"Close Encounters of the Brief Kind"

“Close Encounters of the Brief Kind”

Should auld acquaintance be forgot? Harold Baxter found himself answering this question in the affirmative every New Year’s Eve. Taking a match to his cell phone contacts (with the exception of his mother and anyone else he would be burned at the stake for deleting), he was determined to start each year fresh relationship-wise, moving on from past pains and embracing new ones, whether they be of the heart or of the ass.

Now, this wasn’t technically a New Year’s Eve ritual, as Harold always waited until after midnight had struck to let the deleting begin. You know, just in case an old flame suddenly expressed interest in becoming a new one again. Forty-year-old bachelors were rarely treated to such luck, having long ago passed the era of “I’m sorry too, baby,” but Harold was a cynically optimistic forty-year-old bachelor, so he allowed the indulgence.

Harold dutifully attended the boisterously boring apartment party of his older sister Jane every December 31^st, and this year would be no different. Cornered against a poorly-painted wall with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade in one hand and an invisible emergency escape button (usually a lie related to letting his dog out) in the other, his ears perused a plethora of shallow conversations with eager disinterest. He was just about ready to use that emergency escape button when a slightly-younger, wise-faced woman approached him with hesitant curiosity in her eyes.

“Where’d you get that lemonade?”

“Oh, uh, it was in a cooler right next to the cheese and crackers.”

“I see. They must all be gone, as I already checked there.”

“Well, uh… Unless you’re a germaphobe, you’re welcome to have the rest of mine.”

The woman looked somewhat taken aback by this remark. “I don’t think I have to be a germaphobe to reasonably say no to sharing a bottle with a stranger. Especially during flu season. But thanks anyway.”

Harold smirked. “Sorry, it was an impulsive gesture of kindness. Sharing is one of my only redeeming virtues, so I try to seize opportunities to do so whenever I can.”

“I see. Well, you still have the opportunity to share your name.”

“Ah yes. I’m Harold. And you?”

“Rose. It’s nice to meet you, Harold. Do you have any New Year’s resolutions?”

“Gosh. My name followed by how I intend to become a better person? You’re rather forward, aren’t you.”

“Well, it’s better than all that phony ‘I’m good, how are you?’ crap. Besides, most people don’t actually take New Year’s resolutions seriously, so I think it qualifies as basic small talk.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Well, I guess my main resolution is to be less of an asshole this year. But isn’t that everybody’s?”

“Oh, c’mon, that’s vague and uninteresting. And you don’t seem like the kind of a guy who’s an asshole.”

“You have no idea. But I appreciate your optimism. I guess one of my more 'interesting' resolutions is to make friends who last more than a year, yet who don’t last a torturous lifetime.”

“That seems like a rather narrow range. What’s so torturous about a lifetime?”

“Friends who last a lifetime are friends who think they can get away with things. They start taking you for granted. And I hate that.”

“Not if they’re truly good friends. Perhaps that’s what your resolution is missing. The modifier ‘good.’”

“Perhaps. But ‘good’ is too much to ask of most human beings. How about you? Do you got any resolutions?”

“I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. I make new day resolutions. After all, despite all the drunken hullabaloo, January 1^st is really just another day.”

“Alright, then what are some of your day resolutions? Smile more, be nice to people?”

“I’m already good at that.”

“I figured as much.”

“It would be nice to have more sincere conversations with people. I make that resolution almost every day.”

“And what qualifies as ‘sincere’ in your mind?”

“You know, transcending basic, bland pleasantries like ‘How are you?’ and ‘I’m good, how are you?’ I hate feeling like I have to follow a script whenever I talk to people. Sometimes, even ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t give a damn how you’re doing right now’ seems the more compassionate thing to say.”

“So you equivocate honesty with compassion?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Nobody wants to be fake-loved.”

“I’ve been fake-loved all my life, and I’m still alive and well.”

“But are you happy?”

“Hardly. But who is?”

A little light left Rose’s eyes as she thought about this for a moment. “I suppose few people are. It doesn’t have to be that way though.”

“Maybe so. But what can we do about it?”

“We can have sincere conversations.”

“Do you really think that’s the key?”

“Hell if I know.”

Harold smirked. “Thanks for being sincere.”

“I can’t be anything else.”

A friend of Rose named Sarah suddenly came running up to her with a horrified expression on her face, saying, “Rose, why haven’t you been picking up your phone? Jim just called, and Harry was crossing an intersection when he was… he… he was…”

Rose’s face went white as she realized what Sarah was trying to tell her. “Oh my God. You don’t mean…”

Sarah gravely nodded her head.

“Is… Is he at the hospital?”

Sarah began to cry. Her tears were mirrored ten times over by Rose, who turned to Harold.

“I’m sorry, I have to go. Apparently, my husband’s been trying to call, and our son might be dead.” And without another word, Rose rushed to the door and out to the hospital.

Harold just stood frozen in his spot. His ears slowly caught the tail-end of a “THREE… TWO… ONE…” behind him.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind

Should all acquaintance be forgot

And auld lang syne

           Never had he met a woman so sincere. And he probably never would again. He realized she wasn’t flirting; she was ministering. And like most good things in life, her healing presence was gone in an instant. But he would never forget it.

           Damn, why couldn’t Fate have at least given him enough time to add her to his contacts?

The End.