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Bringing in the New Year
by James Tate

A colleague of mine, by the name of Harold Chance,
had a terrible accident at his own party on New Year's
Eve. He was carrying a large bowl of punch across his
living room when he slipped on a throw rug. He fell
backward, injuring his head, but then the bowl of punch
came down crashing into his face. Harold was unconscious
and bleeding profusely. His wife, Ashlie, had been flirting
with a neighbor in the kitchen, but when she heard the
commotion, she came running to his side, and promptly fainted.
An ambulance was called, and when it arrived, I volunteered
to go to the hospital with Harold, even though I secretly
detested him. Harold had large blades of crystal protruding
from his forehead, which, for a moment, I thought made him
look like Miss Liberty. One of the EMTs said he thought
he looked like a saint, but he couldn't remember
which one. Then I looked out the window and forgot about
Harold. We were going so fast nothing was familiar. There
were people on the streets, but they blurred into one another.
I couldn't tell if they were celebrating, or just lost souls.
"Is he going to live?" I asked one of the EMTs. "He may
have already ascended," he said. The drive seemed to take
forever. I saw the female EMT take a swig from a flask.
Then she smiled and offered it to me. It tasted like some
high-octane blood. I smiled back. Even Harold appeared to
be smiling. "Happy New Year," Carmen said to me. She had
a name tag on the tip of her breast. I think she expected me
to kiss her. "Look," I said, "it's as if he's wearing a
crown of ice." "It's a very common condition," she said.
"We see it all the time." "He's my first," I said. "Can
the doctors remove it?" I said. "Not even God can," she said.
I looked out the window. We were parked beside a river.
Fireworks lit up the sky.