Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Leftover Confetti

One million people rang in the New Year just a block away from the building in which I work. One million people stood in an intersection, screamed numbers, kissed strangers, and loudly sang a song to which they hardly knew the lyrics. Months were spent building and testing a ridiculously expensive sphere just so it could have thirty seconds of that oh-so-famous downward motion. Seven thousand pounds of confetti poured onto those one million people, washing away old resolutions and cleansing them of a year grown old.

And then it was gone. A new morning on a new year brought not more than a team of sanitation workers to that intersection. The usual river of yellow taxis, the crowded sidewalks of tourists and tour guides, they all took their place as if nothing happened. All the noisemakers, all the hats, all the champagne bottles, all the hopes and dreams of a million people, the billions little bits of confetti paper that showered them, gone.

Or perhaps not all. As I sit in my office building high above Sixth Avenue, staring blankly out the window and pondering the intricasies of where to go for lunch, a little bit of brightly colored paper wafts by. And another. And another. Little ripped pieces of revelry and celebration ride the never-ending air currents that ebb and flow through skyscraper canyons. One brash little blue number swoops wildly and drunkenly kisses my window. You're a little late, I say to myself pretending it can hear, the party's over. No, I fancy it replies, it's not over until someone forgets about me. Until I hit the ground and some city employee throws me away. How long do you think I can last before I fall to the street?

The whole year, I hope.