Published Wednesday, December 29, 2010 5:07 PM
Updated Wednesday, December 29, 2010 5:08 PM
It’s been a long time since I have done anything major on New Year’s Eve. In fact, I probably haven’t been to a New Year’s Eve Party in more than a decade and certainly haven’t done a blithering, squint-faced debauch-a-thon since I was in my roaring 20s.
It’s a surreal feeling to realize you’ve been up all night, a foreboding realization that things are going to go downhill very soon. All you can do is toss your lampshade into the corner, hope you have aspirin and Gatorade, and collapse into bed, knowing a brass band sized hangover will soon be marching across your temples.
Amateur night, indeed.
While I have far more years than brain cells, I have learned several things over the years. One, I don’t care what happens at midnight; I might not make it past 8:30. I’ve also learned that, not only does nothing good happen after midnight, nothing good will come of my staying up that late, at least at this stage of my life.
Still, a little excitement can be fun, especially if it comes in the guise of potential emergency.
One New Year’s Eve, My Beloved and I, as per our modus operandi, enjoyed a quiet evening at home. We watched a movie, did some chicken wings on the grill, drank a couple of beers, then long before midnight, the three of us – yes, dogs are people, too – wandered up to bed, the better to drift gently into the arms of Morpheus.
About 3 a.m. my Beloved awakened me with a gentle pressure on the wrist. “Huhngggzzzzzz,” I said, obviously alert.
“I think I heard something downstairs,” she whispered.
“That’s nice,” I replied, shooing her back to school...Owww! Firmer pressure and a shake.
“What?”
“I said I think I heard something downstairs.”
I sighed. “What do you think you might have heard?”
“I don’t know. It sounded like a cabinet slamming. So I got up and shut the door.”
“Good thinking.”
“Don’t you hear anything?”
I surrender. There will be no more sleep on this watch.
“No, but let’s be quiet a minute. Maybe we’ll hear them going through the silverware, or something.”
“That’s not funny! We jut got that new TV...”
I sigh again. I just have a hard time believing anyone went to the trouble to get in here. We have a high back fence. Someone would have to shatter a window, or bang down a door, to get in. And they would have to sneak over three fences to get to our fence, and find a window big enough to get a 37-inch screen TV through.
But the biggest indicator of all is lying right between us. The Wonder Corgi is flat on her back, four wee bitty short legs stuck straight up in the air, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. She’s even snoring, an activity I point out that I, too, should be engaged in right now.
“You’re making fun of me,” she pouts.
“Not at all. But I do have to go to the bathroom, and I don’t think I’ll be able to hold out much longer locked up in this room.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “We’re not exactly locked in. I hadn’t done that yet.”
I get up, open the bedroom door. The faint glow of the bathroom nightlight beckons a few feet away.
“I’m going in. If I’m not back in five minutes, call the Coast Guard or something.”
Halfway through my constitutional, I finally hear a noise. Not quite a door slam, but nothing I recognize either. A fleeting thought crosses my mind that I would hate for the cops to find me lying on the bathroom floor, my head bashed in, my sweat pants halfway down to my knees, my hand still clutching all I hold dear. I can just picture the yellow chalk outline. I do not want to be remembered this way.
I ease back into the room.
“I heard it. I think I better go check it out.”
“Wait,” she says, and rummages through a bedside table drawer. She hands me one of those things people use to adjust antique furniture. A close range weapon to be sure – it looks to be about the size and shape of an iron Q-Tip -- but it’s better than nothing.
We tiptoe toward the door. Wait a minute. We?
“We’re all going. The whole family,” she says.
Great.
I’m easing down the stairs now, Q-Tip in hand, listening intently for another noise. Slowly...slowly...silently....One foot carefully in front of the other...barely breathing...what was that?....One more step and....
“YYYYYEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIEEEE!!!!!!”
My heart seizes, I leap out of my shorts and my slippers, the Q-Tip clatters to the floor. If I had been carrying a gun I would have blown off my own foot.
“Sorry. I stepped on the dog.”
At this point, both of us are howling with laughter. We turn on the lights, feint through the kitchen with the Q-Tip, check the windows, the closets, the guest shower. Nobody here but us morons.
“Want a beer?” she says.
“Sure.” I check my pulse. It’s there. “I’m not going to sleep anytime soon.”
Suddenly, a weird sound comes from the other room. I snatch up my Q-Tip, ready to do battle. Then we start laughing.
The dog is snoring again.