A lot of people see the quaint plywood shacks that appear on sidewalks just before Thanksgiving, each with its own tiny forest of evergreens, and they imagine that every one is independently owned, maybe by jolly families of lumberjacks looking to make a few holiday bucks. I’ve worked spring, summer, fall, and winter for Santa Claus - or, rather, for a man who looks exactly like Santa Claus, and possibly thinks he is Santa Claus, and is, fittingly, one of the top sellers of Christmas trees in New York City.Ĭhristmas trees are big business in New York. I feel concussed.Įven still, I can’t help but think about Christmas, the holiday that has been my daily reality for two years. Lying flat on my back in a hospital bed, covered in sap and bleeding out of my forehead, I don’t feel very Christmasy. I’m relieved to detect nothing, just injured people groaning, which by this point in December - the 22nd - is practically soothing. I listen closely for the jingling of bells and the croon of Bing Crosby. Squinting through sterile overhead lighting, I scan the emergency room for traces of red and green.
