Christmas

Christmas Eve was a surprise.  I woke up far too early, read, wrote, went back to bed, then rose and took a walk, shower, nap, and finally got out of the house at 1:30.  I still had Christmas shopping to do.  I walked out my door and heard some voices from next door.  And then a pretty woman walked by me where I stood on the deck off the kitchen, and she smiled.  I smiled back and said hello.  I live on the corner of two streets, so I watched her as she walked by for a while, she watching back and smiling, too.  Who was she?  I wondered if I knew her and didn't remember.  No, I'd remember.  She was too pretty to forget.  And then she was out of sight.  Where was she walking to?  Would I ever see her again?  Another Christmas mystery.

On the Boulevard, I ran into a casual friend, an attorney and quite an art collector.  I've been to his house on several occasions, but really he's a friend of a friend.  We chatted about some mutual misery we share concerning our ex-friend the scoundrel and worse, Brando, and then about some other mutual miseries including being single.  But we spoke of cures for that particular misery, too, and we decided to get tother for drinks sometime soon.  And we decided, too, that he should stop by my studio one night to see what I have there.  I'm sure he will like something, and I'd love to see one of my pictures hanging in his house with all the other wonderful stuff.

As I continued on my shopping spree, a woman spoke to me.  We were crossing the street against the light.

"O.K.," said the pretty blonde, "let's be rebels."

"Oh, well, I'm just following you and your bad example."

She lifted her chin and laughed another comment my way.  She, being younger (and me being in no particular hurry), strolled ahead giving me a vision of what a woman should look like when she's walking away, happy rather than angry.

A couple of unfruitful stops into shops, then into a new French bakery that had recently opened.  I looked around and decided to buy a peach torte for my mother.  I stepped back onto the boulevard.  Suddenly, the woman from earlier walked by me as before.  We were crossing against the light once more

"We meet again," she said.  "We are dangerous."

"Oh, no, not me," I told her.  "I am renowned for nothing as much as for following the sage old dictum, 'Safety First!'"

And again, I watched as she lifted her chin.  Suddenly I noticed that I was walking on the balls of my feet.

Two more presents and it was time to meet up for the annual Christmas Eve drinks with the same pack of losers I've done this with for too many years to remember.  It was time to find out who had divorced or who had broken up with his girl or who wished they had, who was spending Christmas with someone and who was alone, and most importantly, who was taking Xanax this year.  In truth, it was a smart and successful group, once the envy of my own sophisticated hamlet, and one needed all of one's wits not to become grist for the mill.  Of course anyone who was not there immediately became the butt of most stories.

A woman I didn't know was already seated with the fellows when I arrived.  After a bit of witty repartee, she excused herself to visit another table.

"Who is she with?" I asked.

"That's So and So.  You don't know her?  She owns the art magazine."

"What?!  What the fuck."

"Yea, you should know her.  She's connected."

In a bit she came back.

"So and So, do you know C.S.?  He's an artist.  You should know him."

At this she began to rail and waive her hands.  She actually turned her back to me.

"Oh no, I don't do artists any more.  I don't need any more artists.  I'm done with that."

She looked like a nut.

"Take it easy lady," I said.  "I'm not an artist.  I work at the factory."

I have no need of people and I certainly didn't need her, some local art maven with a little magazine.  Well, she had a copy.  It was glossy and big, well printed.  But she had disappeared for me.  I turned back to my friend across from me and took up where we had left off.  I could feel the conversation going on at the other end of the table, though, and heard one fellow tell her what I did at the factory.  Oh, it seemed that was of some interest to her.  Suddenly she was all about me.

"I'm a writer," she said.

"Really?  What have you written?"

"I write."

Apparently for the magazine.

"Well good for you," I told her.

She handed me a piece of paper and a pen.  "You need to give me your information."

I'd already finished with this.  I wasn't coming back.

"What information?"

"Your name, your website, your email and phone number."

There was no way I was giving her directions here to the blog.  Nobody at the table had the blog address.  There were only a couple people in town who knew.  For the millionth time I thought that I needed to put up a "decent" site that I could sign my name to, that wouldn't disgrace me in front of people I knew or might want to know, people not at all like us.

