New Year’s Eve 19—
by Michael Martin
Like so many of the most foolish things young guys do, it started out as an attempt to impress the girls. Curtis challenged Harold to a drinking contest at Dinky's Bar up on the avenue. The bet was for twenty bucks, plus the loser had to pay for the booze. The whole gang would be there for the contest, not so much to see these two losers really losing it, but more so because the temperature was in the teens that night, and it was New Year’s Eve.
"Besides," Harold said, a sly grin. "It's a great place to meet women."
"No, Harold,” one of the girls said. “A shoe store is a great place to meet women. Dinky's is a great place to meet drunks."
Dinky's was like the Roman Coliseum of neighborhood dive bars, a kindred hangout for every level of low-life riff-raff in the community. If you weren’t legally supposed to have it, Dinky’s was the place to find it. Weed, coke, pills, firearms, fake driver’s licenses, bootlegged movies that hadn't even hit the theaters yet, and of course, heavily watered down beer. Built into the ground level of a ramshackle three-story firetrap, Dinky's was an uncomplicated place; you either belonged there or you didn't. Once inside, there were no comparisons to be made, no lies that could masquerade as truths. Even if you didn't think you belonged there, should you suddenly find yourself staring at the flickering neon clock above the cash register, as it danced and swerved across the wall at 1 a.m., your fraternity was guaranteed, and your options were limited. Anytime you wound up in Dinky's the devil did a happy dance directly underneath that bright spotlight in your mind that was once reserved for your greatest aspirations.
After his eighth shot of Old Crow chased with a Heineken, Curtis decided to go to the bathroom. He rose off the barstool with liquid eyes and rubber knees, and went straight to the ground. A lumpy crimson puddle spilled from his mouth, forming a shape that resembled a topographic map of South America as he hit the floor. A crowd gathered as Tommy the bartender put a dab of ammonia on a rag and passed it under Curtis's nose. It didn't work. He was out cold. Somebody called 911 from the pay phone in the rear.
The hospital was less than a mile away. An ambulance arrived instantly. The EMS crew strapped Curtis into a wheelchair. He was breathing and he had a heartbeat, but everything else had shut down. Harold, who wasn't far behind in the race to self-destruct, laughed out loud and shouted, "I win!"
One of the paramedics, a short stocky fireplug of a woman who looked like she could have kicked everyone’s ass without busting a sweat, glared at him with dagger eyes, "Hey, moron? You’re laughing? Your friend might die tonight. You find that funny?" Which only made Harold laugh harder.
As they loaded Curtis into the ambulance, the muffled 12 a.m. roar of “Happy New Year!” burst from within Dinky’s Bar. A young woman, whose name was Wanda said, “He’s gonna be alright. They gonna pump his stomach and let him go in the morning. This shit happens to my brother all the time.” She held a glass that was half filled with something dark, which smelled like pancake syrup mixed with turpentine. She threw her arm across the shoulder of the guy next to her, pressing the rim of her glass against his mouth with such force it knocked him backward off the barstool.
And on the static-riddled television mounted on the wall, Dick Clark pretended it was 1965, while thousands of people stood in the cold, tossing confetti and party streamers in the air, hugging and kissing, while yelling at the winking collage of colored lights in Times Square.
Michael Martin is a fiction writer and amateur photographer who lives in New York City. He is the author of two story collections, "Burning In The Heat and Other Stories" and "Funerals For Friends and Other Stories." He has photographed parades and cultural events in New York for close to two decades. He is currently working on a mainstream contemporary novel with an African-American genealogical theme. As one of the characters says, "Finding your roots can be dangerous. Sometimes they rise from the ground to strangle you." Michael can be reached by email at michaeld40x@gmail.com.