It’s beginning to drizzle. We’re on top of the former Goldman Sachs building on Wall Street, staring into the fog and the clouds and hear the opening crash-boom of fireworks. Maybe the sky lights up a little bit, but it’s hard to tell. My back is getting wet from the rain. So I stand up. “I’m going inside. If anyone asks, we saw the fireworks, and they were awesome.”
Everyone else agrees, eager to chill their drinks and smoke their weed comfortably on a dry couch. We spread out on the furniture and watch the fireworks on the television and listen to songs handpicked from my iPod by Patrick, who has decided to play DJ. I decline tequila, and beer, and whiskey. I decline a joint. I decline lines cut up next to the window and lines cut up on the kitchen counter with a green MetroCard. The smoke frames my face and my head is beginning to throb. I pop some Dayquil and watch as everyone sinks further into a state of pure euphoric mess. I sip tap water. I decline another joint.
Who says I don’t have willpower? Who says I didn’t see the fireworks? I saw them, and they were awesome.
