Wednesday, January 15, 2020 // The Statement
6B
Selling New Year’s Eve
2:00 p.m.
Math question: If there are 1.5 million people waiting
to watch the ball drop in person, what percentage of those
actually know where to enter Times Square?
When I decided to go to New York City for New Year’s
Eve, I imagined there would be at least one sign directing
people which way to go. My research beforehand led me
to resources about packing snacks, when to get there and
how many bathrooms were available (answer: 0). Though
plenty of people on the Internet advised me to wear a
diaper, none revealed where to actually enter the event.
I was with my partner, Ty, who overheard some police
officers directing people to 49th Street. We joined people
in line and asked if we were in the right place. They all
said they hoped so. I had a feeling we were in the wrong
spot — Americans are prone to getting into lines that they
don’t know where they lead to, and I feared we’d fallen
into the same trap.
Vendors set up carts full of overpriced “2020” glasses
and hats to sell while we were stuck in line. With nowhere
to go, we were the perfect consumer targets. “You need
this!” they would say and blow a noisemaker in someone’s
face.
Suddenly, the NYPD closed the entrance and everyone
began jumping over the barricade. Ty and I followed them,
sprinting alongside the thousand-or-so people also trying
to get a better view of the ball than the person next to them.
This was America, after all — the land of stepping on
others to get ahead.
3:00 p.m.
Despite the chaos and disorganization, this was
the 114th New Year’s celebration in Times Square. It
began as an inauguration for The New York Times
headquarters in 1904, effectively replacing the previous
tradition of ringing in the new year with church bells at
Trinity Church.
It’s ironic that a celebration that once began at a church
could turn into something with such disregard for other
humans.
As we edged closer to the front of the crowd, I felt more
like an animal. We were packed like fish in the net at the
end of “Finding Nemo” — but instead of working together
to get out, everyone pushed forward in hopes of getting
an inch closer.
The man next to me was pinned up against the brick
wall and begged for space to breathe. A shorter person
next to Ty was nearly levitating off the ground. People
began screaming from the front of the line but we couldn’t
see what was happening, nor run if there was any danger.
We could only wait.
6:00 p.m.
We finally passed the checkpoint and reached the
barricade at 50th Street, which is at the far back of Times
Square next to Applebee’s. People would knock on the
glass and wave at the crowd from inside the restaurant,
holding up their drinks either in solidarity or to make us
envious. Perhaps both.
As Ty and I ate our snacks, we listened as people next
to us blasted music on a speaker and people in front of us
complained loudly. I resented the fact that we didn’t get
up earlier to get a closer spot — the people on the block
in front of us were sitting down, dancing and laughing. I
imagined partying with them under the light of the Times
Square screens or in the warmth of Applebee’s, or even
with my friends in Detroit.
It began to rain and I sat on the ground facing hundreds
of legs behind us. In a sort of torturous meditation, I
stared at them and wondered why I had wanted to come.
8:00 p.m.
Someone came over and passed out giant hats
sponsored by Planet Fitness. The hats were “free,”
but only in the way a phone app is free — there’s
always a cost, collateral waiting in the shadows. You
don’t pay with your credit card, but rather with your
attention.
I suppose that’s why I was at the ball drop in
the first place; if enough people pay attention to
something, we’re convinced it has value. That is
marketing. I’ve watched the event on TV for years
and always loved seeing the confetti, hearing the
music, imagining the New Year’s kiss. I wanted it not
because of an inherent desire, but because the entire
world thought it was valuable. I figured waiting 10
hours for it would be worth it.
That’s just the myth of meritocracy. Working for
something doesn’t mean it’ll pay off, especially if a
million others want the same thing. This also goes
for fame; society still thinks the models lining Times
Square or the New Year’s Rockin’ Eve performers are
the ones who deserve the attention. Maybe they’re
just the ones willing to shove harder on their way to
the front of the line.
Consumerism naturally leads to competition,
which extends past buying things. We get into lines
even if we don’t know where they lead, fight for a
better spot even if it means suffocating and compare
our view to those in front of us, even if they’re the
ones wearing adult diapers. We’re supposed to
constantly be optimizing, competing and ultimately
winning.
In a time of resolutions, the new year is a perfect
time to be reminded of that.
11:00 p.m.
The Times Square screens seemed to flash brighter the
longer I stared, wearing out my eyes. I almost preferred
the vendors blowing noisemakers earlier — at least they
weren’t faceless brands. I positioned myself behind one
woman’s Planet Fitness hat to block the lights.
I wondered how much money Planet Fitness makes
from New Year’s resolutions alone. Maybe the people
around me will purchase a gym membership and train for
next year’s ball drop, trying to outrun the people on the
treadmill next to them.
As I listened to the faint echoes of performances by
Post Malone and BTS, whose concert tickets would have
otherwise cost hundreds of dollars, I realized why I didn’t
have to pay for this event. Advertisers got what they
wanted the moment I bought my plane ticket. They made
me think I wanted to spend New Year’s Eve in Times
Square, a consumer’s fever dream, surrounded by ads,
because it was better than what everyone else was doing.
And I believed them.
Midnight
I figured after waiting for 10 hours, there would be some
climactic payoff to the night. But instead of a fireworks
show, underwhelming sparks shot from the tower as the
ball slowly dropped down the flagpole. We were too far
back to even see the confetti or hear Auld Lang Syne. The
whole event felt like an “As Seen on TV” ad.
Still, I got my New Year’s kiss. I crossed it off my bucket
list so I never have to do it again. And on the subway ride
back, I made my New Year’s resolution: Don’t look at
people in front of you, in a crowd or on TV, and wish you
were them.
Chances are, it’s better on your side of the screen
anyways.
BY HANNAH BRAUER, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL