Happy Old Year's

My phone says it’s 2:21 a.m., which is probably a good time to go to sleep. I don’t want to be tired tomorrow for the start of the new year.

Flicking off the lights, I settle into bed, with thoughts of my resolutions dancing around in my head. I chuckle to myself for my poetry and gently close my eyes.

It’s not too long until they open again the next morning, but not to find myself in my small, New York apartment. Instead, I am in a strange place with detailed purple wallpaper and a matching carpet. I sit up in alarm, the bed creaking underneath me as I do so.

“Well Frank, it looks like it’ll be sunny today, but I’d still advise wearin’ a jacket.” *static* “So Edward, what new automobile designs do you think we can expect to see in 1920 and even 1921?” *static*

1920...1920?! I spring out of bed and yank open the curtains. Sure enough, several Ford Model T cars line the streets below. I blink. Then I blink again, harder. I even pinch my arm, praying that this is just a dream.

It’s not.

The apartment is about as small as my own, but with very ugly furnishings. It looks like the interior of a spaceship built a century ago, which, now that I think of it, was built a century ago. 

I try to get my things in order, all while attempting to remain calm. I manage to pick out the most comfortable looking suit from the closet, realizing with horror that I might not be the first person to wear these mysterious clothes.

Who’s apartment is this and where are they? Have they switched places with me and are now in the future at my apartment? Did everyone go back in time? I decide it’s best to stop looking for answers here and continue getting ready to go out into the street.

I have no sense of fashion for the era, so I look out the window again, looking for someone to get a reference from. By now, hundreds of people are bustling about the streets, getting to their morning jobs.

I can just make out a man far below me who is wearing a similar suit and tie to the one I found in the closet. Others seem to be wearing the same, so I go and put on a brown suit with slightly darker pants. The pants are nicely ironed so that they fold in the front. Underneath, I wear a light blue undershirt, paired with a black bowtie.

I look absolutely ridiculous, with my hair still sticking up in random places.

After fixing my hair, I finish the look with the only pair of shoes I could find. They look as if they’re made for tap dancing, with a raised heel and a strap across the top.

Finally, I’m ready to go outside and see what the heck is going on.

I’m greeted outside by a man wearing a checkered sweater and golf cap. “Hello, Mr. Baily,” he says.

“How do you -” I stare at him, wondering how he could possibly know my last name. Could it just be a coincidence? Baily is a fairly common last name, right? 

“Hi,” I answer tentatively. The man extends his hand, palm upward as if expecting something. Not knowing what to do, I shake it lightly and move on towards the street.

By now there are few people bustling about, as most jobs have probably already started. However, I manage to spot a few folks gathered around the opening of a building with a large sign above it. I can’t quite figure out what the words on it say, so I decide to walk a bit closer.

“Jazz: Liquor and Live Music” is what the sign says. One woman outside takes a long draw from her cigar and slurs, “Johnathan Baily?” I nod, and she shouts something incomprehensible through the door.

Quickly, the door opens and I am blasted by the sound of loud music. I choke on cigar smoke as I make my way through the crowd of dancing people.

A man beckons me from the stage and says, “The hell you been Johnny?” 

I shrug like an idiot. He thrusts a pair of drumsticks. “Play.”

“Oh no I don’t -”

“Whad’ you mean you don’t? You Johnathan Baily?”

“Well yes, but -” I stutter.

“Then play for Gods’ sake.”

So I sit down at the drum set.

It all just feels right. My left-foot steps on the hi-hat on two and four, while my right-hand plays a swinging ride. I grin from ear to ear as people call out my name from the crowd, dancing the Charleston.

“Lemme buy you a drink,” says a woman next to me at the bar.

I barely have to think, adrenaline still pumping through me from my performance. “Sure.”

The bartender brings a light brown liquid in a cool glass. I take a sip, all of the muscles in my body relaxing.

“That was one hell of a performance you put on there,” says a man behind me. He pats me on the back and extends his hand. I shake it.

The clock in this strange apartment says it’s 2:21. I figure that’s a good time to go to sleep. I don’t want to be too tired for whatever century tomorrow brings me.