Everybody Needs Some Buddy

EVERYBODY NEEDS SOME BUDDY

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” The cheer went up, reverberating around the square.

I snorted. “Yeah, Happy New Year.”

I looked out at the crowd. It was small compared to anything from before the pandemic, but still larger than the 2020 crowd, when there was no ball drop, and the only people allowed in Times Square were health care workers. The rest of the world had to watch the new year arrive virtually.

This year the crowd was what, fifteen thousand? That’s still a lot of people, and a lot of garbage. I surveyed the mess waiting for me and my broom.

I was kinda bummed that I was working tonight instead of partying with all my friends. I know, I know. I have a good paying union job, and I did volunteer for the shift, but man, I really miss hanging with my buds on New Year’s Eve. But double-time-and-a-half is double-time-and-a -half.

Before heading out into the square, I tugged down my mask, and surreptitiously lifted my flask to my lips, and partook in a little seasonal cheer. I was on broom patrol this year, and I wasn’t going to be driving anything, so, Happy New Year, to me! I took another nip of some of Kentucky’s finest bourbon, pulled my mask back up, snugged the flask in my back pocket, and waited for the crowds to start moving out. 

Times Square is about one hundred and eighty-five thousand square feet, and it’s my job to clean it up after the ball drop. Not alone, of course — there are usually about three hundred of us picking up the confetti and all the other stuff left after the party’s over. New York City thinks it’s festive to drop about three thousand pounds of confetti on the heads of the party-goers. And our job is to find, corral, and pick up every single piece. Me and confetti spend way too much time together on New Year’s Eve!

I watched as the crowds started to thin. My starting point was the area closest to the stage. I could hear the sound of the backpack blowers moving forward from the back as I walked to the front of the Square. I started pushing my broom, clearing an area around the skirt of the stage.

“Hey, Bruno!” I turned at the sound of my name.

“Yo!” It was Maurice, my buddy from the Yonkers Works Yard. Maurice was part of the Carpenters’ Union, and he and his crew were responsible for dismantling the stage and VIP areas.

“Hey, Bruno, can you give me a hand?”

“Where’re your guys?”

“They’re here somewhere. But I need someone to help with this scaffolding. I don’t think it was put together right. It’s all jammed up.” He waved his hand at the twenty foot high stage.

“I’d love to help you, Maurice, but you know union rules — if it’s not my trade, I can’t do the work.” I looked apologetically at him. “I would love to help you, instead of pushing this broom, but I don’t want the shop stewards coming down on me. Sorry man.”

“Yeah, I know. Thought I’d ask. If you see any of my guys, send ‘em over to me, ‘kay?”

“You got it!”

I continued to push the garbage and confetti away from the stage. That was the strategy — everyone moves toward the middle of the square, and the trucks with the giant vacuums suck it all up. The mechanical brooms — the coolest piece of equipment we have — just suck and dump directly into the trucks.

As much as I hate the confetti — it’s so hard to wrangle — I really, really, really hate the pee bottles. The rules when you come to Times Square for the ball drop are that once you’re in, you can’t leave, and there are no bathrooms on site. That means you either hold it, or you don’t. And if you can’t hold it, you do what you need to do, like pee in a bottle. Or sometimes, just squat and pee. I get it — I really do — but man, someone’s got to clean it up, and that someone is me. 

Thankfully, most pee bottles are plastic water bottles, so they’re not going to break. Not like the copious number of empty booze bottles. Using my foot, I rolled a large empty bottle towards the pile of garbage. And, I just want to say, I have no idea how someone was able to sneak a magnum of champagne in, because people are searched before they can come into the Square — and those mothers are huge! 

There’s all kinds of not-garbage left behind every year, as well. The weirdest was one year, some people forgot their kid in a stroller. I kid you not! How do you forget your kid? That blows my mind. What, were they on the subway and thinking, “I feel like I’ve forgotten something, dear.” Everything worked out, I guess. Just after the cops arrived, this woman comes screaming up to us, tears streaming down her face, “My baby! Oh my God! My baby!” The dad was right behind her. Apparently Mom thought Dad had the kid, and Dad thought Mom had the kid. It wasn’t until they were out of the crowds that they realized they’d forgotten the kid.

I continued sweeping in front of the stores closest to the stage. They were all closed now, which made clean-up easier. None of them had been vandalized, which was good because that meant that there was no broken glass to sweep up. Smashed windows happen some years, but not this year. I continued to sweep the confetti and garbage off the sidewalk and into the street, moving away from the stage.

