The old-timer came reeling out of the bar singing and laughing like a man whose life held nothing but joy. Never mind that he had a cop at each arm and his wrists were in cuffs. Never mind that a small crowd gathered to watch his departure. It was night, it was warm and his bloodstream was full of cheer.

The song died on the old man’s lips as the officers led him to the police compound. Befuddlement replaced buffoonery. It was 7 p.m., and he would not be on the streets to sing “Auld Lang Syne” to the world come midnight. Carrying a gun into a bar is never a good idea, even if the gun is full of BBs, not bullets.

Welcome to the Twin Cities on New Year’s Eve. As usual, I expected adrenaline spikes throughout the night. I began compiling a list of police calls, starting around the time the sun went down.

Surely, there would be fodder for riveting news stories. Almost certainly, I’d have enough to base an entire novel on. It was New Year’s Eve, it was a Friday and various monthly checks had been mailed early. Let the liquor flow, and the good times roll.
Smashed, alas

I awoke from my first nap around 6:30 p.m. That was just in time to hear scanner chatter about a man who stole some hooch from a store in Auburn. I liked this man’s style. He didn’t try anything clever to distract the clerk. He didn’t sew secret pockets into his coat to conceal the stolen booty. No, this guy tried an ancient form of thievery: He grabbed the goods and ran out the door.

A short foot race ensued. Clerks watched the thief bolt into the night. Cops scurried from different directions. It looked like the light-fingered boozer would make a clean getaway. But alas, the plunderer dropped his bottles as he ran. A rookie mistake. I envisioned the sorry sot at home for New Year’s Eve, winded and toasting the turn of the calendar with Tang in a jelly glass.

A short time after that, a young guy meant to be the life of a party instead became the night’s stooge. Driving through Auburn in the early evening, he made an egregious error by committing a driving infraction. The officer who stopped the car took a look at the passenger and realized it was a 3-foot tall bong. A very ornate and lovely thing it was, too. It would have been the hit of the bash. Instead, the bong ended up at the police station where it looked like a space-age trophy being carried to the evidence room. The owner got written up and presumably, spent the last of 2004 bong-less.

Say, what are those things used for, anyway?

Just after 7 p.m., a woman was reportedly so drunk, she was falling down while trying to pump gas into her car. At about 8, a man was bitten by a dog. At 9 p.m., I began slapping the portable scanner, believing it was surely broken. I poured coffee directly into my eyeballs and hit the streets.

Bars, booze, barking
A small group laughing and behaving outside a downtown bar. A couple walking hand in hand through the park. Drummers drumming, pipers piping, lords a-leaping. So on and so forth. It was placid in the Twin Cities.

At about 9:15 p.m., the Lewiston version of a drive-by shooting – some villain hurled a toy gun through a window at a downtown tenement. Down the road, a loud stereo. Around the corner, a report of teenagers sneaking beer into an abandoned apartment. Over the river and through the woods, a domestic squabble in progress.

Suddenly, it’s past 10 o’clock and it’s quiet. Too quiet. In two hours, the big ball will drop and the old man with the white beard will greet the incoming infant. I have always found that image vaguely unnerving.

At 10:30, a car headed north in the southbound lane on Washington Street in Auburn. A few more juveniles with booze in Lewiston. A barking dog, some rowdy neighbors and that was that. The year in the Twin Cities went out with a whimper instead of a bang. In the minutes before midnight, I was at home with a steak as thick as a career criminal’s rap sheet. There was a “Twilight Zone” marathon on the tube and no eruption of chaos called me out before the minutes ticked down to 2005.

Peace reigned. Harmony graced all the Whos down in Who-ville. Next year? I’m going to a Pacers game on New Year’s Eve.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.