By Ed Staskus

   It was getting close to midnight and Father Time was still trying to throw Baby New Year out the window. It was proving to be harder than he thought it would be. Who knew a newborn, even though he looked more like  toddler, could be so hefty? Who knew a newborn had any idea about how to throw a left jab? Or throw a left jab that knew where to land where it hurt the most?

   Father Time hadn’t started the fight, although he had declared he wasn’t ready to leave, new year or no new year. Baby New Year had started it when he had tried to kick Father Time out the back door. “Your time is over and done with,” he said. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.” Father Time didn’t see the kick coming. It got him just below the back of the knee and buckled his leg. When it did he stumbled and hit his head on the door jamb. He was already angry, but that got his dander way up.

   He wasn’t just anybody to mess with. Way back when, when the Greeks were in charge, he had been Chronos. When the Romans took over he became Saturn. During the Renaissance he started carrying an hourglass and stood shoulder to shoulder with the Grim Reaper. By the 20^th century he was carrying a scythe, representing the cyclical nature of time.

   He kept his scythe in good working order. He cleaned the blade after every use. He sharpened it with a whetstone. He peened it to restore the edge after it had been overworked. He could swing it with the best of them.

   Father Time got up from where he had stumbled. He whirled around. Baby New Year had a fork in his hand. Father Time grabbed his scythe.

   “What’s gotten into those two?” Oliver asked his sister.

   “Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good,” Emma said. 

   They were at a New Year’s Eve party with their parents at their aunt’s swank house in Bratenahl. It was the first time they had ever been there. It was the first time they had ever been invited. The house was a waterfront mansion. It had a great view of Lake Erie. The ceilings were sky high and all the sofas and armchairs were white. There were four bedrooms and five bathrooms.

   “She must go to the toilet a lot,” Emma said.

   Their aunt’s grown-up children and their spouses and some of their children were there. Oliver and Emma’s parents and everybody else were in the great room testing their paper tube noisemakers and pouring champagne into tulip-shaped glasses. The glasses were so clean they glistened like Vin Diesel’s bald head.

   Oliver and Emma were in the kitchen, although they were keeping their distance from the combatants, who were circling each other.

   “You’re the old year, you codger, and I’m the new year,” Baby New Year said. “It’s always been that way. You’ve got to hand the new year over to me. It’s time to pass the baton.” He had his 2026 sash at the ready. He waved his fork for emphasis.

   Baby New Year went back to when the Greeks were in charge, just like Father Time. He went back to the Great Dionysia, which celebrated the springtime resurrection of Dionysius, who was the god of wine and fertility. After the parade and during the buffet, Dionysius’s birth was celebrated by putting the baby in a winnowing fan, which was a kind of bread basket, and showing him off. Everybody made sure not to eat him by mistake.

   “Pass the baton?” Father Time said. “What do you know? You don’t know anything. You’ll just screw things up worse than they already are. Your kind always does, starry-eyed and incompetent. I’ve got plenty of experience. I’ll keep the ship on course.”

   “On course?” Baby New Year exclaimed. “The train is running off the rails. The future needs new blood. That means me. Now give me that hourglass you’ve got hidden inside your robe.” By all rights Father Time was supposed to hand the hourglass over and pass on his wisdom and duties.

    “What I say is what Percy Shelly wrote in his poem,” Baby New Year said. “My Father Time is weak and gray, with waiting for a better day, see how idiot-like he stands, fumbling with his palsied hands.”

   Baby New Year had gone through hell and high water to get to the handover on time. He had been stuck on the Archipelago of Last Years, which were islands where all the old years retired. He had gone there to prep for the new year, hoping to gain insights and absorb wisdom about what were going to be his new duties. 

   When he got there, however, he was taken prisoner by Eon the Terrible, who was a supersized vulture. From birth the big evil bird had been destined to live a half a million years. His problem was the half a million years were coming to an end at the end of the year. When that happened he was going to suddenly turn into dust and be blown away by the wind. Keeping Baby New Year prisoner would stop time and keep the year from ending. It would keep him alive, too.

   When Santa Claus found out what was happening he was appalled. Stopping time would stop Christmas. He sent Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer to rescue Baby New Year. It was easier said than done. Eon the Terrible took the reindeer prisoner, too, and locked him up on his Island of No-Name, located north of the North Pole. When Rudolph escaped Eon the Terrible unleashed an avalanche that trapped the reindeer inside a gigantic snowball. Rudolph melted the snow with his bright shiny nose, climbed up to Eon the Terrible’s nest, and set Baby New Year free.

   “After all I’ve gone through, give me that hourglass.” Baby New Year said. Time was running short. It was ten minutes to midnight. That’s when the rumble in the kitchen got serous. Father Time swung his scythe at Baby New Year’s head. But since he had a bad back and couldn’t bend even an inch, he missed by a mile. Baby New Year stuck his fork into Father Time’s foot.

   “Ouch!” Father Time yelped, limping this way and that, using his scythe as a cane. The cook, who had been washing dishes, had backed herself into a corner, using a chopping board as a shield. She had a spatula she was prepared to use for protection, if it came to that.

   Father Time groaned and lowered himself onto a stool.

   “He looks all worn out,’ Oliver said. ‘He should give it up.”

   “Maybe he thinks Baby New Year just isn’t ready,” Emma said.

   “Babies are never ready. They just have to jump in with both feet.”

   “I was the most happening man at the party all this past year, but now I think it’s time to leave,” Father Time said. He stood up and went towards the back door. He put his hourglass on the floor and leaned his scythe against the wall. 

   “You’ll need these things,” he said while looking down at the half-pint who was going to take his place. “Good luck, you’ll need it.” He left his shadow behind, but even that soon disappeared. It was like he had never been there.

   Oliver lifted Baby New Year onto his shoulders, and with Emma beside him, carried him into the great room where everybody was waiting. A cheer went up. Champagne went down throats.

   Out with the old and in with the new.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the Midwest in the 1960s and 1970s.

“A collection of street level short stories blended with the historical, set in Cleveland, Ohio. The storytelling is plugged in.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

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A Crying of Lot 49 Publication