As I walked the sidewalk in Streetersville, I noticed how much quieter New Year’s Eve in the neighborhood was in comparison to Towertown. It was nine and window curtains were already drawn without slivers of light at their sides. Aside from some candles on sills, there was no indication that Christmas had been a week before; the chorus of carols that had hung in the air throughout the season in years prior had dissipated in days, gaiety finding its expiration as serious thoughts hushed the holiday happiness.

Flicking my cigarette into the gravel-ingrained snow, I climbed the crumbling cement stairs to Cal’s door. I rapped with my knuckles and grinned when Cal nodded me in.

“Sit down,” he prompted, waving toward the couch, as though he was a host and I hadn’t been to his place dozens of times before.

I did as I was told, settling onto the sofa as he walked to the kitchen less than five steps away. I could feel his pride, and it nearly brought tears to my typically emotionless eyes. He was happy, authentically happy with nothing more than a few rooms and a door. I’d never needed the finer things in life, but the way Cal moved around the minuscule space showed he didn’t either, and more importantly, he made the mundane merry. He was a deity, and I was humbled by the way his presence in the modest apartment transformed it into so much more than it was.

For every exposed bulb that cast a narrow yellow light, there was a candle softening dark corners, their flames flickering as shadows danced across bare walls. It felt like a secret, a haven for heathens, a hideaway from a city circling the drain.

“This is our first New Year’s Eve emancipated from The Gallery on State, so we’re celebrating,” Cal said with a ready clap of his hands. “We’re going to get zozzled and eat soup.”

“We’re living the life,” I laughed, wrapping a quilt that had been lying over the back of the couch around my shoulders.

“We are,” Cal smiled, holding up three cans of Campbell’s soup. “I got Tomato, Chicken Noodle and Cream of Mushroom for the occasion. I’m going to make all three and we can have some of each.”

“This is wild,” Rosie stated from his place on the stuffed chair. He tried to get in on the fun but failed miserably in his delivery. Regardless, Cal chuckled and nodded at his friend.

As Cal cooked, I drank, watching him stir and taste like he was preparing a feast. The sparkling sequins and songs of New Year’s past were replaced by sips of soup and stories of our hustles from the last several days.