Smokey Blood Shadow

“Agh!” I shriek as quietly as I can manage.

“What is it?” Mom asks leaning over, faking a conscience.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” I lie as I rush to the bathroom. My finger is surgically slashed half open from the x-acto knife, but I don’t want to her to see me bleed. I can take care of this myself.

The blood flows from my finger as I rinse it off in the sink. Oh my god it hurts, and I haven’t even put alcohol on it yet. Maybe I should drink some alcohol first? No no, I’m fine. I tell myself I can push through, and a trip to the kitchen for a shot of whiskey at 10 in the morning might set off Mom’s “you need church!” alarm. The singe of the alcohol on the fresh wound is excruciating. I want to make a joke about the apocalypse for bacteria playing out on my skin, but it just fucking hurts! In spite of the pain I throw on gauze and a bandage and run-walk as calmly as I can manage back to wrapping expensive Christmas gifts with my mother, lest she suspect I’m hurting.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Max?”

“Yeah, Mom, I’m good. Let’s just finish these before Santa shows up. You know how he gets, with the passive aggressive coal delivery and Rudolph’s nose. I mean, how do you think it got so red?”

We laugh and continue the small talk.

“Go ahead and open your gift, Max,” Dad said.

“If you insist.” I smile curtly.

“Just open it,” he says.

I tear open the smallish package, expecting something diminutive but expensive, aaaand what in the actual hell it’s the key to a Tesla.

“Dad,” I mutter as incredulously and calmly as I can manage.

“You like it?”

“No I don’t like it. I live in New York in an apartment that barely has street parking, let alone a charging station.” I look over to Mom. I already know where this is going.

“Your mother and I were thinking you could move back home. You can work at the company and—“

“I already have a jo—“

“DON’T speak when I’m speaking.” Dad’s glares at me with that familiar hellfire. I wait.

“You make barely enough money to get by. You’d be making twice as much working with us, and I hate to see you waste your talents.”

I want to shout everything in my mind at once simultaneously. I’m not wasting my talents, I’m doing what I love, I’m not a bad person, I’m enough, money isn’t love, I don’t want anything from you, I hate your fucking guts.

I just sit silently. It’s just my imagination, but I can already see him reaching for his belt.

“Well?” he demands.

Looking down I answer, “I’ll think about it.”

I’m not going to think about it. I’m going to get the fuck out of here.

I lean into the window on a red eye flight from Denver watching the sun rise. Black night turns to deep, velveteen navy and then robin’s egg, just before flooding with oranges, reds, purples, yellows, and is that seafoam green? Literally breathtaking, I hide my face against the pressurized glass as my eyes glaze over in withheld tears. The colors momentarily fill my holy heart, and I wonder how there can be so much beauty in a world filled with pain. Maybe that’s why I always sit near windows.

As we approach New York, the captain speaks over the PA system, “Uhhhhhh, folks, this is your captain speaking. Turns out there’s a bit of a spill on the runways at JFK. We’ve been diverted to LaGuardia, so uhhhhhhh once we land you’ll be given instructions for connecting flights and baggage claim. Thanks for flying Delta and have uhhhhhhhhh happy New Year.”

An audible groan fell over the crowd of passengers. Every New Yorker who’s been on a plane has flown into or out of LaGuardia only once, if they can help it. I think I just saw a nun clutch her rosary tighter, whatever that means. The guy next to me leans in and makes joke about getting a tetanus shot. I smile before turning nervously to the window. Is this the last joke I hear before I die? God does exist, and he’s apparently not fond of me.

I put in for the Uber. Looking for “Gaz” in the white Chevy Cruze, license plate is… I’m not gonna memorize that. Hmmm, he has nice eyes. I start thinking of all the jokes I shouldn’t make about his name. Oh, there he is. I wave a bit, as if that distinguishes me from the other 10 people flagging down their Uber. What if he doesn’t see me? Maybe I’m just desperate to get out of here.

He jumps out of the car, “Max, right? Do you have any baggage?”

“No just my backpack, I travel light.”

“Alright.” he’s looking at me. “I’m Gaz.” He puts his hand out and smiles.

“Yeah, I know. Max,” …which you already know. Such a nice Uber driver. I’m thinking 4 stars for politeness, maybe 3 for awkwardness, but we’ll see how the rest of the ride goes.

We’re not 5 minutes from the airport when he asks, “Are you from New York?”

“No, I’m from Colorado, but I’ve lived here for a few years.”

“Yeah, you can’t be too sure these days, dropping someone off in Brooklyn.”

I get it. Most of the people who live in Brooklyn have 300k followers on Instagram and run a boutique, non-profit shop selling organic, non-GMO dog biscuits or crystals and matcha face masks.

To avoid the rich kid stigma, I confess, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m poor and my roommate’s on squatter’s rights.”

“Ohh nice,” he says. “I mean the squatter’s rights, not the… poor part.” Audibly sweating.

I roll my eyes a little. Nice one. Solid 3 stars.

“Sorry,” he recovers. “I must have left my PC filter at home today.” He grins while making surreptitious eye contact through in the rearview mirror. I deflect his gaze out the window and at my phone, realizing I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? I mean, he is cute.

