"New Year's Eve" is a concept piece, written by
your beloved website owner, Derek Brink.
Derek first had the idea in about 2005 and it has
been through many revisions. In mid 2010, Derek declared it "DONE!" having
produced a short libretto and 10 songs. Derek played everything
himself--though the drums are largely electronic--and it was kind of a
labor of love from moment one.
Derek made the decision
early on to release "New Years Eve" as a free digital download through
DerekBrink.com (it is also available in jewel-case form, complete with
cover and full liner notes, upon request and at gigs). This page is the
result of that decision. Below, you will find Derek's full text libretto
and the 10-tracks, all for free. You're welcome.
(But of
course, the songs and text are all copyrighted and if you steal them and
try to pass them off as your own work we'll eat you.)
We've spaced
the songs out relative to the most sensible places in the libretto, to
encourage you to read the text as well as complete the downloads. At the
end of all that, we've included some additional documentation that Derek
thought would be good to have on this page, as a supplement to the music
and story.
"New Year's Eve" by Derek Brink Copyright D. Brink
2010, Work in Progress
(All characters are created and are completely fictional. Any
resemblance to anyone living or dead is a complete accident, and I'm sorry
to hear about it. Also, please be advised that suicide is a stupid,
selfish thing, and I don't support it...so don't do that, and don't blame
me if someone you know does it... 'Kay? Also, I want to state up
front that I owe a world of influence to Nick Hornby's novel "A Long Way
Down." I recognize the similarities, and I encourage you to read his
book--and pay for it, since you're not paying for this. Thanks.
-Derek)
I.
They say that buildings have memories. I've read a couple of
novels on the subject. Buildings, they speculate, see more of life
than any person ever will. Hospitals see countless births and
deaths. Churches see innumerable life-changing moments. Even a
ranch-style home sees more than its share of scraped knees, marital spats,
divorces, birthdays, sexual entanglements...
I live in a 30 story
apartment building. My humble home has its share of
memories. This is the place Chloe and I knew would be just-right when
we first got married. It's a nice, roomy place, and back then it had
room to grow. Good thing, since a few years later we'd have Angela and
Becky running around. This apartment has seen a lot. It saw our
children arrive. It saw them grow. It saw Angela start bringing home
soccer-trophies. We were married on New Year's Eve 1999. We moved in
on New Year's Day 2000. A flare for the dramatic, I guess. This place
has seen Chloe and I at our happiest...and at our saddest.
In this
past year, this old building has seen me lose my job--I was a Literature
Professor. Mr. Bush's economy took my job away in April. It has seen my
discovery that my job did not provide unemployment benefits. It has seen
me get turned down for job after job. It's seen me grow a beard and lose
some hope, while gaining weight. It's seen Chloe growing more and more
frustrated. Sure, she's a Paralegal and makes good money, but having
a once successful husband turn into a leech tends to wear on a woman after
some time. It's seen fights. It seen my children worry about if Daddy's
going to come back tonight after he walked out, slamming the door. It
also saw The Affair. That Chloe and I were so distant that
she... Well... Suffice to say that it's seen some things I'd
prefer not to remember walking in on. It saw Chloe and the girls
leave in September, while I was out on a job interview. It's seen me,
reduced to working for tips at a greasy-spoon, puttering around, looking
at the few things she left, wondering what she's been telling my
daughters.
They say buildings have memories. I wish I didn't. I
wish I didn't have the memory of spending Christmas alone, only that
stupid damn cat of hers walking around to keep me company. I wish I
didn't have the memory of sending Angela and Becky a Christmas Card I knew
they would never be given. I wish I could forget the look on her face
as she collected the remainder of the girls' things back in November; the
force-of-habit coldness in her goodbye wave from the window of the van. I
wish I could forget it all. But I can't. I'll remember it for the rest of
my life. Fortunately, I do not expect that to be a very long
memory.
Soon, before the ink is dry on the divorce papers, Chloe is
bound to shack up with Todd (the co-star of The Affair) and my kids are
bound to start forgetting. Becky's young enough that she may not even
remember my face at all after a couple of years. Angela will, but she will
slowly forget my voice--the funny noises I made reading her bedtime
stories...etc. Chloe will remember me, but she'll find way to block
it out. The only thing that will keep me near to mind is this
apartment--this building. It will remember every moment of me cracking
open my 12th story window, listening to the last seconds of the New Year's
countdown, and plunging to my death--a flare for the dramatic. I'm
going to aim for the car belonging to Ms. Paponicolas. Serves her
right for calling the police on LAST YEAR'S party. My name's Chris,
by the way. Nice to meet you.
The decision itself was easy to make. I was ready. Some people only
think they're ready. When Elton John "attempted" suicide, he turned the
gas to his oven on "low" and laid his head down on a pillow inside of it,
with all of his windows open. He wasn't ready. He just wanted
attention. (For the record, I like Elton John, and "Goodbye Yellow Brick
Road" is in my top-five records.) I was ready. My note was genius,
even if I do say so myself. I quoted Keats and Longfellow...and Ron
Jeremy. The guy may make porn, but he knows how to turn a
phrase.