Part of my job’s not only sweeping, but looking for bigger items — things that can’t be sucked up in the vacuum apparatus, and then piling them to the side so the guys on the tuck can manually heave it all into the garbage trucks. That’s not a job that I want. Too much like work. All the young bucks volunteer, you know, to show how strong and virile they are. Not me, man. Those days are over. After twenty years working for the sanitation department, I’m good without lifting and heaving crap into the back of a garbage truck on New Year’s Eve. 

One year I found a wheelchair. I kid you not. What, the ball had magical healing powers and the person just got up and walked out of Times Square? It was too weird. Then there was the year one of the guys found a mannequin. Who brings a mannequin to the New Year’s in Times Square? And, why? It — she? — was all dressed up for the cold weather, with a coat, hat, scarf and mittens. It was one of the classy mannequins, like they have in fancy stores, not like a sex doll. Someone took the time and effort to bring her all the way downtown, and then abandoned her. Bernie, the guy who found her, figured maybe the guy met a real girl, and left with her, leaving is not-real girl behind. She now resides in the Bronx Works Yard. They named her Lucy, like Lucille Ball (like ball drop — get it?). She’s sorta like their mascot.

Even though the crowds were smaller this year, there was still a lot of garbage. In addition to the tons of confetti, there were masks — lots and lots of masks. All different kinds of masks. The rule to attend was double vaxxed, wearing a mask, or you can’t get in. I guess they didn’t say how long you actually had to wear the mask. I also noticed quite a few vaccination certificates in the garbage. There were going to be a lot of upset people when they look for their vax passports and can’t find them.

I continued to sweep, making my way further away from the stage. Once Maurice and his guys took it down, I’d have to come back and redo the area. I wondered how many phones we’d find this year. Not last year, but in 2019 we found over three hundred phones. In fact there were so many lost phones, that there was a guy in a truck who you’d take them to so that they’re all in one place. He answered the phones all night long, when they rang. I’d love that gig — answering phones instead of pushing a broom. But, different union, so …

I looked around the Square. My supervisor was no where to be seen, so I tugged my mask down, and took another little sip of cheer. We were all supposed to meet back at the yard for a bit of a party when we got off shift at six, so I figured a little pre-drinking couldn’t hurt. You know, to ward off the chill — despite the fact that the temperatures are in the mid-forties. Thank God! A few years ago it was like nine degrees out. I froze my ass off! I really needed my flask that year.

I continued to make piles of garbage, as I swept up the mess. Cigarette butts, water bottles — both with and without pee — liquor bottles, crap with 2022 written on it, clothes — lots and lots of clothes. Jackets, hats, gloves, sweaters. Because there’s a clock on getting the roads open to traffic again, we just push it all into piles to be loaded into trucks and taken to the landfill. Even though we’re not supposed to, everyone always saves the good stuff for themselves. A couple of years ago, I got a really nice leather jacket. I like to think of it as saving the planet — instead of it going to to the landfill, it went into my closet.

I swept close to my buddy Jimmy. Jimmy’s been working at the yards forever. He’s a lifer who has no desire to become a supervisor. He calls himself a GFL — Grunt For Life. 

“Hey, Jimmy, how’s it going?”

“Hey, Bruno.” He smiled. “How much so far?”

Along with the garbage we find quite a bit of money — change and bills. 

I stuck my hand into my pocket, and pulled out my bounty. “So far, $47.53. How ‘bout you?”

“Not quite as lucky as you. So far, $19.24. But the night is still young,” he said smiling.

About five years ago, Jimmy found $500, neatly folded in a gold money clip. Being an honest guy he handed it in. But no one claimed it within thirty days, so Jimmy’s honesty paid off, and he got a nice New Year’s bonus. He still uses the money clip, only more often than not, it only has singles in it, instead of hundreds.

“Got your flask?” he asked.

“Always!” I said patting my back pocket.

We both took our flasks out, and clinked them together.

“Happy New Year! And here's to finding the big score!” he said.

“Here, here, brother!” 

We pulled down our masks, and each took a swig.

That’s part of the reason I don’t hate pushing the broom. Because I’m moving so slow, compared to the mechanical brooms and the blowers, I get to see the good stuff. I can’t think of a single person on the first shift that hasn’t found at least one treasure every year.

Sometimes you find something and you know you have to find the owner. Like the wallets. We’re supposed to collect them, and give them to the cops. All the IDs are in there, so it should be easy to track down the owners. Some of the guys take the money out and leave all the cards and shit, saying the money’s like a finder’s fee. I just hand in the whole wallet. And purses. We find a lot of purses, too. Same thing — give ‘em to the cops, and hope the owners get ‘em back.

