New Year's Resolutions Page 2

  The dancing couples were growing in number and variety. One pair swayed past with a sideways turn of the heel that reminded Henry of a move from old film clips of teenagers dancing the Charleston, their outward kick missing his shin by only a few inches.

  Now that Celia was momentarily engrossed, Henry moved away from the window seat. Weaving his way discreetly through the crowd of party guests, he used his boss as a temporary shield to escape their host and hostess’s glances. Celia would be back this way eventually, renewing her attempts to entertain him. Her capacity as a pushy pleaser was a character flaw he discounted when he accepted the invitation.

  At least it was better than last New Year’s Eve. He recalled slumping in his seat in a booth at a smoky jazz joint, trying to use polite smiles to fend off his friend Sean’s overly-concerned girlfriend. Word of Henry’s breakup had operated as a magnet for the first few months afterwards, drawing comforting souls and interested singles to plague him. Over time, they trickled away, proving Henry was just one of the ordinary singles crowd mixing hopelessly with others. Overcrowded parties in an overcrowded city, where the chances for love were statistically dimmer than the chances of a lucky lottery ticket.

  It was skeptical of him; a kind of romantic grinch stealing away his belief in long-lasting romantic connections. Which was a shame, since Henry was a romantic at heart.

  As he lifted a new glass from a passing waiter’s tray, he glimpsed a coworker a few feet away and raised his glass in friendly greeting. Carl Sondheim was an editor at Harkin Publishing, working one floor down from Henry’s office. Unlike Henry, he was forced to read full-length books on a daily basis, the vast piles of manuscripts submitted by agents and published authors.

  “Henry, what has it been–two hours? Three? I‘ve never seen you at one of Celia’s soires before.” Carl was engaged to be married, something they seldom talked about in their mutual elevator rides.

  “So where’s your fiancé?” asked Henry, taking a sip from his glass. “Deirdre? Dianne?” It occurred to him that Carl hardly ever mentioned her name.

  Carl shrugged. “Touching up her makeup,” he answered. “I don’t know why, since we’re planning to leave early. But you know how–” He paused, a slightly embarrassed look crossing his face, his words halted before they could escape into the open.

  “Ah, well,” Henry answered. “I’ve heard there’s no fashion emergency worse than a mascara smear.” Trying to sound indifferently knowledgeable with these words before he took another sip from his glass.

  “Maybe so,” Carl answered, his chuckle taking on a slightly metallic edge. “It seems to me there are a lot of fashion emergencies these days. The wrong heels, fraying hemlines, a loose hairpin...” He trailed off, fingers tapping against his glass, eyes narrowing as his gaze receded to some internal vision.

  Henry sensed he had stumbled into a couple’s argument; the kind of tiresome battle that marks mature relationships. The type of nagging, episodic debate that sends outsiders fleeing after a few minutes’ polite conversation and bores the few listeners who stay put.

  Would he have ended up this way, if his own relationship had lasted? The question nagged Henry’s mind as he molded his features into a look of lighthearted concern.

  “At least she’s detail-oriented,” Henry contributed. Something in Carl’s eye suggested that his advice should end here. “Ah, well,” he repeated. “Give my best to her and have a happy new year,” he said, offering a flat smile.

  “See you Monday,” Carl answered. His nod a trifle gloomy as he shuffled off towards Celia and Jerry, no doubt to offer his farewell excuse. Henry watched as a woman in a blue silk gown approached, her lips already forming a complaint as she took Carl’s arm. He recognized the pinched lips, the tilt of the shoulder that indicates personal irritation.

  Maybe he was better off than he believed, going stag this year. As he downed the final swallow in his glass.

  Chapter Three

  In the early morning hours, Henry’s fingers tapped over the keyboard of his laptop. New Year’s Resolutions seemed like a good topic for his blog, a veritable online journal that he assumed no one but his closest friends and associates ever read.

