It is New Year's Eve. I see that I will arrive exactly on time, at 10PM, which means I'm too early. I'm on my way to a party, carrying a plastic bag holding a sixpack of beer and one skyrocket. There's different tints of green everywhere I look, trees and plants I cannot name. I'm in a park. The building materializes in front of me as in a vision. It is so out of place in these naturalistic surroundings that I feel like a time traveler from the 19th century. It's one of those post-war concrete blocks, when everything had to be resurrected fast. You only have to blink and it's there.
I go inside. David lives on the 12th floor so I head straight for the elevator. The red-and-white lint says broken. I say a dirty word. The stairs it is.
On the first floor, as I look up at the staircases spiralling upwards, feeling like Escher, I open my first can of beer.
On the second floor, I drain my first can of beer and open the second.
On the third floor, the funky sounds of Earth, Wind & Fire greet me. Sweet, a party! The door is open so I boogie my way in. I eye some sky-high widescreen-eyed widescreen-smiled teens doing drugs in the corner, so naturally I queue up. What looked like lines of coke from a distance are actually lined up pills. Each time, one open-mouthed kid kneels down to table height as the others shove the tablets in. As I still have some of my wits on me, I just take one. Joyously, I leave the party to the grooves of Chic's Good Times, and the good times do not leave me.
On the fourth floor, I drain my second beer while dancing my way around to the next staircase to the amused stares of the floor locals.
On the fifth floor, Nile Rodgers' wonderful bassline is still with me. Bewildered I look around me, but find no source. I settle the problem by opening a third can of beer.
On the sixth floor, more good times.
On the seventh floor I finish my fourth beer (something, somewhere went wrong), chuck it in an imaginary recycle bin, then follow the can's trajectory down, crashing into the floor. Embarrassed in case anyoned saw me fall, I decide to take a nap, making it look like a deliberate move.
On the eight floor I am still sound asleep.
On the ninth floor I wake to the sound of voices very close to my ear. Laughter, mostly. Boisterous. These are the good times, good times still droning on in my head. I open my eyes to fireworks. These sober me. It must be midnight already. I say another dirty word, ruminating on how I ruined the night. I get up to a dizzying array of the most beautiful colors, writing their ciphered codes in the sky, competing for one night with the stars. Synaesthetic, I see yellow laughter and the fiery orange of the firework blasts, and, ad nauseam, Nile Rodgers' bass line, which is solid gold. The red is the guilt towards David and my other friends. There's a lot of red.
On the tenth floor I find out my plastic bag is empty. All the more reason to hurry upstairs.
On the eleventh floor, I head straight for the final stairs and realize in sad relief that Good Times is no more. A single tear rolls down my face, down the stairs, and down all the ones below that. I watch it cascade down in quiet fascination.
On the twelfth floor, finally! I quickly locate the door to David's apartment. In front of this door the guilt accumulates. David opens cheerily, holding a nearly full bottle of white wine. I start my plea, “I'm sorry I'm sorry oh my god I'm so sorry I really was on time but took a detour oh and hey happy new year!” David looks both confused and amused, and shouts something over his shoulder. The rest of the gang joins to enjoy my ongoing harangue. Finally, David, good-hearted David, gives me a hug and points at the clock above him. It's only 10:30. The real party is yet to begin.
