Jordan: Chill party at my friend’s high rise. Everyone is cool. No fan shit. BYOB
Jordan sends another quick text with the address, which happens to be a half mile from my parents. I could easily walk there, have a few beers and chill. Ring in the new year and walk back home. But do I want to party? Or do I want to hide myself behind a hat and go sit in some bar downtown. It’s pretty bad when I, mister bad ass superstar, doesn’t have plans tonight, but my parents do. My life is lame. There’s no question about it. I tell Jordan I’ll stop by and leave it at that. I shut my phone off and decide to do the most rock star thing ever—take a nap.
After what was probably the most restless nap ever, I get up and find my parents sitting at the table eating. “Hey, pops.”
“Mom says you’re here for a couple more days?”
“Yeah the storm sort of messed my flight up.”
“Sit down and I’ll make you a plate.” Mom gets up and heads into the kitchen. I do as she says and take the seat I’ve always sat in. By always, I mean opposite of my dad.
“Storm will clear up tomorrow, flights should be normal the day after,” Dad says in between bites. My mom brings my plate over, chicken and mashed potatoes, with green beans. After living alone for a few years, there’s nothing like a homecooked meal.
“Thanks, Mom. And yeah, Vance said I should be good to go.”
“Well you’re more than welcome to come over to the Brumet’s with us, if you’d like.”
To play cards and charades, no thanks.
“Thanks, but I’m heading to Jordan’s. His friend has a place not far from here we’re going to go hang at.”
“Don’t forget to watch the fireworks, they go off shortly after midnight,” Mom adds. As if I’d forget. Of all the places I’ve been on New Year’s, Boston will always be my favorite. Maybe because it’s my hometown, but it feels right to celebrate here.
I help mom clear the table before I hop in the shower. By the time I’m out, my parents are gone, and the thought crosses my mind to stay home, but I know the closer it gets to midnight, the more I will have wished I was out celebrating. I dress in dark jeans, a blue button-down shirt, put my biker boots on—that’s what mom calls them—and grab my old winter coat from the closet. I need a scarf for good measure and all but wrap it around my head. One look in the mirror reminds me of what I used to look like when I lived here . . . an idiot, dressed for the snow apocalypse. A warm idiot who hopefully no one recognizes.
My hands are stuffed deep into my jacket pockets as I make my way toward the waterfront. The snow is deep, it’s cold, and my pants are getting wet from where the large snowflakes land on me. There’s hardly any traffic out here and I’m tempted to call my parents and ask them how exactly they got to their friend’s house because no one should be driving in this mess.
Halfway to Jordan’s, well his friends place, I remember I’m supposed to BYOB. I suppose I could show up empty-handed because I know there will be someone or many someone’s willing to share their liquor with Brennan McLean so they can tweet, Instagram, and post all over Facebook that they’re partying with me. The thought is tempting, but it’s also dangerous. You never know who might slip something into a drink.
I turn around and head back toward the grocery store I passed earlier. The walk is taking more time than it should, and my calves are screaming from the workout they’re getting. I should probably tell Vance about this new snow workout. It could be the next up and coming fad for everyone to try.
The parking lot of the store is empty and I’m starting to wonder if it’s even open. The lights are on but maybe whoever was supposed to close the place down forgot to shut everything off. Still, I head to the door. Once I’m under the covered walkway, I shake and wipe off the snow from my coat, wiggling a little when some flakes fall down my scarf. Shit, it’s cold.
As I walk toward the door, it swings inward. Yes, open! I can’t remember the last time I stepped foot into a grocery store. If I need anything, I have it delivered, or my maid brings my groceries when she comes every week. When I think about not running my own errands, I know it’s frivolous, but it saves on a headache. It’s not always easy walking freely around. If it’s not the paparazzi taking your pictures, it’s the tour busses pointing you out. If one fan screams, they all come running. If one fan tries to act nonchalant while attempting to take a selfie, another notices and then they want one, and the next and the next. I appease them all because it’s in my nature to be a good guy, and I figure if I’m out and about and they ask nicely, why not? Most of my peers aren’t this way and I get it. Like tonight, I want to be the Bostonian who grew up outside of Fenway park, waiting for a foul ball or an elusive out of the park homerun. Still, to this day, I haven’t caught one, but I have thrown out the first pitch there. I don’t want to be the guy the tabloids slam every chance they get or bombard at dinner. If someone is respectful and waiting for me outside, I’m happy to oblige most of their requests.