The Whistler

I’m back.

Back from book deadline hell.

Back from running the mean streets of my suburban neighborhood, Glock stuffed in my pants, mind on my money, money on my mind.

Back.

I’ve missed blogging, so I’m committing to doing it at least once per day.

The subject I’ve been itching to write about—the one the wife and I speak of quite often—has sort of had its time come and go. But I don’t care. This is vital. This is essential. This is world-turning.

This is The Whistler.

He comes every holiday season. We hear The Whistler starting around, oh, December 13. He whistles outside our house, the same lame Christmas song day after day after excruciating day. It’s “Jingle Bells,” a song I loathe as much as anything Steve Winwood (the solo years) has ever offered. He whistles and whistles and whistles and whistles and whistles—and I can’t friggin’ stand it.

The Whistler is our mailman.

He wants Christmas tips. I get it. But his efforts of reminding us are so brutally lame. Send me a card. Hell, hang a plastic Rudolph on my doorknob. But please, dear God, stop whistling “Jingle Bells” every time you approach. I hear you, whistling the same three lines from house to house. I know you want that crisp $10 bill. I respect your hard work.

But damn, where’s the pride? The decency?

Thankfully, it is January, and we can at least enjoy 11 months of peace.

But the whistling remains inside my head. Haunting me.

Ugh.

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