I was trying to keep out of the way, whiling away the time until Carla had transformed herself for a public appearance. Fortunately Willard was too preoccupied waiting for the arrival of his friend who would be joining us to toss too many condescending remarks my way. Although I could tell he was ticked off that getting ready for dinner involved Carla repeatedly coming within sight in stages of way undress. I didn't quite blame him. I snagged their copy of The Village Voice off the floor and buried myself in it.

She trilled my name, announcing, "Time for you to hide your eyes while I dash into the bathroom." I held up the paper like a lead shield, holding it close to overlap any doorway. There was a flash of arm covered tit way at the left margin. I let my guard down when I heard the latch click, but I kept my eyes on the print to avoid that contact with Willard.

The shield went back up when I heard the bathroom door creak back open, but then Carla stomped across the floor and batted it away. "You know if you don't find anything better to do than I'm going to make you come with us. I won't let you spend your first New Year's in New York huddled in your horrible little room. I hope I've made myself perfectly clear, young man." She had, I was afraid.

Willard looked like he wanted to strike me dead. It didn't help that all she'd accomplished in the bathroom was to put on a black silk shirt to complement her black pantyhose. She'd barely buttoned it. She wouldn't add but a button to it when we left--it showed off her little tits nicely. The shirttails hung right at her hips. From my chair I couldn't help but tell that Carla was the kind of girl who wore panties underneath her pantyhose.

Thank god the buzzer rang. Carla ran squealing into the bedroom while Willard inflated toward the intercom, beckoning his buddy up.

From that point on it was a point of pride that his little nymphet scurried about the apartment in a state of undress. I was introduced as a sort of pet, a minor member of his girlfriend's tribe who had accidentally wound up in the big town. I'd once been in a short-lived punk band from the hinterlands that'd gotten a fairly prominent if post-mortem mention in a Voice cover article the year before. I pretended to paint. I was a footstool. I kept to the Voice frantically scanning the club ads for my New Year's out. I kept re-reading the pages, hoping to find a band I might vaguely want to see. And at an inflated-for-the-evening price I'd be able to pay. Nothing continued to strike me, not enough to get me beyond the prices.

Carla flounced back into the room, twirling like a flower, pulling her tight black skirt over her head, and finally over the pantyhosed-curves of her ass. Willard chuckled. "Darling, I'm serious," she continued addressing me. "You better count on coming with us. I won't have New York spoiled for you by a bad New Year's." Willard's buddy no doubt had an original invite. Willard turned to him and rolled his eyes.

I went back to the Voice, and suddenly a small sidebar ad shouted at me. The Babylon Dance Band was playing at this place in Jersey the big night! Maxwell's in Hoboken. I reached in my messenger sack and pulled out the first map I touched. It was the general map of the city, with the subway lines demarcated. Hoboken was across the river, and it looked the only way to get there was to try to walk right back through the Lincoln Tunnel.

I started sputtering like I was peeing in my pants, "The Babs are playing . . . how do you get to Jersey . . . the Babs are playing New Year's at, at, wait, New Jersey, this place called . . . "

Prompted, Willard began deconstructing the reference for his friend. "Oh they're this band from Louisville Kentucky of all places, and they're actually not bad. Very much in the paradigm of power-pop punk." He waved his head, and I could tell he was searching for something to say to disassociate himself even further. "They . . . they nurtured Carla, after all, in her early years."

Carla had served me several green-bottle import beers from the fridge, so I thought to speak up. "The Babs fucking rule! or you can suck my dick."

She stomped into the room, "That's right, baby!" Carla had her left hand up under her skirt, pushing the front of it up and outwards. Her other hand was cast out in front of her, gripping something large and invisible, moving up and down on the cylinder. It was like she was managing some sort of log sprung from her crotch. "Suck on this if you don't think the Babs are the best."

We were all ecstatic: I'd actually found something to do for New Year's. Carla was thrilled, for me. I couldn't believe that everyone, especially her, didn't want to ditch their stupid old plans for this. The friend was pleased to see all the bad vapors in the room suck away up into the heavens. Willard started talking about buses and the surety of the Port Authority. I zoned out when he began relating his own bus anecdotes as though they were the trials of a Grecian Hero.

I got out my subway map as well, my eyes flitting back and forth. "What's this?" I pointed out parallel dashes of a blue barely darker than that delineating the printed river. "Is there another subway, or some sort of train under the river to Jersey?" One branch ran directly from right on over Sixth Avenue to this Hoboken. Willard always remained so proud of his messenger months, but he drew a blank. His friend snagged then looked up, "Oh yea! what's that called? P-p-p-p-p . . . "

"Port Authority," I made out some very tiny type, "Trans-Hudson."

"P, A . . . oh yea, path."

"That's right, the PATH train!" Willard sounded in a little late.

"To Jersey," Carla rolled her eyes. "Though I'm sure you'll have fun with all your little friends."

The rest of the night went right for me--I was set for another night.