IRL

For the end of the world, it's been unseasonably warm, which means the evening is not as brutally cold as expected—barely below freezing. I pull my scarf over my mouth and nose as I walk towards the bar, and possibly my own death. This is how you get murdered, my mother would shriek if I told her I was meeting a guy from a chat room IRL. That means in real life, if you're not on Yahoo! Chat. The evening news doesn't explain the acronyms, but sometimes you'll see lists in chain emails, or in a clueless op-ed in the paper with panicked headlines about the dangers of the web. 

Maybe I should know better, but I've been talking to Gretzky4Lyf for a couple of weeks now. When the threat is murder or the end of the world from Y2K, the stakes don't feel so different, so I said yes when he suggested we meet up for New Year's Eve. I mapped out a bar two blocks from a friend's house and two blocks from a police station, so my bases are covered as far as escape routes go. We described ourselves, and he said he'd be wearing black-rimmed glasses. I said I'd wear a gold top. I decided to get here early and keep an eye on the doors, so I can see him when he comes in, like a movie. Like the world will go in slow-motion when I see him.

Inside, the bar is loud and sparkling, banners and tinsel streamers and women in dresses that drape like liquid silver. It's hard to see the door, and I am at risk of losing an eye to any number of plastic tiaras declaring a Happy New Year, and then losing the other to the glittering glasses with zeroes for eyes. The year 2000 arrived in Sydney, Australia more than 12 hours ago, and the world hasn't exploded. Here in Chicago, there's still an hour and a half for Y2K to take us out, so anything's possible.

That's something else Gretzky4Lyf and I talked about, after covering A/S/L and recent favorite movies (for me, What Dreams May Come, for him, The Bone Collector; should I be worried about that?). Y2K is almost all anyone's talked about over the last few months, online, in the office, on the TV, on the radio. "The end is nigh, and, oh, do you have a dress for tonight?"

Gretzky might be my first and last chance for a midnight kiss. It hasn't worked out so far, though it might've happened at the senior year party in 1996 if the cops hadn't shown up. So I'm hoping that Gretzky isn't a murderer, and that this party isn't broken up by cops, and if the world ends, if it could hold off until dawn or so, that'd probably be enough. I don't even need to survive whatever happens. Take me in the first wave, please, I don't want a life without indoor plumbing.

A TV in the corner shows Dick Clark bundled up against the cold in Times Square, and I'm watching that, trying not to be jostled by the drunk people around me, when he walks up to me holding two pint glasses.

"Hi," he says. "Are you having a good time?"

"Hi" is all I can say back. Not, I'm Shellgame78, like I practiced in the mirror. Just "Hi."

He kind of looks like he said—dark hair, brown eyes, not as tall as he suggested.

"No glasses," I say, gesturing to my top, like, I followed the brief.

"They're kinda dumb," he answers, and hands me one of the beers. "I grabbed a table over there." He gestures toward a bar top at the opposite side of the room. "Wanna join me?"

I smile, remembering I'm supposed to be excited. I expected butterflies, but it's still early.

We settle at the table and I pretend to sip at my beer. Murder, roofies. If the world doesn't end tonight, I don't want to deal with the consequences. Besides, I told Gretzky I didn't like beer online. It's embarrassing, I had sent. I know I should like appletinis or beer or something, but I order Shirley Temples, or seltzer and lime, and pretend they're cocktails. Most people don't notice.