Chapter One
It's New Year's Eve 1981 and everybody in New York City wants to get laid. But this could also be said about the other 364 nights of the calendar. People are lonely all the time. But on December 31, you do feel the loneliness more. So you get drunk and you try to have sex. It's like birds flying south, salmon swimming north, dreamers going west -- it's a force of nature you have to obey. Except it's not easy because the key to getting laid is to not think about getting laid. That's what makes New Year's Eve so difficult -- everybody is forcing it, everybody's desperate, the clock is ticking, like you are taking an exam. It's a test of your attractiveness. And who wants to fail?
It's eight o'clock, Kevin and Lucy are in a taxi going down Second Avenue, New York City, New York. He's twenty-seven, she's twenty-six. He's tall, good-looking, a blond, just starting to lose his hair. She's a dyed blonde, a pretty girl with large sad eyes. She's medium height, a nice figure, but, in her mind, small breasts. She wishes often that her breasts were bigger. She'd feel more feminine.
Kevin and Lucy are platonic friends. They met five years ago when they were both new in the city and going out with other people. And since then they've never been single at the same time. They're both painters, but they make their living working for galleries. Answering phones, hanging the art.
Tonight, Kevin's wearing a black peacoat, black jeans, and a black turtleneck. Lucy's wearing black stockings, a black miniskirt, a black turtleneck, and a black leather jacket. They're both dressed so black they can hardly see each other's bodies in the black back seat of the cab.
Kevin is drunk; he already had five beers at his place before picking up Lucy. He's got a beer bottle in his hand that he's pretending to steer, like a little kid with one of those fake plastic steering wheels.
Lucy is putting on dark red lipstick, studying herself in her little compact mirror. She always feels stronger after she puts on her lipstick, like it's armor. I'm going into battle. Somebody tonight will want to kiss this mouth.
The cabbie, who has long, cool dreadlocks, is smoking a joint and blasting disco music out of his radio. He figures there's no reason why he shouldn't get to party on New Year's Eve. I'm going to have a good time AND make money.
He looks in the rearview mirror. The white boy is playing with his beer bottle. He thinks of saying something -- he doesn't want to smell stale beer all night -- but he holds his tongue. He wants a good tip. He takes a hit off his joint. Stays cool. Traffic is thick. Everybody is out on New Year's Eve.
Kevin leans forward and shouts with his beer breath into the cabbie's ear, "Crank it...New Year's Eve...Crank it!" Kevin leans back, satisfied.
The cabbie tries to find Lucy's eyes in the rearview mirror. But she's looking at herself in her little mirror. He talks to her anyway. "Your friend okay back there?"
She doesn't look up. She wants to make her mouth a beautiful, perfect thing. "Sure. He's fine."
Kevin puts his steering-wheel bottle between his legs and unrolls his window. The fresh air feels good on his face, excites him. "Rock on!" he shouts to Second Avenue, to New York, to the world.
"What's he doing?" asks the cabbie. This kid is bumming him out. "He's not getting sick back there is he?"
"He has no life," shouts Lucy over the music, putting away her mirror. Her mouth is a sexy, red rose. Kevin keeps his head out. "His girlfriend left him last night. And that's just the tip of the fucking iceberg."
"Oh, yeah?" The cabbie likes to hear good stories. Makes the job interesting. Stories and the pot. He lowers the music a notch.
Kevin pulls his head back inside and rolls up the window. They're talking about him. He's going to tell this driver about his ex, cabbies are good for that, like bartenders and priests and shrinks. Good to vent at.
"She's a bitch," he shouts. "I have no life whatsoever. I'm a loser." He looks at Lucy. He's going to make this group therapy, confront her now. "And you're dragging me to some stupid New Year's Eve party." Then he looks backs to the driver, his temporary shrink. "And as if all this wasn't depressing enough, it's my birthday."
"You didn't want to celebrate your birthday," says Lucy, hurt that maybe he's implying that she's not a good friend because she didn't get him a present. Kevin had told her, as always, not to even bring up his birthday.
Kevin ignores Lucy, and looks at the driver's mildly stoned eyes. "I ask you, how perfect is that? Dumped...Getting older...New Year's Eve."
"I offered to throw you a party," says Lucy, upset, Kevin's pulling his usual New Year's Eve-poor-me-birthday-bullshit, and she feels blamed. She doesn't like to be blamed.
"Trust me -- I don't want a party," says Kevin. "I just want to party."
"You do this every year, Kevin. You ruin a perfectly good holiday with your stupid birthday bullshit!"
"Hey, I'm sorry it's my birthday, okay? In fact, I'm sorry I was born at all! Are you happy now?"
The cabbie, like a good therapist, lets them duke it out.
"Fuck you," says Lucy.
"Fuck you," says Kevin.
"Pull over," says Lucy to the cabbie. He stops in front of a Korean deli on Eleventh Street and Second Avenue. "I'll be right back," she says to the cabbie, and then to Kevin, getting in the last word, "Fuck you, again." She slams the door.
Kevin lights a cigarette to calm his nerves.
"Sorry, but there's no smoking in my cab," says the driver.
"What are you talking about? You're smoking."
"I'm not smoking what you're smoking." The cabbie doesn't like the smell of beer or cigarettes in his car. Marijuana, on the other hand, smells beautiful.
Kevin throws his cigarette out the window. He looks into the cabbie's rear-view-mirror eyes. "Great. You know what? That's perfect." His own sarcasm tastes bitter in his mouth. His whole life sucks. He can't even smoke a cigarette. But I should quit anyway. Have to do something right. Quit smoking. Tomorrow. A New Year's resolution.
The cabbie takes a nice hit off his joint. He wants to help this birthday boy. "Man, you have got to relax," he says. "I mean, will you look around you? Everyone's having a good time. They're out there drinking, fighting, pissing on the street, loving the ladies." He turns to give the guy the full benefit of his wisdom, to make it personal, face to face. "Let me tell you something, my man. This is not the way to celebrate. The ladies are looking to drop a burden, not carry one. Don't be a burden, man...Want to know why I succeed?"
"No."
"First -- very important -- you have to smile. A lot." The cabbie smiles to demonstrate. "Second, don't talk about death. That'll stink up the whole party, turns women off. And third," the cabbie turns the disco up real loud, "you feel it?" he shouts. "You follow? Music, man, feel the music. Love is all about rhythm."
Kevin stares at the cabbie. He feels sick. I'm a loser getting advice from a loser. Lucy opens the cab door. She hands Kevin a large paper bag. She tells the cabbie to take them down to Fourth Street. The cabbie pulls into the traffic.
"What's this?" says Kevin, holding the paper bag, his beer bottle still between his legs, forgotten.
"Your present, fuckhead. Open it," Kevin's hopes spark for a second, for a moment he's touched. He opens the bag. It's a carton of Marlboros. Two hundred cigarettes. His resolution is already fucked. Like everything else.
"Happy birthday," says Lucy, wanting to be a little sweet after all.
Copyright © 1999 by Paramount Pictures and Lakeshore Entertainment Corp.
