I Walk The Streets On New Year’s Eve

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Here I am, all dressed up for New Year’s Eve. (I like to set a good example.) Please join me as I prowl the mean streets, looking for answers.

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I was sitting on a park bench. It was snowing.

I was thinking about New Year’s resolutions — should I make any this year? I never keep ’em, so why bother??

A beggar walked up to me. I know that sounds judgmental, but this guy had more duct tape on his shoes than I did.

“Got a coupla bucks?” he said. “I’m hungry.”

I gave him a cheese sandwich. I always carry one because this sorta thing happens to me all the time.

“You make any New Year’s resolutions?” I asked him.

He chewed thoughtfully. “I’m making one right now,” he said. “Find a guy what’s got better sandwiches.” He walked off, still eating the sandwich.

It was snowing harder. I was beginning to look like a guy with a bad case of dandruff. I got up and started walking toward’s Mike’s Bar.

I ran into a Sidewalk Santa. He had the beard and the hat and the whole red-and-white rig. He was standing next to a kettle. He was ringing a bell, but not too loudly.

I said, “It’s after Christmas.”

He shrugged. “I know, but people forget. It all kinda runs together, especially when it’s snowing and the decorations are still up.”

“Who ya collecting for?”

“I got kids in college, but why waste it? I use it to buy lottery tickets.”

“You making any New Year’s resolutions?” I asked him.

“I’m going to try to be a better person. Read more, work out, become more authentic. Like that.”

I tossed a sandwich in the kettle. “PB&J,” I said. “It’s all I got left.”

I walked into Mike’s. It’s a tough joint. The bouncer gave me the once over. I said, “Hi, Mom. I like your new tattoo.” She gave me a thumbs-up.

“Are you making any New Year’s resolutions this year?”

“I’d like to bust somebody’s head at least once a week.” I forgot — she always makes the same resolution. She keeps it, too.

Lola was standing by the piano, singing “Blue Moon.” A fog machine was pumpin’ out smoke. I expected Humphrey Bogart to walk in.

Guy named Joe used to play for her but he died last year and Mike was too cheap to replace him. So Lola plugs a little amp into her phone.

I looked at the money in the ashtray. The phone was getting more tips than Joe used to.

I studied her. She had a lotta curves. A guy hadda be careful around her even if he wasn’t driving a car.

When she was done, I dropped a nickel, a dime, and a stick of gum in the ashtray. Then I asked The Big Question. She considered.

“I’m going to try to be a better person. Read more, work out, try to be more like Lauren Bacall in The Big Heat.”

I said, “That was Gloria Grahame, baby.”

We agreed to meet later. The phone started playing an Adele song, and I knew it was time to leave.

Mom was throwing a biker gang out as I was leaving. She held the door for me. “Thanks, Mom.” I considered giving her a tip, but then she’d expect it every time.

The bikers were all lying on the sidewalk. I figured I already knew their New Year’s resolution: stay out of Mike’s.

I stopped at the gym to lift some weights. I never take my coat off. It gets women too excited.

There was one watching me now. She had on a leopard print leotard with a six-foot tail and was doing sumo squats with a 100-pound kettlebell. I was sure I’d seen her before. Maybe on a calendar in a repair bay at a service station.

I asked her if she planned to make any you-know-whats. She bounced the kettlebell off her bicep for a few beats while she thought about it.

“I’m going to try to be a better person. Read more, work out, meditate, try to be more spiritual.” She paused. “Eat more kale and switch to free-range eggs.”

I tried to picture her shopping at Trader Joe’s in her leotard, but my imagination’s not that good.

I ran into a guy looking for something under a streetlight on my way home. I recognized him. He’s an illustrator. I forget his name, but I’ve seen his stuff on Substack and LinkedIn. It’s OK, if you like that sorta thing. He was crawling around on his hands and knees.

“Lose something?”

“I dropped my pen back there.” He pointed down the street.

“Then how come you’re looking for it here?” I asked.

“The light’s better,” he said.

Something clicked. I resolved to stop asking people questions. Especially if they’re idiots.

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About Mark: I’m an illustrator specializing in humor, branding, social media, and content marketing. My images are different, like your brand needs to be.

You can view my portfolio, and connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn.

Questions? Send me an email.

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