Holiday Stories and Poems

New Year's Eve

I started at a New Year's Eve party and was suddenly abducted.

New Year's Eve

I hate parties. I don’t drink, for one thing, so while I’m listening to the people around me and trying to figure out where their slurred and fragmented story is heading, I’m always wondering why? Why do I do this to myself – every darn year?

The people behind me break into laughter. I turn around, curious to know what’s so funny. Capsulate half a dozen "I Love Lucy" segments, and you get the equivalent of most of the jokes being told at parties.

I sigh, mosey over to the bar, and ask for a refill. The bartender, one of the few people still sober since it’s approaching midnight on New Year’s Eve, doesn’t even ask what I want. He just fills my glass with bubbled water, drops in a cherry for good luck, and hands me my drink.

“What time do you get to go home?” I ask him. Then I mentally slap myself, as I see his face recoil. He’s half my age and thinks I’m trying to pick him up.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean it to sound like I’m . . .”

He holds up one hand in a policeman’s stop gesture and nods with an understanding smile. “My wife and I are off at one,” he tells me.

“She’s working at the party, too?” I ask, but he’s already turned away, mixing drinks for a couple of men who’re telling ribald jokes about their secretaries.

I call out a “thanks,” and step away. I pause, trying to decide which group to join.

I was dragged to the party by two good friends, but they’re both engaged in tête-à-têtes with leering men, hopefully the single kind. Barbara’s already told me that she doesn’t need me to drive her home. Sarah may do the same. In fact, as she sees me looking about, she gestures me over.

“Donna, Paul and I are going to drive around a while and talk. I won’t need that ride home after all. Okay?”

I shrug and send a quick look at Paul. His eyes seem alert enough. He’s not drunk, anyway. “Are you sure?” I ask Sarah again, wondering how far a friend should question. In the end, I just back away.

The balloons cascade, the confetti makes its papery mess everywhere, and the sad, sweet song that no one understands starts to play. A couple of folks blow their party horns. I head for the door.

Outside, the air is clear. The stars dangle like shaped ice cubes in a punchbowl of blue. I breathe in deeply and appreciate the cool, damp smells of night. Then I walk -- no more than two car lengths down the street -- when a flicker of light overhead draws my eyes.

I stop. My mouth opens to scream, but nothing comes out. I’m like one of those ice cubes, frozen, as I ascend up into the sky.

I’ve heard of such things. They’re found in the grocery store lines where ridiculous newspapers show off alien pictures and talk about the latest Elvis sightings. I know those stories aren’t real, but the city lights grow smaller, twinkling like miniature Christmas lights, as I continue upward.

I am still breathing; another thing I know is impossible. I’m far too high for air, yet my lungs are content. The air is sweet and rich.

I arrive where I'm being pulled to, and metal walls swallow me. Inside, it’s dark. Something lifts me up and sets me on a shelf. I still cannot move. My screams pile up inside me, ready to explode at the first chance.

Then I hear a slurp like someone sipping root beer, and I see that another body, a male's, stands rigidly on the floor. Almost immediately, he is lifted up and set beside me, a process that continues over and over with different people.

Days pass. I realize I’m being fed through my feet. I feel no pain, no hunger, no thirst. I have no needs. Yet, I yearn to move.

There is no recognizable time passage inside this place, but I sense the flow of many days. I attempt to reach out to the person beside me. I picture the way he looked: hair so black it must be dyed, pale skin, a noble nose, deep-brown eyes, and ears that stand out a bit, giving him a youthful tweak that would make me smile if I had the chance.

Day after day I reach, I stretch, I question, but my mind hits blankness. And then, it comes. A soft tickle in return, like a finger sweeping my skin, touching me, retreating.

It is enough. I press forward. I concentrate harder. I am Donna, Donna, Donna, I say over and over.

Time flows. The slurp sound continues its inhale.

A feathered touch comes again and again, each time stronger, reaching out, testing. Jerry. . . he replies.

So we begin to communicate, first in short bursts of emotions and scenes, and then later in full sentences and elaborate thoughts. We share, we commune, we connect.

I think at least a month passes like that, and then one day the slurping stops. Already the walls are lined with people; I see them across from me, filling in every space.

Jerry, talk to me, I beg when silence comes.

But no response follows my plea. I try again and again.

The ship begins to vibrate; I feel it through my feet and inside my bones. In minutes my eyes close, and I sleep.

When I wake, I find myself back inside the New Year's party. It is midnight. The crowd thunders their salute to the hour. The party horns blow, the confetti flies, the balloons fall. I don’t understand what’s happening. I gaze across the room, dazed. Then I see him.

Jerry!

We look into each other’s eyes.

Donna?

His lips don’t move as he calls to me. Mine don’t either as I step closer, walking toward him.

I missed you, I say.

I missed you,too, he replies.

We meet in the middle and kiss, while all around us, the currents of time shift and blend.