A New Year of No Devotions

We were at Arthur's last night, an ancient Dixieland pub just south of Village Cigars on Christopher Street. Taut balloons hung in bunches, some in plastic bags to open and drop when the New Year rang in. A blues band thumped, the blind guitarist growling (the white bassist took our eyes with his broad back and terrible hair).

M the barback in a black shawl, black pixie hair, matching eyes tired, moves as an old wench. She is drenched in oil and resigned about the fact.

I keep thinking about Mickey Rourke (the bassist reminds me). That damn movie, The Wrestler, it got to me. And later I go on Youtube and he's on a British talk show talking about his seven Chihuahuas and the kisses one gives when he blows on her ear.

My roommate and the girl in the zebra shirt are against the wall. They have glitter on their faces, so do I. We make up dances based on cooking skills: "The Pepper Shaker," "The Pizza Cutter," "The Dough Roller," etc. I drink four Sidecars, a glass of Grand Marnier, and an icy length of Patron Gold. There is joy and laughter as there must be, as people insist on, as is doled out on special occasions committed to drinking. I am happy because I am not sad, because there is no point - to worry about dying, to hear the rockets in Gaza, the snipers in Mumbai, the dying in Darfur, the screaming in the Congo, Rick Warren at the inauguration, Mickey Rourke kissing his dogs, everybody in my office playing cards in the conference room - no one asked me. I can't think about these things because I am not alone, because there are people here who will give me cigarettes and be amused by my tongue which comes out under a pair of crossed eyes, because there is Joe with his hand on my thigh and his worried look and his endless cash and his dedication and love and me thinking about Mickey Rourke and his vanquished face, stretched and pinned behind the ears, but not in a way you'd think was intentional, in a way you'd think was lonely, like he went to see a comedy all by himself in the middle of the afternoon.

Goddamn that movie, it's eating at me (his hearing aid on the night stand, like mine).

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Happy New Year. My roommate and I bump butts. Joe and I kiss and hug and kiss and hug again. There are text messages but not hookahs. There are bathroom breaks but no hook-ups. There are no "devotions to God," not like my Mom's New Years (she went to a wedding). "We gave our devotions to God, and then we drank," she wrote in her Myspace blog.

The boys and girls split. We are at a diner, we are in a cab, I'm asleep, I'm not, I'm sliding my credit card and see the cabbie has a mustache and holds a look I recognize as concern but might just be hurry. Doors are opened, shoes slide on ice. I look back before shutting the door to make sure nothing is left behind and in the empty stretch of leather sits a pool of piss-colored light, seat buckles limp in the crux like small, dead animals. Happy New Year, we say to the driver, Happy Fucking 2009.

We are in the hall, my cat stares. There are showers and chocolate. I fall asleep with my laptop on my belly. The morning, my roommate tells me she dreams the cat attack her and she kicked him out in a flood. She feels guilty and I make fun of her. I tell her it's a classic inner-demon battle dreams and make coffee. My roommate and Zebra leave and I crawl into bed with my laptop. I google "Mickey Rourke."