The Measure(93)

The two of them stealthily retrieved their coats and snuck out the front door.

Just a few blocks away stood an old-timey dive, with dark wood walls and dark green booths and all manner of military paraphernalia hanging from the ceiling. It was almost exclusively patronized by veterans, and whenever Jack and Javi entered the bar in their uniforms or old academy garb, they were welcomed heartily with tipped caps and raised mugs. Javi was wearing his army jacket, so tonight would be no exception.

The crowd at the bar was thinner than usual, mostly comprised of elderly men wearing caps embroidered with Vietnam or Korea, plus a few younger soldiers in camo.

On the television screens above, the celebrities hosting the night’s entertainment were reflecting on the year that was ending.

“Well, to say this year has been a momentous one would be quite the understatement,” one of the well-coiffed men joked. “Here’s hoping that next year doesn’t bring any new surprises.”

Jack and Javi settled into a booth and spent the next hour reminiscing about their college years—the classes they had almost failed, the girls they should have asked out, the training days when they had their asses kicked so hard that it hurt to sit down and stand up. The memories somehow seemed further in the past than they actually were, and Jack wondered if this was adulthood, if life moved so much more quickly after you’ve grown up.

It was Jack who ultimately brought up the fight. “I’m sorry it took me so long to do something,” he said. “To do anything.”

“And there’s plenty more to be done,” Javi said. “But I lashed out at you for a lot of reasons, a lot of hurt, not all of which were your fault. And maybe I should have taken more responsibility for the switch, and the pressure it put on both of us. It’s not like you forced me to do it. It was mutual.”

“But you don’t regret it?” Jack asked.

Javi took a sip of his beer, considering the question.

“I love the other guys I’m training with, and I have a lot of respect for the officers, so it’s really tough to keep lying to them. But I wouldn’t be there without it,” Javi said. “I wouldn’t be able to save people’s lives, someday.” He smiled and shook his head, like he almost couldn’t believe it. “And no matter what went down after the switch, I guess I’ll always have you to thank for that.”

“Well, like you said, it wasn’t just me. It was mutual.”



Eventually the bartender started shouting across the room, “Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!” The dozen or so strangers in the bar exchanged eager glances, joining in on the count. “Six! Five! Four!”

Jack reached into his pocket for the two small kazoos he had stolen from the party earlier, handing one to Javi.

“Three! Two! One!”

The two friends blew on their mini-instruments, while the rest of the crowd cheered, “Happy New Year!” in unison.

Then, at the farthest end of the bar, one of the oldest gentlemen began to sing, timidly and off-key, but with an earnestness that held everyone’s attention.

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?



Soon enough, every voice in the place was lifting his up.

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and days of auld lang syne?



As he sang, Jack thought about his aunt and uncle, who were no doubt clinking champagne flutes at a mansion just a few miles away, and about Wes Johnson, perhaps home with his family, resting after months on the road, wondering if he could still win.

We too have paddled in the stream, from morning sun to night.

But the seas between us broad have roared, from auld lang syne.



And Jack thought about his best friend Javier, admirably humming the tune in the places where he didn’t know the words, and toasting the dawn of another year, even when the passage of time might not feel like something to celebrate.

Jack didn’t know if Javi had forgiven him, or if his words on that stage had been spoken too late to ever merit his forgiveness. As long as Jack didn’t ask, he didn’t have to face the answer. All Jack could do now was hope that Javi knew he was sorry, and knew that he was trying.

We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet.

For auld lang syne.





Ben




The whole world, it seemed, had gathered.

Everyone waiting to see what would unfold in this moment that had been spoken about and tweeted about and wondered about for weeks.

The locations had been revealed just three days prior, with hubs in two dozen countries, like a map mounted in a traveler’s home, thumbtacks pinned on nearly every continent. It was the first time that the disparate voices of Strung Together had apparently managed to converge, to sing in one global chorus, and everyone wanted to know who was behind it, the organizers still anonymous. The names of Silicon Valley innovators and outspoken celebrities were whispered alongside prominent NGOs and local mayors and white hat hackers. Many wondered if Wes Johnson had lent his support. And what about that girl from the viral video? The mystery only deepened the marvel.

Ben’s entire group had turned out that day, along with Nina, Amie, and a friend of Nihal’s, all standing shoulder to shoulder in Times Square, where the city had celebrated the New Year en masse only a few weeks earlier. It was cold, but nobody seemed to mind, not with the presence of thousands of bodies, breathing into cupped hands, eagerly tapping their feet.