Holiday

I used to work for a company that offered overtime on holidays, including New Year’s Day. While the extra money is nice, I hate working on days when normies are off. Everyone is so relaxed and cool or hungover and miserable (which is great if you don’t have anything to do) while I’m rushing to be somewhere. Fuck calendars—holidays are only holidays if they feel like holidays.

The office was just south of Times Square, on West 39th Street. It’s a weird place to be during the off-hours. Times Square can really be deserted on certain nights in the early morning, which was when I would oftentimes have to work. No crowds, no ragged Elmos. I remember walking once from a freelance job to the office through Times Square around 2 a.m. It was quiet, aurally, but the lights were so garish. Your ears are deadened, but your eyes are alive.

Another night, around the same time, I saw clouds of smoke rising from the street. They floated past a neon sign that turned the smoke bright blue. I would’ve taken a picture, but I hardly ever do that in my own city to avoid looking like a tourist. Because after only seven years and one mugging, I’m still trying to convince myself that I’m a local.

Things are a little different on holidays and I like that. On New Year’s Day, if you get up early enough, you can see the streets getting cleaned; I never did, but you can if you want to. Sanitation is pretty much done and gone before the morning light, but at 8 a.m. you can still see stray specks of confetti glittering on the concrete, maybe a pigeon pecking at vomit nearby. Most of New York is still waking up (it’s a holiday, after all), but those few confetti bits will soon be coated with dirt, the unrecognizable trash of the city street. You wouldn’t know it to look at them, but they worked hard last night.