  Barefoot in his kitchen, he shivered with each periodic contact made between flesh and the tile floor of the room. The stainless steel countertop felt cold beneath his elbow as he leaned against it, staring at the text box on his screen.

  It’s four in the morning on New Year’s Eve and I have nothing better to do than share my thoughts with you, the world still awake out there, too. And for those of you tomorrow, too–who have nothing better to do other than suffer one of the year’s biggest post-party headaches.

  So here you are. His fork stabbed into a dish of mushroom ravioli in garlic sauce, leftovers from a recent recipe binge Henry embarked on before considering a resolution to cut back on carbs. An addict to farmer’s markets and saucepans, his friends teased him–a budding chef trapped in an editor’s job.

  Resolution one: Take up a new creative hobby. He cast a glance in the direction of his bike parked in the corner, a red mountain model showing a few scuffs from adventurous trails. For a long time, Henry had promised himself that shouldn’t be his only pastime. Weekends spent bouncing over rocks and down packed dirt slides, the scenes of forest and park paths whizzing past him and his friends.

  How about art? Once upon a time, he loved drawing, even considered dabbling in painting. High time he started it again. His fingers finished filling out the item with painting or drawing.

  Resolution two: give up coffee. Currently he was logging two hundred cups a day, or at least it seemed so when he reviewed his credit card bill. Coffee shops, coffee express joints, coffee on restaurant tabs, a subscription through an online Flavor of the Month club. A pile of packages next to his coffee maker, a burning sense of shame over letting himself develop the kind of dependence he would find unflattering in someone else–say, gum chewers and smokers.

  Cutting back on caffeine might be challenge enough for the new year, he mused. Maybe too much challenge for a single year. He backspaced over the give up part and switched it to cut back until his self-pride pricked him. With a sigh, he changed it back.

  Resolution number three: expand music horizons. Something outside of opera and symphony, something a little more fun. Seth would help him there–the closest person he had to an official guru of pop and rock, beach bum tunes and the flashy side of music that employed terminology like infused, tech, and bubblegum. Hadn’t he promised this would be the year he finally made time to listen to all the bands Seth covered on his website?

  He pictured his friend stumbling in from a late celebration, delivering a fist pump and an alll right! after reading those words in an online post–but not now, since Seth would’ve tumbled into bed the moment his celebration ended, sacked out like Ron the nondescript cat asleep on the forbidden leather chair in Henry’s apartment.

  Ron was a permanent fixture, despite the fact that Henry was only supposed to be pet-sitting him for a friend who moved to a no-pets high rise; although never claiming to be a pet fan, much less a cat fan, he saw the advantages of having a silent listener available at all hours.

  He already knew what resolution four would be. Read a book, he typed. No, make that more than one book. Become an actual reader. This, with a grimace, even though he knew it was good for him. The books piled on his shelves–classics, first editions, nonfiction, modern novels–should be doing something besides collecting dust.

  Resolution number five. Henry’s fingers drummed the keys softly, a momentary pause in his train of possibilities.

  You know what you should pick, the little voice in his head reminded him. Without thinking the final word Lois, the unnecessary prompter that would link it to the obvious.

  No, not that. With his mouth set in a grim line, Henry shifted his fingers on the keyboard. Reorganize office to reduce clutter. Far safer, far better choice than the other one.

  That’s wha
t he told himself as he hit the Publish! button on the webpage and took another bite from the cold Italian ravioli.

  *****

  Abby’s pen scratched through a line on her pad. Be more assertive vanished momentarily before she sighed and tried to erase the mark obliterating the resolution.

  Logging New Year’s resolutions was a struggle for her that generally ended in a pile of paper wads and a sense of disappointment. This was something she forgot in the months between, when the process of making a tidy list of future accomplishments grew romanticized in her thoughts, a quaint tradition equal to champagne corks popping and the Rose Bowl parade on television.

  Scowling, she tapped the inky tip against the page before writing, Start exercise regiment. Not very exciting, but something she felt necessary to consider.

