It's funny what you wind up missing during a lockdown.
The restaurant at the top of Nordstrom, Bar Verde, has a prime view of the mall—a view that was particularly joy-sparking at Christmas, when the tree was up.
Almost from the start, the staff became pals, and the restaurant became a place where I established myself as a regular. The rush of human contact was a particular stimulant after working at home alone all day in a silent house. In the winter of 2018, I re-read Peter Straub's
Ghost Story there over a series of snowy evenings. In December of 2019, I did my frantic last-minute revisions on my story for Matt Bechtel's anthology,
The Dystopian States of America, there. I've had countless lunches and dinners with much-loved friends and colleagues there. Like the bar in
Cheers, it was a place where everyone knew my name, and my preferred table was nicknamed "Michael's booth."
With the city shut down completely, especially indoor dining, and social distancing and sheltering in place, "Christmas" has never felt more like a social media construct—so, thank God for social media, even as the snow falls and the neighbourhood lights sparkle. I miss my friends fiercely, and what I wouldn't give to be sitting in Michael's booth with them tonight, dreaming of flying to Palm Springs to be with my California family on the 22nd of December, as I have every year for the past thiry, looking out at the lit Christmas tree in the mall (where I was the Santa Claus in 1985), cherishing the memories, and blessing this season as an embodiment of the people and things I love the most in the world.
On the other hand, it's only a year until Christmas 2021.
