This can’t be the right house. Sheets of clear, heavy plastic hang in the entryway, and for a moment it seems like I’ve stepped onto a construction site. Then I remember that this New Year’s Eve party is entitled “2010: Your Space Odyssey” and revelers were instructed to dress as the future as we imagined it when we were kids. I grin, noticing tiny, multicolor stars speckling the plastic, and duck through into the party.
A dance floor full of metallic people beckons, but I'm immediately drawn toward the wall: A large silhouette of Seattle's skyline crafted from black construction paper is taped along its length and lined with lights. In the foreground, a tin-foil-covered bike trailer seems to float at hip level—fuck flying cars; the future is flying bikes.
Distracted by so many shiny things (the future is skintight), we lose track of time on this, the most important night of the year to watch the clock. Someone glancing at a cell phone shrieks: "It's midnight!" Countdown be damned, the cheers and kisses ensue, and soon the party migrates to the front lawn. Brave ones in neon and Carhartts light firecrackers, Roman candles, and bottle rockets, barely missing the power lines (the future is dangerous). Someone directs our attention to the sky, and we tilt our futuristic heads upward (the future is purple hair and tin-foil crowns) to search for the full moon. The familiar blanket of gray moves more swiftly than usual over the deep sky, unveiling that brilliant sphere.
We gaze in silence; we can only hope that the future of our adult imaginations will be this bright.
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