I turned down one of the alleys off of the square. It was closed off during the ball drop, but confetti doesn’t know that, and travels where confetti wants to travel. I’ve found that the best way to clear an alley is to start at the back and move forward. I’m not a fan of alleys. They’re gross, especially if there are restaurant dumpsters. Plus, somehow, people get into them and use them as a washroom, and they smell. Sometimes I find people passed out. I usually just leave them as long as they’re alive. That’s one of the reasons I hate the alleys. Over the years there have been a number of dead bodies found in the alleys. You never hear about it on the news, because it’s mostly natural causes, but sometimes it’s not. I walked up the alley, my head on a swivel. Nope. No people.  Fantastic!

I walked to the back of the alley and started sweeping it out.

“Bark!”

What the hell?

 Dogs are not allowed at the ball drop — they get stepped on, bite people, and crap all over the place. The ball drop is strictly a humans-only event. 

“Bark! BARK!”

A shaggy-looking mutt came out of the shadows, wagging his tail, head down.

“Hey fella. What are you doing here?” I bent to pat him

I know, I know. Like he could answer me.

He was a mixed breed, with a bit of border collie, and a whole lot of other. Cute as hell, through.

He put his front paws on my leg and wagged and wagged. I rubbed his head, and he licked my hand.

“Who do you belong to?” 

He was wearing a collar, and the tag said his name was Buddy, with a phone number. I took out my phone, and dialled the number.

“Who is this?” said a woman.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m down here cleaning up after the ball drop, and I found your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Is this your phone number?“ I recited the numbers from the collar.

“Yes. My finance put my number on the dog’s collar, but he’s not my dog.”

“I was wondering, if, uh, I could have your finance’s number, so I can call him?”

“I don’t have his number. He left me. Tonight, Took off for Brazil with my best friend.” Pause. I could hear her sniffling. “I guess he abandoned both me and the stupid dog.”

Uh oh. “So, do you want me to drop off the dog?”

“I DO NOT want the damn dog. You can have the dog. My gift to you.” 

And, the call was over. I looked down at Buddy, and scratched his head.

“So, Buddy, what am I going to do with you?”

Suddenly my walkie squawked. “Bruno, you okay? You’ve been in the alley for a long time.”

It was my supervisor. Good guy, but he wants to be a boss some day, so we all have to do our job properly.

I clicked the button. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll be out in a few.”

“When you’re done, head back to the stage, and sweep there.”

“Ten-four.”

I quickly cleared the alley. Buddy stuck beside me. I waved at my supervisor when we walked out. He gave me a thumbs up.

Then Buddy trotted off.

“Hey, Buddy, where ya going?” 

He trotted away, not looking back. I wanted to follow him, but I couldn’t, what with my supervisor watching me. I continued to sweep, but kept my eyes open for him.

Then Buddy came back. This time he had something in his mouth — a wallet. He dropped it at my feet.

“Thanks, Buddy!” I picked it up and put it in my jacket pocket with the other one I had found.

Then he left again. This time he came back with a twenty dollar bill. Ha! My total was now $67.43.

He continued bringing back money. All kinds of money. In the ten minutes it took me to walk back to the stage, Buddy brought me $37 more dollars (I was for sure going to be this year’s found money winner), four wallets, and one purse. Buddy was my ringer. 

I looked at him. Maybe he was trained to sniff out money — like a drug dog, but for cash. 

I walked over to the cop stationed by the side of the stage and handed off this evening's haul — five wallets and a purse, thanks to Buddy.

When we walked back to the stage, Maurice was still working on the scaffolding.

“Hey, Maurice. I’m supposed to start cleaning up around here.”

“Almost finished.” 

I turned my back and surveyed the rest of the square. We’d been making really good progress this year. It was getting done, fast.

At the same time as I heard a loud screeching sound, something struck me in the side, sending my sprawling sideways into the asphalt.

“What the —“

Right where I had been standing the remaining scaffolding crashed to the ground in a heap of metal rods and supports.

Buddy was beside me, licking my face. 

“I’m okay, Buddy. It’s all good.” But my hip hurt like hell. I’d landed on my flask. Shit.

Maurice came running over.

“Bruno! Are you okay! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”

“What the fuck just happened, Maurice?” I said, looking at the place I had been standing seconds ago, now a pile of collapsed scaffolding. I sat up. Painfully.

“Man, somebody didn’t put it together properly. When I tried to take it down, it just collapsed. Somebody's gonna lose their job over this!”  

Jimmy came running over.

“Hey, that your dog?” he asked, out of breath.

“Uh, I don’t know yet.”

“He saved you, man. Just knocked you out of the way when the scaffolding collapsed. He saved your life.”

I slowly stood up, and looked at my new best friend.

“Thank you, Buddy,” I said, running my hands along his sides and rubbing his ears. “I’m so glad you found me tonight. Everybody needs some Buddy, sometime.”