New Years Day



  New Year’s Day

  M. Matheson

  Copyright 2014 Michael Matheson

  ISBN: 9781311134455

  New Year’s Day

  All is quiet on New Year's Day

  A world in white gets underway

  I want to be with you, be with you night and day

  Nothing changes on New Year's Day

  On New Year's Day

  - U2

  Brian Rogers was a typical professional in his late twenties, and typical was his problem. He was so sickeningly predictable that his coworkers, neighbors, and ex-girlfriends all set their watches by his every move. Once again, that point came driving home in a hailstorm, yet it had not caught him as a complete surprise. Still, it felt just as rough as a wooden stake driven straight through his heart.

  Predictable was blamed on his profession, and blaming others kept his mind in order. He was a senior accountant for a firm that had once occupied ten floors of Two World Trade Center, but that was before he was old enough to shave. Their ranks had been decimated by 9-11. Now they were scattered amongst boring little towns in the Midwest and one large office in Sacramento, California, where he worked. Brian was fortunate to have his own controlled environment and not one of the tiny stations in the cubicle farm outside his door; the drone of that beehive perpetually penetrated the portable walls that made up his private office.

  Susan, the latest and maybe the last of his live-in girls, was a slim, dark-haired head turner in jeans with a misty haunted look. Her blue eyes sat veiled under perfect brows and thick lashes ⎯ until she spoke¬⎯ which then released a piercing glare. It was that sharp cold face that drove her point soundly home as she slammed the door behind her in a flurry of words and heated emotion.

  “Brian, you’re a really nice guy – too nice – and that’s your problem; no conflicts, fights, threats or drunkenness.” She spun his class ring – Elk Grove High, Class of ’94 – on her finger as her rant continued. “Nothing seems to change, but I do!” She slid the band off her finger and slapped it on the counter. He knew he should have traded that in for a wedding ring long ago.

  “That look on your face; I knew I’d see it just like that—all slack-jawed and...” Her head was wagging now, just as it did every time she got all fired up. “For God’s sake, Brian, close your mouth! Yell, scream, or put up a fight. Do something with some color, goddammit. Are there no surprises? Your life is on autopilot.” She finally paused to breathe. “I just hope you don’t crash into the side of a mountain before you get a life.” The last three words stung like the point of a red-hot dagger.

  Get a life—Get a life—Get a life. Three weeks later, those words were still circling his head like cackling crows fighting over a McDonald’s bag.

  Girls Number One and Two had ended on similar complaints.

 

  He lived in an old house with tiny closets, but in those he had room to spare after seven black T-shirts and seven dress shirts (two blue, five white). One grubby pair of paint-spattered white sneakers sat on liner paper in the corner. One spotless pair of white Adidas and two pairs of dress shoes – brown for everyday work and black for things like church – were lined up perfectly on the floor. There were no sports team hats, helmets, sporting equipment, or other perilous gear.

  Even Brian’s New Year’s resolutions were stale as white bread and lacked creativity, not to mention risk: lose ten pounds, which he always did, and start working out, which he did. A running regimen he began was, in his opinion, death-defying courageous.

  For all but one of the past five years, fate had caught him in a fairly happy committed relationship when New Year’s Eve came around. On that one exception, he had sat home alone with his one-eyed cat, Captain Patches. The Captain was the only thing out of sync in his life; a huge, overweight Himalayan ball of hair left to him by Truly, girl number one. “You can keep the Captain,” were her last words as the door slammed behind her. The Captain looked up first at the door, then back at him, and went back to sleep.

  He promised himself that 2015 would be much different; he just wasn’t sure how to get there. So, here he sat at 8:00 PM on December 31st, staring down a bottle of Southern Comfort and a two-liter bottle of chilled Coca-Cola. He didn’t drink as a rule. The last twelve-pack of beer he bought lasted three months. He had to survey his acquaintances on easy drinks to make – nothing with whiskey; that smell turned his stomach. The TV spilled its unappealing pabulum of Ryan Seacrest and hyper-hype. Staying at home wasn’t a great plan for changing your prospects for a new year, but he had nothing else.

