Dragonfly by Jax Hill 

We spent the next five days telling people about our Anti-New Year’s Eve party. The Dunkers, of course, took to the streets with natty business-card sized invitations that were very mysterious and yet very alluring, promising, as they did “World’s Worst New year’s Eve.” But honestly, once you got past the no drinks, no food, no music, no noise-makers, no party hats, it was surprising how many people were still interested. And this time, it wasn’t people who worked downtown or, for some reason, came downtown or to the park. It was people who didn’t know Torstein and would have to make an effort to come downtown on New Year’s Eve to meet him.

We couldn’t find Sig to ask him about the off-duty policemen, but Franz managed to connect with several who all said the rate on New Years Eve was sky-high, and they couldn’t afford not to work regular gigs that would last all evening instead of coming over to the museum for half an hour’s work. He didn’t give up, though. He found out who was working security at the big show in Patriots Park, promised them each $50 cash if they would just take their breaks over at the museum using their breathalyzers, and organized it so there were three guys at the side entrance to the museum every minute from 11:30 to midnight. It was a lot of money to pay them for about 10 minutes work each, but at least it got them there.

Ferdy was appalled.

But other than this, the evening was costing us nothing. Bruiser was right, the physical plant manager was glad to have our help in cleaning up after the gala, and thanks in huge part to the Dunkers’ industriousness, by 11:30 everything was cleared away and the hall was set up as a hall again, with about 500 chairs facing the front where there were built-in carpeted risers and a low dais with a podium. Whatever the entertainment was to be, it would take place up there.

We’d invited people and told them to come the museum’s side entrance, so no one on the street would think there was an event inside and try to come in — and so no one otherwise connected with the museum would notice our party was taking place inside. Or our Anti-Party.

There was a lobby in front of the lecture hall, and Torstein had asked us to keep people in the lobby until 11:45, and then open the doors to the hall. There was nothing in the hall that would surprise anyone, but he thought it would be friendlier beforehand if everyone were standing in the lobby chatting rather than taking seats in the hall.

Torstein was standing beside the door starting at 11:30 when people began showing up. I couldn’t believe it! People had come when invited to the worst New Year’s Eve party ever! And they were submitting to the breathalyzer! (We had all done it, as a matter of fact — even Sully who could barely blow hard enough to make it work. He didn’t want to be left out.)

“Welcome to this terrible party!” Torstein would exclaim, shaking hands with someone coming through the door. “I guarantee it will be the worst New Year’s Eve ever.”

People would laugh and hurry inside. I saw some residents from my building and went to say hello to them. “Hey, you made it. Thanks. I don’t really know what’s going to happen,”

“It’s cool,” said the guy from a few doors down. “I wasn’t going to do anything tonight, anyway, and I figured, how could I resist the worst New Year’s Eve party ever? And the shortest.”

We laughed, and then the old lesbians who lived on the floor above me came and joined us. They gave me a hug, and I apologized for inviting them to such a dreary party, and they laughed. “Can’t be any drearier than getting blitzed in a gay bar,” one of them said.

“Yeah, I bet it could be,” I said. And they laughed again.

The funny thing was, for people who had come to the advertised worst party ever, they all seemed pretty happy. It occurred to me, at other New Year’s Eve do’s, people were dressed to impress and forcefully determined to have a good time. Here everyone just seemed curious and a bit friendlier than they might have been on the street ... but no one seemed self-conscious or nervous ...

Except me! Because I’d invited these people, and I had no idea what Torstein was up to!

At 11:45, the doors to the lecture hall opened, and in we went. True to our word, we’d provided no food, no drinks, no hats, no noise-makers. Everyone just sort of bustled in and took their seats. As it happened, no one had turned up tipsy. Everyone who’d wanted to come had been admitted.

Torstein walked up to the dais, then across it to the risers, and climbed up a couple of steps, so he was rather looking down at everyone, then sat down. Bruiser’s friend had provided him with a one of those near-invisible microphones and had turned the sound system on for him, so everyone would be able to hear him.

“Thank you for coming!” he called. “And happy new year to you. And thank you for coming here sober. I know that may have been a trial for some of us.”

It was only then I noticed Sully was sitting up in front with his back against the dais, with Sig’s dog Tartan in his lap. I looked around, and there was Sig standing at the back of the hall. Our eyes met, and he nodded. He looked about 30 years older than when we’d seen him back in the summer. His eyes looked red and wet, but he had passed the breathalyzer too. I waved to him, then turned back to Torstein.

The next few moments would tell if this were, indeed, the worst New Year’s Eve Party ever.