  Maureen agreed. “You definitely need to move around more, you couch potato.” Flopping a museum tote onto Abby’s kitchen counter, a plastic-wrapped plate of Danish cookies sliding from inside. She peered over Abigail’s shoulder as she approached the writing desk shoved against the window.

  “Did I ask for input?” Abigail’s tone was slightly grumpy. Bare feet curved around the bottom rungs of her chair, pajama capris brushing against the rickety legs of her desk as she hunched over the pad. Her hair in a practical ponytail hanging past the shoulder of her hooded sweatshirt jacket.

  “Well, I assumed you wanted some help, since your page is virtually blank,” her friend answered, her hands braced against the back of the chair as she studied Abigail’s crossed-out list. “How about adding ‘eat something that doesn’t come in a box’?” she asked.

  Be more assertive, be more assertive. Abigail’s shoulders stiffened.

  “Not everything I eat is takeout,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder at Maureen, who was peering into the kitchen wastebasket at a pile of Thai food containers.

  “Do you know what’s in your fridge right now?” asked Maureen. “Besides that half-empty bottle of soy sauce? The rest of its contents come in paper cartons or those little white sacks deliverymen bring. And what about all those cookbooks on your shelves, the ones you keep meaning to finally use–”

  “All right, all right, I get your point,” said Abby, scribbling learn to cook on the line below the first resolution. “Happy now?”

  Maureen smirked. “You could add ‘finally perform in public’,” she suggested.

  “True,” Abigail answered, although she sounded reluctant. Airing her musical talents alone in her apartment with a battered acoustic guitar was fun–but doing the same thing in a crowded coffee house or club? She could only think of one resolution less likely to succeed than that. A resolution she left off the list every year.

  “Maybe this year I should finally get in touch with my father,” she said. The statement hung in the air for a moment, a certain tense, hesitant ring in it. She felt Maureen’s movements behind her grow still.

  “Don’t go there, Abby.” Her friend’s voice was gentle, but firm. “Leave it alone, all right?” The sound of the canvas sack on the counter folding open, dishes being on the tile countertop. She pictured stuffed mushrooms and skewered pineapple shrimp in order to crowd aside the thoughts trying to enter her mind. Memories of a voice shouting, glass breaking, a sobbing response.

  “I could always take up another hobby,” said Abigail, after a moment. “I mean, I have the book club and music, of course ... and my pottery night ... but there’s always room for something more.”

  Maureen doesn’t know everything, she thought, privately. It’s my business if I want to make amends with my family.

  “There’s basket weaving or bonsai trees,” she mused. Behind her, the fridge door closed, rattling the magnets on the front.

  “But what do you really want to accomplish this year?” Maureen folded the museum sack under her caftan-clad arm. “Is bonsai trees really what you want to change about your life?”

  For a moment, Abigail didn’t reply. She drummed the end of her pen against the paper as she thought about her life, the crowd of activities and hectic schedules. It didn’t lack color or energy, but it lacked ... something. Something to change the way she saw the world, envisioned the future, even breathed air, for that matter. The kind of experience that would transform everything in a heartbeat–like falling in love.

  “How about getting a boyfriend?” said Abigail.

  Maureen raised her eyebrows. “Now that,” she said, “is not a bad idea.”

  Abby’s pencil filled in the line below the crossed-out family on her list. “Then this is the year I should find the perfect guy.” She grinned saucily in her friend‘s direction. “Now how’s that for life-changing?”

  Chapter Four

  “Dude–books?” Seth glanced up from the computer screen, a skeptical look on his face–exactly like the one Henry would have imagined from the previous night’s typing.

  “It’s good for me,” he answered. “People are supposed to read. I make a living off people reading. The last book I finished? The Catcher in the Rye in college English.”

  Seth snorted. “I think you’re gonna quit this one real fast,” he answered. “Now, the music, on the other hand–”

  “Like you’d let me give that one up,” Henry answered. “You’re going to drag me to every concert and session on your schedule. But don’t forget our deal,” he added, pointing a warning finger at Seth as he popped open a water bottle.