  The fire of two fingers of Southern Comfort – straight just to see – spread through his chest. Danger tingled in his frame, but he mixed the next one with ice-cold Coke. By 11:00 PM, his head was warm and loose, his bladder tight. He weaved his way to the bathroom, and Captain Patches stared disapprovingly at him from his perch atop the entertainment center.

  While wiping his hands on a fluffy towel (he always washed after), he heard a car screech loudly to a halt in front of his house. A car door opened, loosing a woman’s livid screams – he wasn’t sure if it was anger or fear – but they were cut sharply short by a rough-sounding foreign man cursing unintelligible words. Brian thought to go outside but thought a bit too long. A quick bark of peeling rubber, and the hotrod import sped off. Feeling more courageous now, he opened the door just enough to fit his head outside.

  The crisp cold air of a Sacramento night brought sudden sobriety. He turned in the direction the car had gone, and could still hear the whine of its overtaxed engine when a bony but soft-skinned fist caught him on the cheekbone. Ringing bells and popping stars went off in his brain like the Fourth of July. The last thing he remembered seeing was the WELCOME mat as it rushed up to meet his face alongside a pair of shiny red high-heeled shoes, nice brown legs attached.

  As he started to come to, Brian reached for the throbbing goose egg on his cheekbone and felt the dripping condensation from a thawed bag of frozen peas. He was lying on his own couch, his head snuggled into a down pillow from his bed.

  “What the hell?” he grumbled weakly, then opened one eye. A pair of well-tanned legs that were crossed prettily, most likely attached to something pretty, sat in a chair near the sofa. One foot dangled a bright red high-heeled shoe.

  “Indeed,” the mystery lady said. “What the freaking hell!”

  “I mean,” Brian said, “what the hell did you hit me for?”

  “I was mad, mad. Who’s that guy think he is? I bet that Lamborghini isn’t even his. Doesn’t he realize who I am? I could ruin his…” She abruptly caught herself ranting to a complete stranger and a commoner at that.

  Brian finally looked up, and his breath caught in his throat. This woman had the looks of a movie star. He felt fortunate just to be sucker punched by her.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “12:05 and what do you think about that?”

  “I think my head hurts and you made me miss the New Year?”

  “What’s to miss?” Bitter acid could be heard in her voice.

  “Ya got a point…”

  Brian tried to sit up, but his head felt like the clapper in a church bell.

  “Keep the peas on there for a while, hon.”

  “Well, at least get me a towel; they’re dripping all over. I think they’ve thawed. Get another bag from the freezer, would ya, HON?”

  As she was rustling in the freezer, he shouted after her, “You know, you’re supposed to wrap them in a towel.”

  “WOW! You have the cleanest, most organized freezer of any guy I’ve ever seen. Most of you have two inches of frost built up. My brother Jimbo only has room left for two cans of beer.”

  By the time she returned with the peas, a clean, dry,
blue-and-white-striped dishtowel wrapped neatly around them, he had managed to sit up. Now he got a full top of the head to the tip of her bare toes view. She was gorgeous, and made his good-looking girlfriends look like hags.

  Even after what she had been through, her auburn hair hung in perfect smooth curves around her face, falling lightly around her bare shoulders. She wore a shiny red pencil skirt, which wasn’t garishly short, but close. God had achieved perfect balance, not overdoing any of man’s favorite attributes, just enough to stop his breath for a moment.

  “Whadaya gawking at? Ain’t you ever seen a girl before?”

  “Not if what you got is what it takes to qualify.” This girl was no bimbo stripper; she had an air of class but not the black tie country club kind.

  She handed him the peas with her left hand and extended her right to shake. Red nails tipped the end of slender, long fingers, but a couple were broken or