essica is perched precariously atop a three-step kitchen ladder. I
glance over at her from the couch where I'm watching football. I'm
concerned she might fall. If she falls, then I'll have to do the
decorating.
"Be careful," I call over my shoulder.
"Jim," she says. "Would you hand me that?"
"That?"
That is over there. In a box. Across the room. Up, in other words,
from the couch.
"Yes. That."
I exhale a large nobody-knows-the-trouble-I've-seen sigh. I stand
up in my best put-upon standing slouch. I drag myself over
there.
As I hand her a framed painting of a beaming Santa, I wonder if
there is any other kind. Isn't Santa always beaming? For once, I'd
like to see a pensive Santa or a melancholy Santa. I was lucky
enough to see, in person, a drunk Santa. It was in
Florida on
Christmas Eve, Santa after-hours. He was weaving down the
late-night street, spotlit by the hazy light of overhanging street
lamps, mumbling something that didn't sound remotely like "and to
all a good night." I've also been privileged to see a
cigarette-smoking Santa; several of them, in fact. They're all over
the place in
Italy. Cigarette smoking and hair the color of
cigarette ash, worn slightly askew, a look that is less jolly than
it is kind of Santa noir.
Jessica takes the painting, leans forward to slide it down the wall
onto a hook, and wobbles. I quickly grab her legs.
"I'm okay," she says, steadying herself.
"That's okay," I reply. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to
you."
Jessica and I approach holiday decorating in our own separate
ways.
She decorates. I grouse.
It works pretty well, all things considered. Except that no matter
how much I grouse, the house still gets decorated.