  “One opera this season in exchange for your company,” Seth recited. “Scout’s honor, dude. No way I’d forget.” He held up two fingers–crossed, Henry couldn’t help but notice.

  They were in Seth’s apartment, a few minutes away from a New Year’s brunch being thrown by one of Seth’s music review site’s sponsors, a guitar picks manufacturer or an amps dealer, Henry couldn’t remember and didn’t care. It was mostly his way to say thanks for the hockey tickets Seth procured for the coming weekend and fill in the spot left absent by Seth’s currently single status.

  They were unlikely friends, given Seth’s almost-crude nature, casual jeans and Sketchers, a taste for practical jokes and preference for funky musicians and the skater and punk crowds; in contrast to Henry’s white collar profession and season tickets to the symphony. But a friendship transpiring from something as unlikely as a split cab was cultivated on other things, like discussions about relationships.

  “So, is anything missing?” asked Henry, kicking aside a pile of clothes as he seated himself on the edge of Seth’s desk. “Monthly dental visits, a vow to give up snoring?” Behind him, a wind-up toy robot rattled to life in response to his movement. Seth’s cluttered apartment-turned-office was a perpetual cross between a college frat house and a kid’s playroom. Piles of records, cds of bands he was reviewing, walls crowded with posters and every flat surface cluttered with Pez dispensers and plastic toys.

  Reclining in his Grateful Dead butterfly chair, Seth scrolled through the list using the touch pad on his screen. “I uh... don’t see anything about your love life here,” he said. “Particularly a certain lovely lady.”

  Henry’s eyes slid away as he tossed the plastic water bottle cap towards the trash can. “That’s because I can’t think of anything to say,” he answered, with a shrug.

  “You could say ‘give Lois up’,” suggested Seth. “Or you could put ‘get over my ex for good’, or maybe–”

  “Thanks, you’re a big help,” answered Henry, sarcastically. “I think I’ve given up Lois sufficiently, all right? We don’t speak, she didn’t return my calls, our former friends whisper behind our backs–”

  “Dude, that’s never me,” Seth glanced up from the screen. “You know that, right? I just told you straight up that she was interested in someone else. And it’s just a pro’s opinion here, but I think you should be, too. Cool with that?”

  “Cool,” repeated Henry. He studied the bottle’s label.

  “So if I were to move on,” he said. “In your opinion–that would mean dating again, wouldn’t
it? So suppose I resolve that this is the year I find someone serious.”

  “Add it to the list,” said Seth, flipping the computer to face his friend.

  Henry clicked the edit button, adding find soulmate to the bottom of the list. “There you go,” he said. “My number one resolution.” He signed out of the blog and swiveled the screen towards Seth with a flourish.

  “But not just anyone,” said Seth. “That special someone. Which means ...”

  “She likes biking,” said Henry. “Definitely. An outdoors person. Loves music–”

  “Something other than classical opera?” suggested Seth, hopefully.

  “Maybe,” said Henry. “That’s more you than me. Loves cooking,” he reflected for a moment, “that one has to be on the list. I couldn’t be with somebody who thought food comes from a can.”

  Seth folded his hands behind his head. “So she has to have all these things–and not be Lois.”

  Henry polished off half of the water bottle in a long drink, as if washing away the memories of his ex at this moment. In reality, it took every ounce of being some moments to forget her. The sound of her laugh, the sheen of her dark hair beneath the glow of theater lights–

  “Correct,” he answered, after a long moment. “It should be the total opposite. Maybe that’s why I’m looking for someone a little more like me.”

  “Opposites attract,” said Seth. “But I can see your point, Dude. No fun in leading two separate lives all the time.” This, from a man whose girlfriends served the sole purpose of splitting the tab for drinks at a bar and filling a second seat at rock festivals–with no particular interest on his part for their personal lives or preferences.