Houses have Christmas wishes. I know because I’ve absorbed so much drywall compound, sawdust, paint, and cement over the years, I’ve become part house myself. So, in honor of the spirit of giving, I will enter into a hypnotic state — a dangerous condition for anyone with as many secrets as I have to hide — and channel the Christmas wishes of all houses, past and future, to you, the homeowners:
Richard, slowly swinging a plumb bob before Suzy’s eyes: “Your eyelids are getting heavy, as heavy as if you’ve been using contact cement without proper ventilation. You’re getting sleepy. You will slip into a more structured state. When I snap my fingers you will awaken and you will be a house at Christmas.”
Suzy, in a gruff voice: “Hey! Ouch. Would somebody cut that damn branch off that tree? It’s gouging my roof. And while you’re out here, take a look at my glass works, for Pete’s sake. Forget about that hokey Feng Shui crap, okay? You want some sort of esoteric Zen-like homeowner guidance? I’ll give you guidance. You think your eyes are the window on your soul, right? Well, my windows are the eyes to my soul. I can’t see a thing. I’m spiritually blurred here. No, no, no. Wait a minute. Don’t buy that stupid expensive blue window cleaner. Geez. Save your money for something more meaningful, like one of those hot dog/bun toasters I saw in one of those dorky catalogues you stuff inside of me. Boy, you humans just love your gizmos, don’t you? Forget about the basics like food and shelter. You want a heated towel rack. Now let’s keep this window thing simple. Just put a quarter cup of ammonia in a bucket of water, slap it on the windows with one of those foam pads on a stick, and then squeegee it off. Ahhh. That’s better. I can watch those reindeer cavort through the sky now.
“And hey, can’t we have one of the skinny relatives play Santa this year? Old Uncle Moby dented my tin roof last year and I’m telling you I can’t be responsible… wait… I’m not through… what about a chimney sweep?… when’s the last time you checked the smoke detector or replaced the filter in the central air unit or caulked the…”
The gruff voice fades and is replaced by Suzy’s voice, younger and more nervous than usual:
Suzy: “I can’t keep this inside any longer…”
Richard: “Suzy, where’s the House? You are the House now…”
Suzy: “No, I’m in high school now. It’s nearly Christmas. Me and D’Anne are outside the high school auditorium goofing around during play rehearsal. We find a box of fried chicken, just bones really, and a couple of biscuits, and a packet of honey. We take the honey and crawl over the metal gate that protects the hallways and classrooms after-hours…”
Richard: Suzy, I want to talk to the House…”
Suzy: “We take the honey and put some on the library door knob. We giggle and crawl back over the gate. The next morning as we file down the hall, the principal and Isabell Frizzell, the librarian, are standing in front of the library. They look steamed. A special meeting is called for all after-school organizations. Our thespian director, Miss Spiess, is crying. An announcement is made over the loud speaker: Someone tried to Superglue the library door shut and smeared glue all over the doorknob! Luckily, Mrs. Frizzell was wearing gloves or else she would have probably lost the skin on her hand! Who would do anything so stupid! says all the other thespians. D’Anne and I are silent. Everyone is suspect, but somehow the basketball girls take the blame. D’Anne and I are still silent. The basketball girls are forced to run 100 laps as punishment. Several of the larger, more aggressive players pledge to beat the shit out of whoever, in fact, did do the sticky deed. The school hires a security guard to protect the school after hours. Taxes will have to be raised to pay him.”
Merry Christmas, Bellville High School, from Suzy and D’Anne and the bees.
This article appears in December 19 • 1997 and December 19 • 1997 (Cover).