I wrote down a few things and we shook hands.  Then she was gone.

"What the fuck?" I said to my friends.

"Well. . . she. . . you know. . . but she can help. . . ."

"Right."

A woman--no--a fixture--of our fine town stopped by the table to say hello to the boys.  She had once been married to a Senator who had died and left her gobs of money.  I used to know a guy twenty or more years ago who was a gigolo.  Truly.  I've known two in my life.  But she used to hire him from time to time.  I could never figure that one out at all.  Now she was about a hundred years old but looked like Zsa Zsa Gabor, and she could still get a rise from the fellows.  She walked over like Cleopatra and graced the fellows with her ample charms blessing them one at a time with the light touch of her hand upon an arms and an intimate smile before she departed.

"How about that, isn't she something?"

I had to believe so.

"Hey, who was that beautiful woman I saw you with at Dexter's the last time I saw you?"

It was my friend who had just gotten divorced after two daughters and ten years of marriage.  I couldn't remember who he'd seen me with.  One of the models I had just finished shooting with, sure, but which one?

"I can't remember.  Did she look like a hooker?"

Everybody laughed.

"No, she was gorgeous."

Then I remembered.  It was the first woman I had ever shot with in the studio.  She was in town that day and we had met up for a quick drink before she left.  I didn't want to dissuade them, though, from thinking what they were wanting to think, and I rather enjoyed my momentary status as a Casanova, so I told them something vague.  Just then my phone rang.  Nobody ever calls me, but it was Christmas Eve and I'd been calling people all over the country to send holiday wishes.  I looked at the number.  It was the girl!  The very topic of our conversation!  I couldn't believe it.

"That's funny," I said nonchalantly, "it's the woman of whom we speak."

She had already attained the status of mythical proportions so far in our conversation.  I wasn't about to answer.  I put the phone back into my pocket.

"What are you doing?!?  Answer it!"

"I'll let her leave a message."

"??????!!!!"

I didn't want to look like the eager man who hadn't been on a date all year.  I liked the illusion I was creating here.

And then suddenly it was all over.  As the sun began to fade, we made our Merry Christmases to one another and each vanished in his own fashion.  I left with plans to go skiing with a friend I hadn't travelled with in years.  We would be in Park City for Sundance.  He had met a writer whose book had been made into a movie that starred everyone, and she would be there, too.  It was something to look forward to, I thought, if I can still ski. I was more than a little worried about that.

But the most important thing in the world is the next trip.  Now I had one.  Soon.

My next stop was my mother's house dinner.  I had told her I would pick something up for us, but I'd waited too long, and all that I could find open was McDonalds.  I know.

"Did you bring champagne?" she asked.

Uh-oh.

"Well, yes I did.  It is in the car.  It isn't cold, though."

"You said you were going to bring champagne."

"Well. . . I did."

I wasn't feeling like the good son on Christmas Eve.  I don't think she was happy that I'd been drinking so long with my friends, either.  Worse, I'd done a paltry job of shopping for presents.  I had bought her a fake fur throw from Pottery Barn at the last minute before they closed.  I looked over at her on the couch.  Why hadn't I noticed before that she already had one?  Oh. . . it was terrible, but there was nothing to do about it now.

We made plans for our Christmas dinner the next day, and I left to drive home through streets lighted for the holidays.  The roads were quiet.  Families sat together watching movies and eating popcorn.  That's what you think when you're alone.

Then I was home.  The cat was glad.  And there on the counter were presents for my mother and me.  Santa had already come.  Sort of.  They were from the woman who still had a key to my house.  I was surprised by it.  We'd not exchanged presents of any kind for over a year.  Well--I had a bag of champagne to give.  It was the same as I got.

I'd been drinking, so, I thought, I should continue, and I decided to pour a scotch.  Stronger than I remembered it.  Funny that.  I checked my email, and there like a present was an email from the Prodigal Girl.  She was not coming back for Christmas this year, she said.  She was staying in New York.  She sent holiday wishes and promised pictures.  Surely it was beautiful.

The night before Christmas.  It had been better than I hoped.  I hope yours was, too.