New Year’s Rotten Eve.

Just when I thought I had pulled it all together. 

I had a year of therapy under my belt, bagged the bars, got my finances under control, and started to make some pretty decent friends. Who could’ve asked for more? Actually, I could have. I could have asked for someone to share New Year’s dinner and a glass of champagne with—maybe even a smooch to ring in 1993. 

But, no. 

New Year’s Eve found me home—chronically single and sick as a dog. The snow was falling in record depths outside and I had come down with the flu during my week spent shoveling driveways, roofs and buried cars. The shoveling stopped after I required six stitches in my right hand. I slashed it open trying to rid a cheap glass of some dried up Cranapple juice. Have you ever tried speeding to an emergency room, shifting a manual transmission with your right hand wrapped in a blood-drenched dishtowel? And your head loopy from Robitussin? On black ice? But I digress. 

So there I was, on the couch watching Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve alone. Actually, not totally alone. Bronski, my trusty bichon frise was on my lap. Cujo the cat was somewhere in the house. The glue-soaked purple fumes from the Duraflame log added some life to the chill of my drafty old bungalow. Dick Clark introduced the next band. I don’t remember who it was—Wang Chung, I think. Whoever it was was enough to send Bronski into a howling fit. He started to yelp like I’d never heard him yelp before. It was much like he would shriek if someone had stepped on his tail. No, more as if someone had cleated the tail of a howler monkey. He began to shake uncontrollably. His back arched and paws splayed. His eyes rolled back in his head —and he died. 

Yip. 

I placed him on the floor then sank into the couch. I blinked twice in disbelief. My mouth mouthed a silent “Br ...” 

I snapped back to reality when there was a rapping at my door. It was my next-door neighbor Karen, who was in a panic along with two of her kids. Her baby was locked in the car as it idled in her driveway. She asked to borrow my phone so she could call her husband. I obliged with a still-stunned nod. The kids were crying from cold, hunger, or the fact that their mom was wigging out. Karen was trying to remember the phone number and cussed quietly to herself. My head was throbbing. My nose was running. Everybody was “wang-chunging.” My dog looked like a fuzzy white rug in the violet glow of the Duraflame.

“Could everyone just leave?” I asked, trying to keep from imploding. Karen apologized as I showed them all the door. I collapsed on the couch and stared numbly at the TV as the ball as descended on Times Square. 

10!  9!  8!  7!  6!  5!  4!  3!

I took the remote in my good hand and clicked goodnight to 1992.