“You have any plans for New Years?” he asks. Thankfully, he’s watching the road instead of me.

“I dunno. Maybe a sleepy toast of sparkling wine with the roommie before crashing 10 minutes before the ball drops. I’m not big on yearly celebrations. Seems like just moving one year’s worth of baggage to the next.” I catch myself. I haven’t been so openly emo since high school. Perfect, now he’s definitely interested. “How about you, Gaz?”

He smiles, “Not any real plan. I like to watch the fireworks from a rooftop, high as I can get to. At least that’s part of it.” His eyes start flickering towards me in the mirror.

Ok, so now I’m realizing he’s about to invite me to something.

“Would youuu, like to maybe hang out to—“

“Gaz, I dunno, it’s freezing cold, and I have work tomorrow.” Why am I making excuses? I could just say “no.”

“Hey, it’s fine.” Gaz focused on the road and smiled. “I just wanted to make sure I asked, y’know?”

Is it hot in here? I’m thinking, I should go. I should open a window.

“I’ll go.” Oh my god, I said the wrong one.

He smiles again. He does that a lot.

“Great! Meet me at the Penn Station Nathan’s @ 10.” He says, putting the Cruze in park.

“Wait, what?”

“See you then, Max.” He drives off. Rude. 4 stars.

I don’t get out much at night, so it’s easy to forget how beautiful the city is. There’s so much light. The office buildings are pixellated with blue, green, yellow, and orange rectangles where people ride out the end of the day towards their ever-shifting finish lines. The yellow-orange, green and blue-white street lights flicker on. The river of yellow cabs, dull-kaleidoscopic ride shares, and black limos flows endlessly in all directions honking red light going and white light coming. There’s so much luminous activity, I hardly miss the stars, which you could miss in the city, even from this rooftop.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says.

“I’m just taking it all in. So much light.” My eyes are afloat as I meet his. “I love this, Gaz. Thank you.”

He smiles nervously. “So I have another tradition, and it’s a little bit weird, sooo I want to tell you ahead of time, because it’s pretty jarring, maybe a little gross.”

“Okayyyy.” I start playing the Mission Impossible theme in my head as I look for an exit strategy.

“Don’t freak out, but I have an involuntary condition. I’m fine, but every New Year’s Eve around midnight I cry…”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed—“

“Blood. I cry blood.”

He’s looking me in the eye as I’m wondering if I still have that holy water necklace Mom tried to “treat” me with.

“It’s not anything crazy, I just carry some tissue, but I don’t want you to think I’m dying or something.” He looks worried. That’s a first.

“Hey, no big deal, just cosplaying The Exorcist at the beginning of every year. That’s not an omen.” I immediately regret the sarcastic remark. A moment of unease passes.

I inquire with concern, “Have you gone to the doctor about it? I mean, it’s not my place to say, but that’s not normal.”

“I have, but they don’t really have an answer. And it doesn’t bother me. I… I actually think it’s a good thing.” I see my confusion reflected in his eyes. Yeesh, tone it down. It’s not his fault. “The way I see it is this: I haven’t lived a charmed life. I won’t go into detail, but things were hard at home, and things are hard now.”

I look away to avoid the reflection as he continues.

“Every year I get the amazing opportunity to live, but life doesn’t give you only the good. I wish I really could hold onto only the good stuff. There’s so much beauty that I see in the world, but the pain of all the bad lingers nudging me towards a cliff.”

He grabs my hand and my gaze.

“I figured out that if I want to believe in the good, I have to accept the bad too, but I don’t have to hold onto it. I have to release it somehow, and every year I get the opportunity to physically manifest that release.”

As if it’s that easy. Just let it go? Wouldn’t that be nice. Whatever.

I smile. “Ok, weirdo, you’ve got my attention. I gotta see this.”

“Oh, so I’m some sort of sideshow, thanks a lot Max.” He turns away.

“Hey, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, I…it’s…” I stammer trying to apologize before realizing, he’s laughing at me.

“Oh, nice one. Wow. What a great performance.” Can’t believe I fell for that. “Y’know, I’m glad I gave you four stars!”

“What!?” He’s smiling, coming closer. “How could you?”

“In my defense, you ruined my plans. I was going to have an early night drinking cheap wine until I passed out, then you show up talking about being on top of the world.”

“Hey, I never promised on top of the world.” Closer. 

“But, I am,” I whisper, leaning closer.

Suddenly, the microcosm between us is jolted by a whistling sound followed by an overwhelming boom. As the fireworks begin in earnest, time seems to slow. In the all consuming flashes of light sparkling in every color, I turn back to see the deep red tears resting in and falling from Gaz’ eyes. He lets them fall glistening down his face. I see the emotions play across his face, the heartache, the self-doubt, the helplessness, the anger, the guilt. But I’m seeing myself in his reflection. I’m crying my own torrent of tears. The light envelops me and, finally, I let go. The tears no longer pool, but drain from my eyes into the cup that my heart wants to become, overflowing. It feels so good.

His arms wrap around me, and mine wrap around him. The fireworks climax and end to cheers from nearby Times Square.