Everyone in the house had made their own private arrangements. Within the last year, seven had purchased a bottle of alcohol for the occasion, all of which are now open. Nine had saved a day off work, the other two already work from home. All eleven are in the front hall now, laughing with each other, wetting the old rugs with champagne.
The stage hand takes batteries out of the smoke detectors while the substitute teacher carries a ladder for her. The front and back doors are propped open. Everyone on the ground floor pulls chairs from their apartments to make a circle in the lobby. There’s a speaker bumping the playlist made for this moment.
Joints and bongs pass around like cards. Everyone claims not to be sick, but this is the kind of thing they’d all get sick for anyway. In celebration.
They plan for a bonfire that weekend. American style, hotdogs and beer and weed for everyone. Talking about it keeps the thrill alive, and everyone’s jokes are funny no matter what is said. But the real celebration must be fresh. The real celebration is now.
It happened around 1:30 in the morning. Five of them were still awake, and each recounted their stories. Which chair they were sitting on when they heard the news, what song was playing, their initial disbelief. The others woke to knocks on their doors and the sound of cheering.
There is no need to rest tonight. All there is to do is laugh and share whatever’s in your fridge.
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