Weekly Writing Challenge: Leave Your Shoes at the Door
Tick, tick, tick. I’m at this party, drink in hand, lean against the wall minding my own business. I don’t know you and I don’t wanna know you. I stand silently watching everyone as they stand idly chatting to one another waiting for that big zero. Yeah it’s new year and we’re all just passing the time till the countdown. That moment everyone shouts “10, 9, 8” Jesus. Give it a brake. Imagine something drastic happening at zero. Boom. A scene is caused.
People pass me by. A girl. Must be mid 20’s just looks me from the bottom to the top, not in a nice way. Yeah I’m wearing some tatty shoes I pulled from the cupboard from 4 years ago. Yes I’m wearing jeans. Yes I’m wearing double denim. Boom, boom the music plays out. The DJ scratches again. Hip-hop banging. Why’s it always hip-hop? Why do we never have some folk music playing whilst everyone does an Irish jig?
It’s an ugly apartment complex. Down 7th Avenue in West Village. New York city. It’s an alright location but just the apartment. Ugly walls, paintings and photos decorating the wall but it’s all displayed like a museum. “You can look but don’t touch” is what I imagine you could read under every image. A couple stand there staring at the artwork pretending to know what it’s all about “Yes the way the strokes of the brush are, have created an impressionists view of what the world really means” is what I imagine they’re saying. The view of the world. What does it really mean? I can never really tell what it’s all about until that final moment. That final moment of realisation.
Here comes another guy again. “Hey I was just over there and our eyes kinda caught like some….” he says but I just cut him off with a slurp of my drink “I’m waiting for a friend. SO if you don’t mind” I nudge him away. I’m not waiting for a friend. I’m not here with anyone.
There goes the host of the party, I think. Can’t be sure. All I know is she seems to have more knowledge on the ‘fine artwork’ than everybody else does that and she looks like she could stand against the apartment walls and just blend in. She’s ushering the couple onto another piece. A photograph. It’s a black and white one. Attracts the eyes with its contrast of the world. Typical New York setting. Some big buildings with the Brooklyn Bridge to the left. “So heres the typical photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge. Nothing really new here but I like the way it makes you contemplate what life is actually all about and why we’re here.” Is what I imagine her saying to the couple. It’s not. It’s a photo of a well known bridge in New York. Theres no special meaning to it.
The countdown. A firework in the distance. Explosion. A bit early I guess. NINE, they all scream. EIGHT, they get louder. I drown it out. Walking over to the balcony to get a less bland view instead of some obscure inside apartment building of what a boring persons mind must be trying to fight the interesting. I stare at the balcony then the New York skyline. FIVE, it catches my ears again. I stand on the balcony rails. FOUR, they’re building this up now. BANG, BANG the fireworks in the background. THREE. Explosions, colour in the black sky. TWO. I close my eyes now letting the breeze, cold air take me. ONE. Nearly there. They all scream at once but I can’t hear them anymore. I just take a step forward into the abyss. Open the eyes, flashes of colours, screaming.
Theres no special meaning because sometimes life just doesn’t work like that.