The Times Square Pilgrims

Call it the confetti. Call it the cameras. Or hell, call it the Planet Fitness paper hats that look like they were sold next to the candy at the checkout line. But every year, millions of Americans migrate to Times Square the way moths migrate to flames—confident, hopeful, and unaware they’re about to get burned.

At first, the sensation is polite. A whisper from your bladder that you ignore. There’s only an hour left. Then forty-five minutes. You can make it.

Then suddenly your bladder stops asking and starts demanding service. You bargain. You lie to yourself. You begin to understand how hostages feel.

Then all at once, you attempt to leave—only to discover the crowd has formed a single organism: an unbroken wall of coats and elbows that will not be parted, negotiated with, or reasoned into compassion. You dive. You duck. You calculate time in seconds now.

Eventually, you find a Porta Potty offering relief at the low, New York price of thirty dollars. As the ball drops, you listen to fireworks while urinating into blue water, telling yourself it was worth it.

The Homebodies

They had plans. Several of them. Good ones, too. Some people even invited them and expected they would come.

But as the day approached, the homebody began to ask the only question that mattered: Do I actually want to go?

By 8:00 p.m., the decision is made, and pajamas are put on proudly. The television is turned to a channel showing people celebrating in places they will never visit. And as 11:59 hits, the homebody looks around the living room and thinks, This is perfect.

Immediately followed by, I hope no one texts me and asks what I did instead. 

The House Party People

These people claim to hate crowds, but what they really hate is pricing.

Nine dollars for a beer.
Twelve for a cocktail.
An all-American rip-off.

So this year, they decide to get one over on the local club scene and host their own party. The idea starts to marinate, then ripen.

He’ll buy the confetti. He’ll buy the beer. He’ll buy the food.

And by the time New Year’s Eve arrives, he’ll ask everyone to chip in thirty dollars to “cover the cost.”

Suddenly, going out doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

The Local Club Scene People

“It’ll be the biggest party ever.”

Never mind that they said that a week ago for their Christmas party.
Or two months ago for Halloween.

Because every time this club throws a party, it promises scale.

But what it delivers is familiarity. Loud music. Expensive drinks. Dim lighting. And dancing with friends among strangers.

It leads to the kind of night where some people are having fun, and others don’t know what to do with their hands.

The Family Gatherers

Family. Comes. First.

Or maybe it just comes before the logistical nightmare of taking a baby to a bar and watching strangers judge you over cocktails.

Either way, they made their choice years ago.

They gather in living rooms with couches pushed back, kids bouncing, grandparents sighing, and fathers sneaking drinks.

The television plays a broadcast of Times Square, but no one is really watching the ball. They’re watching each other instead—playing games, telling stories, doing whatever it takes to stay awake.

Midnight arrives. Someone pops a cork. Glasses clink. The tradition holds.

The Overachievers / Resolution Freaks

You knew they had a resolution before they knew your name. Because they told you. Unprovoked. Possibly while you were zipping your fly in a public restroom.

Someone is going to change this year. They’re certain of it. Or at least certain enough to say it out loud.

Their voice carries enthusiasm mixed with doubt, like they aren’t sure who needs convincing. You’ll see them at Planet Fitness for the first two weeks of January. Then at the local dive bar for the two weeks after that, promising they’ll get it next year.

The Wanderers / Bar Hoppers

They drift from place to place like souls without a body, searching for something they can’t name. Each bar is exactly the same, but they cheer anyway, pretending novelty exists.

Drinks cost the same. Music blares at the same volume. The people wear the same clothes.

Still, they nod.  Still, they smile.  Still, they keep moving—convinced the next place will feel different. By 2 a.m., they’re tipsy, directionless, and slightly desperate, still believing the night isn’t over until they see another countdown.

The Singles / Loner Romantics

It’s a hunt.

He stands at the edge of the bar, looking up from his phone, calculating which woman is unattached. She leans slightly, shifting her attention between the bartender and the stranger with the confident smile.

They move through the room with the careful hope of people who have been burned before, but want to light again.  Every accidental touch is a sign. Every glance means something. Every rejection is cataloged for later review.

By midnight, some find someone. Most find themselves exactly where they started—nursing a drink and quietly building a case for the benefits of being single.

The Staff / Bartenders / Servers

They hate you. They really do.

You can see it in the forced smile, the tight jaw, the “Happy New Year” delivered like a curse. They’ve spent hours bending to the whims of drunk strangers who think tips are optional and patience is unlimited.

At some point, an idiot bumps into a serving tray and sends drinks scattering. They look down at the foaming beer, the shattered glass, then back up at the person grinning and shouting “Happy New Year” like it explains anything.

Later, they step outside for a cigarette and wonder what all the excitement was supposed to be about.

PLease like, comment, share and tell me what you think. Happy New Years! What did I miss?