It was short. Only two pages, typed. It was mostly an
apology to my children, obviously. And venomous bile toward Chloe.
"It's all your fault...blah blah blah...I hope you live a VERY long life
since you've so significantly shortened mine...etc." Then I put on my
favorite shirt, my favorite jeans, my favorite boots, and...well...you
know the rest, I guess.
My last thought, listening to the
countdown, was "This is what it's like to be completely free." Odd
thought, isn't it? You'd think I'd have some existential weight to
deal with, right? I was raised Catholic, after all--and I was still
practicing right up until the divorce, unlike most people I
knew. Didn't people who committed suicide go to Hell? Didn't the
priest tell me that God knows all, controls all, and will never give
someone more than he can bear in my last Confessional? Why didn't
that matter? Why did it fall on a deaf ear? Shouldn't I have
been thinking about that? No. Nothing like it. I just felt
free. Free to fly, like I'd always imagined. Somehow, in my
mind, I thought it might feel like flying right up until
impact.
The clutter of the crowd below was one noise. There were no
individual voices or sounds. Just one big clatter. It sounded
like any city on New Year's Eve. Except that I was up there in my
apartment, singing our songs. The songs that meant something to Chloe
and me during the good times. Occasionally stopping to shout "Happy
Anniversary, you bitch!" out of the window, hoping she was down there
somewhere.
I hoped to make the front page. As much as I hoped
Chloe--and that hump Todd she'd had The Affair with--was down there, I
hoped even more that she wouldn't hear about it until she opened her
morning paper. A nice, piping hot cup of coffee and one of those horrible
muffins she liked. Page one, "Teacher Topples from
Tower. Wife/Widow Welcomes New Year. Alliteration Grips
Newspaper!" It would be beautiful.
...ah the best laid plans
of mice and men... (That's Steinbeck. Read a
book!)
It hurt, if you're wondering. Of course it did. It was probably the
roof of the van caving in that saved my life--and Ms. Paponicolas ruins
ANOTHER New Year's Eve. Hindsight's always 20/20. Still, at least her
insurance didn't cover suicide jumpers. Something went right,
anyway.
You read stories about jumpers who survived in newspapers
and books from time to time. I'd read one a few years ago about a guy who
jumped off of a bridge into a river, and just as he was in the air--the
point of no turning back--he realized that he wanted to live. Of
course, if aiming for a van-roof was an ineffective way to kill yourself,
then aiming for a RIVER (as long as you can swim) was just a pathetic cry
for help. That guy didn't even skin his knees. I dislocated both
shoulders, broke my nose and right cheek-bone, irreparably severed a
tendon in my left leg, shattered most of my teeth, and suffered the other
abrasions and bruises that you'd pretty much expect of a guy plummeting
through a van-roof from the twelfth story of a building.
I should
have picked a different day, or maybe a quieter street. As it was, there
were tons of people around. Plenty of folks to scream and gasp at the
sound of the crash, the "thunk" of my body hitting the van, the crushed
metal...and The Scream. Even I was shocked by The Scream. It was the
sound of the Living. The sound of Life desperate for Life. I
struggle to even call it my own voice. It was coming from my lungs,
yet wholly separate from me.
I knew almost upon impact that I was
going to live, because I was sure I'd pass out roundabout floor
eight...but I didn't. I didn't lose consciousness. It just hurt. A
lot. I probably drifted in and out with the blood loss, but I was awake
when the ambulance got there. I felt them insert the needle to knock me
out. Then I woke up in the hospital. It sucked.
It's been
seven months of surgery and recovery. There were/are legal
ramifications of course, but let's not get into it. All that's really
relevant is the choice I had to make. I had three options. (1)
Try again. (2) Don't try again, but live in misery. (3) Adapt
and overcome. Option #1 was out. The Scream told me that. Option #2 was
somewhat to my liking. I've always been a pessimist and a
misanthrope. (Chloe preferred the term "sanctimonious-asshole," but I
think "misanthrope" sounds classier.) But Option #3 seemed the one
thing I hadn't tried.
I've spent most of my life being the person
everyone told me to be. My parents told me to be a good student. My
high school guidance counselor told me to got to college. My college
advisor told me to go into literature and teaching. My job told me to
clean out my desk. My wife told me I was distant and
unloving. My friends told me I'd become hard to be around. My brain
told me to believe them and then told me to jump. My psychiatrist tells me
I've got a long road ahead and that I've got to "do the work." My
priest tells me to say the Lord's Prayer and I'll be redeemed.
If you or anyone you know is considering
suicide as an option, please seek help immediately. If you are unsure
of where to turn, please consider contacting one of the following
organizations. Life is worth the living.
