What could one say about Tim? One might call him a hard
worker, perseverant in his tasks and dedicated to his profession. One might
describe Tim as a curt and, by extension, reticent individual. One could say a
number of things about Tim, a plethora of words to describe the man. One could,
of course, stop referring to oneself as ‘one’ and speak with simplicity. Sounds
like something Tim would say; he has little tolerance for such verbosity.
The problem here is, sadly, there are very few people who
can claim to know Tim well enough to provide a thorough or, at the very least,
not inaccurate description of his character. People who frequently interact
with the man, scarce as they are, report a singular oddity regarding him – he
appears to have no friends.
While the majority of the debate regarding that statement
may be on the suggestion of glaring hyperbole – that having “no” friends is
far-fetched and unrealistic for a man of Tim’s stature, the scrutiny of my own
is focused upon the word “have”, and I can assure you that the statement is as
accurate as a sleep-deprived, mentally disturbed, heavily intoxicated, amateur
rifle-shooting walrus aiming at a half-eaten burrito situated on the opposite
hemisphere is not.
To put it succinctly, Tim has no friends. That is not to say
it had always been so.
The evening air was brisk, much as was the pace of the man
who emerged into it. Tim took fleeting glimpses at his right and left, paused
for a moment, and repeated the action. The usual act that follows this would be
crossing the street, but Tim hurried on straight, for he had no intention of
being followed. Places had to be reached, arrangements had to be made and
secrecy was of utmost importance. Perfection was the absolute minimum.
.
The Council was as silent as a 1930’s film, and was filled
with people who seemed to have grown up in that era. A look composed in varying
degrees of skepticism, disapproval, and worry lay splattered across the face of
each member of the Council. Year after Year, they assign this task to someone,
someone capable of getting things done, and it is carried out in the
traditional manner, no variations. These were old people, proud of the routine
efficiency they governed this process with, and resented even the mildest notion
of change. Intuition, powerful and compelling, suggested to them that this
time, things would be different. For the first time in their seemingly infinite
lifetimes, the future seemed uncertain.
.
Armed with a glass of wine, Tim stood on the balcony
overlooking the delirious swarm of people buzzing beneath. A glance upwards at
the stelliferous sky evoked an outburst of emotion from the habitually stoic
man. One of those stars; I know you’re
one of them, Steve. This is for you. Everything’s ready, this plan will soon
bear fruit. The gloom dispelled, replaced by a slight snicker. Tim prided
himself on his rather fitting choice of words right there.
.
A generic woman in the crowd was generally excited about the
extravagant, yet meaningless celebration that was due to take place, much as it
did Year after Year. She screamed and bubbled with the same enthusiasm as the
rest of the mob, held off to catch a quick peek at her watch – still three
minutes to go – and then returned to the boisterous cacophony of which she was but
an insignificant speck. All was as normal as it always was.
.
The Council was starting to get jittery. Two minutes to go
for something that happened every Year. Had they messed up this time? Picked
the wrong person? No matter, it was out of their hands now. Their doubts were
irrelevant. They turned their eyes to the mammoth television screen and watched
the giant, stationary ball. Any time now.
.
Tim glared at a star with utmost disgust. Cancer, Tim hated
it. It wasn’t the star sign of Steve’s death, but it was the cause of it.
Maybe, if the doctors had caught it a little earlier, he might have had a
fighting chance. Tim knew, however, that there was no way that could have
happened. Steve took his adages far more seriously than his medicines.
He took a little sip of wine and another look at the outside
world; the gargantuan sphere had begun its descent and the screens around began
the countdown.
.
The generic woman...I cannot be sure it is the same woman,
so indistinguishable are they all, so I shall rephrase.
A generic woman, possibly the same one but probably another,
one in a synchronised wave of voices, intoned the familiar chant, “N-Y-C!
N-Y-C!” in a fond display of passion for her city, which celebrates the
phenomenon Year after Year, and with a voice of feverish excitement.
.
Quite of the opposite nature were the spirits in the other
NYC – the New Year’s Council, where a multitude of wizened old blokes with
bated breath simultaneously exhaled, not out of relief, but a lung capacity diminished
over their innumerable Years. And in those Years, the people they had tasked
with the duty of ushering in the New Year had done their task with a comfortable
simplicity, throwing up no surprises. Year followed Year and order was
maintained in a world which, in most other spheres, had degenerated into chaos.
In a few seconds, their established order would meet the same fate.
.
As the ball was inches from the ground and a New Year was
mere seconds from birth, a wave of memories flooded over Tim, plunging him into
reminiscence. One incident in particular dominated over his thoughts – the time
when Steve explained why he refused to go for his annual checkups.
“An apple a day keeps the doctor away, Tim,” Steve edified,
“and I’ve got apples around me all the time. Nothing’s happening to me.”
Oh, but it did, Steve,
it did. Something happened.
Tim took another long sip of his beverage. This is for you, my friend.
.
The countdown reached zero, humanity rejoiced, and the
monitors, the screens about Times Square lit up with a hearty congratulatory
message. Almost instantly, there was a collective hush. The council gasped as
they stared at the words. Tim smiled.
“GOODBYE, 2015. HAPPY
NEW YEAR 2015S!”
