Christmas Chair, Christmas Cheer

Alone. Alone on Christmas.

Elyse is with the kids today. I’ll be with them tomorrow.

Today, it’s just me and my chair and the Yule Log warming the television set.

I could go down to the Riverside, I suppose. Mix it up a little, and probably chat with Cassie. Great gal. Good that she got away from that punk rock guy. He didn’t deserve her. I’m sure there’d be a good meal there, too.

Wilson would be there, regaling the locals of his pseudo-investigative work and making the case for his pittance of a salary to whatever taxpayers will listen.

No, that would be like work. I need some time to think.

This John kid is green. I’m just not sure he can handle a murder investigation. A good reporter digs, and this kid, not a digger. He’s one of those who waits for the press release, doesn’t go after a story … create a narrative, at least, that they can posit to the cops and let them refute. Saying a cop says something isn’t the case is just as powerful as getting them to say something is. At least then, even if you come to them with a wrong theory, it’s usable.

No, these young people … it’s like my brother says, these young people think things happen in meetings. Things don’t happen in meetings. They happen on the edges. They happen when you make them happen.

He’s even whining about that Susan person coming in from New York. I thought that might light a fire under that little fella, but no. No such luck.

Instead, he whines.

I don’t know.

I don’t mind celebrating the season alone. I mind having to pour my own drink.