting, but worth it for the chance to dress up, flirt with tipsiness, and make a few small connections with those also trying to be a person.
It was early and there were around twelve partygoers. A tall, thin, bearded man wearing a neon floral suit sat near me on the couch.
I asked him his name.
“John,” he said.
“With an H or without?” I asked.
“I’m just trying to understand how these people do it.”
“Do what?”
He motioned all around. “All of this.”
“Party?”
“It’s all bullshit.”
“It is?”
“Artificial conversation for artificial people.”
“Oh, I see.” His name had an H, by my reckon.
I played interviewer. He’d left Brooklyn for Connecticut. Claimed it was better there. A toxic breakup hovered in the background, unclear whose side carried the weight. He was bitter, it was heavy. Coming out of my own heavy thing, I didn’t want to take on his, so after a few more questions I escaped for a drink.
At the kitchen counter, a woman lingered uncertainly.
“I’m drinking some of this punch if you want in,” I said.
“Oh, thank god.”
I handed her a cup and a marker. After she wrote her name, I poured.
“The expert move is to top it with sparkling wine,” I said. “Soda water for the neophyte drinker.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I feel vaguely called out. Wine, please.”
I liked her immediately.
We carried our drinks back to the couch.
“Welcome to the party,” I said. “Who do you know?”
“I don’t know anyone,” she said. “My partner has friends here.”
“Oh, boy.”
“I know.”
“Well, I have found the couch to be a safe place so far. No one can sneak up on us.”
“It does feel like a good jumping off point.”
John sat beside us, silent.
“I’m not going to ask what you do,” I said.
“You better not.”
“I will ask what you like to do with your time.”
“That is much better.”
We chatted easily. Her name was Lauren.
“So which one of these bozos is your guy?” I asked.
“That one.” She pointed at a trio of near-identical men arguing about music. Average height, shaggy hair, glasses. Her boyfriend had the best hair, standing like the first in a lineup of receding hairlines.
“Nice work,” I said.
“I’m happy with him,” she said. “What’s with the jumpsuit, by the way?”
“I wore one last year, got invited again, figured I’d be the guy in the jumpsuit to everyone. I only know the host.”
“I respect your commitment to the bit.”
“Thanks.”
She took a long drink and looked pained.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Brain freeze,” she said.
“Ah, those are the worst.”
“It’s like a sharp ache.”
“I think aches are the worst pain genre.”
“How so?”
“Earaches, headaches, tooth aches….”
“Hmmm…”
I thought for a second.
“Heartache!”
“Okay,” she said. “That almost convinced me.”
“What’s worse than being destroyed by a breakup?”
“Adult circumcision?”
“I wonder how often it happens,” I said. “I think dudes would be apprehensive at the prospect of losing any part of their anatomy. Not to mention the possibility of a mistake that takes off an inch or two!”
“It definitely happens.”
“I have a theory about circumcision.”
“Oh, let’s hear it.”
“I think that, for the most part, men are happy with their situation either way.”
“I don’t know about that one.”
“There are outliers, like anything else. But if you’re circumcised as a baby, you say that you like the way it looks and how it’s not as sensitive so you can last longer. Also, it’s easier to keep clean. If you’re uncircumcised you say that you’re glad that no one cut off a piece of your body without asking, and you like the sensitivity because you can feel more pleasure.”
“I hate that that kind of makes sense.” She pushed my shoulder playfully.
“It’s a new and evolving theory of mine.”
“You have any more?” she asked.
“It’s impossible to spontaneously break into whistling when you’re depressed.”
“That’s definitely true.”
“Just keep an eye on it. I’m still gathering data.”
We talked a while and eventually her boyfriend came and sat next to her.
“This is Daniel,” she said. “I just realized I never got your name.”
“Well, Lauren,” I said. “How embarrassing for you.”
“I didn’t tell you my name!”
I nodded at her plastic cup that was facing her written name at me and showed her my own scrawl. After a while, Daniel put his arm around her in what I interpreted as a defensive posture. I subtly moved a little further from them and tried to steer the conversation to something benign.
“I feel like we’re all in recovery from our childhoods,” I said.
“I think that this newer generation has weaponized therapy speak,” she said.
“That’s a take,” I said. “But this is a safe space and I’m here for it.”
“They use terms like boundaries and trauma and usually it’s a way for them to avoid taking responsibility, or to like, ghost someone under the guise of cutting out a negative influence.”
I nodded. “I have a friend who is neurodivergent, and it seems like they have gone on a social media campaign to make it clear that nothing is their fault, it’s just the way they are.”
“I just went to a stretch therapist,” Daniel said. “It was wonderful.”
Lauren and I looked at each other.
“He insists that he got taller from it,” she offered.
“I did get taller!” he said.
“How much height did you gain,” I asked.
“Like an inch or so.”
The three of us chatted a little more but the spark was going out with the addition of Daniel. Then it was time to go to the roof for the countdown and to see the fireworks coming from Prospect Park. The roof had a lot of room for everyone to mingle. The countdown happened starting at thirty seconds. I had found Pia, and we shared a quick kiss at midnight, then “Auld Lang Syne” spontaneously broke out. When they got to the second verse no one seemed to know the lyrics, so they mumbled through it. I couldn’t help laughing, but was the only one.
Pia fell into a conversation with a couple standing near us. I listened and engaged infrequently so I drifted downstairs. Alone on the couch, buzzed. A short man I hadn’t seen grabbed a beer.
“Hi, friend,” he said. “Just coming to grab a beer.”
“What’s your accent?” I asked. “Irish?”
He looked at me. “I’m Pakistani.”
“Oh.”
“You having a good time?”
“Yeah, I love this party. Came last year as well.”
“Why are you down here by yourself?”
“Just taking a social break.”
“I hear ‘ya. I’m heading up. Cheers.”
I decided to go for a quick walk. Out to 5th Ave, Park Slope. Brownstones throbbed with their own parties, music and laughter spilling into the cold.
I stopped at Union and stood on the corner. There were a few people a block ahead waiting to cross. I looked back the way I came and then the squeal of car brakes, a heavy thud, and screaming. A black EV had hit a pedestrian waiting to cross the street. I turned to ask if anyone had seen what happened, but there was no one near me.
The car stopped but the driver stayed inside. The pedestrian had been thrown into a parked car and was lying next to it, limbs at wrong angles. Eight people hovering, all talking on phones or taking photos. They seemed less like Samaritans, more like a carrion swarm.
A few more arrived and were attending gently to the driver. I left when the sirens came, lights bouncing down the block.
In the kitchen, the party roared around me. Laughter. Snatches of chatter. Through the window a siren’s glow streaked the wall.
I poured dark rum. Pia found me mid-shot.
“Where’ve you been?” she asked.
I gave her a quick hug for an answer and pretended it was enough.