My Rockin’ ‘Nightmare’ New Year’s Eve
My initial thought was “But I hate New York,” then I thought it would at least be worth a bar story. Plus, if all those people from around the world made the trip to NYC, sporting intoxicated grins surrounded by shiny signs, then it couldn’t be that bad – but it was THAT bad.
2016 was a dumpster fire of a year so it should have been obvious to the NYE revelers that on the last day of 12 months of dead celebrities, a racist Manchurian Candidate elected to the White House, and doomsday talk thanks to vanishing ice caps, that something was bound to go wrong. Although at least there was increased security in Times Square, so I figured we’d at least be safe, but not from pissing my pants in front of Mariah Carey.
How it All Started
My wife and I don’t drive. We’re a young couple with student debt and pay rent in downtown Boston so we have to cut costs wherever possible, but still keep the spark alive ‘ye know? So we found some cheap bus tickets on Busbud and stayed in a Motel 6 across the Hudson River in Jersey. It was close to the PATH line into Manhattan and believed it would make for an easy end-of-the-night escape from New York.
It was around 5 pm when we started our subway journey to Greenwich Village, where we hoped to grab a quick slice of pizza then walk up to Times Square to find a spot in the crowd with a fairly reasonable view of the performance stage. My wife is a HUGE Mariah Carey fan, so, of course, she wanted to see her lifelong idol at what would become one of the diva’s most memorable performances.
The sun had set and the city was packed. Cars were locked in an infinite gridlock in every direction. Many I’m sure wondered if they would get out of Manhattan before the New Year. The NYPD on horseback though had no problem bobbing and weaving through traffic, leaving droppings that ensured those having a bad night out could not get any worse, would.
My Downward Spiral in a New York Minute
I had a stomach ache as we walked up to Times Square. It wasn’t the heartburn from the pizza that had my mid-section in a knot, it was dread. As we approached a massive wall of exuberant 2017-glasses wearing partygoers, I hinted to my wife that we best stay at the back so we could make a quick exit. But she had enjoyed our now ¾ empty flask more than I, so there was no stopping her from instantly pulling my hand straight into the crowd. We made it all the way to about 30 feet away from the stage.
We swayed back and forth to Mike Posner, Martin Garrix, and Flo Rida until finally, Mariah Carey came on stage with noticeable lip-syncing. While Mariah’s career was imploding right before our eyes, so was my bladder. I asked my wife, who somehow had not asked me the same question: if she saw a public washroom on the walk up. She shook her head “no.” I then asked an older man standing next to me where I could find a urinal because I for some reason thought there would be porta potties in the crowd since there were cops all around who had better things to do than ticket people in a back alley. The old man turned to me and said with a chuckle “Oh there are no washrooms, that’s why I wore a diaper!” I knew then my fate was ‘soiled.’
There was no getting out of it, I had to piss my pants in the middle of a roaring 200,000-strong crowd.
Luckily, everyone was focused on Mariah’s “sound problems” to notice the wide dark crotch on my beige pants. While the diva promptly exited the stage, and still 15 minutes away from midnight, we had to get out of the crowd so I could end this night ASAP or risk being stuck in the downpour of confetti and jubilant kissing.
I grabbed her hand and said “we have to leave, it’s an emergency” then headed out the same way we came in, while everyone was on their phones waiting for the ball to drop. Finally making it to a McDonald’s well away from the crowd, my wife spots my massive wet mark and says “Looks like you were as excited as me when Mariah walked out!”
Next year we’re staying in and watching the Times Square ball drop at home, as God intended.
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