I blame the polar bear.

The newest addition sat in the middle of the lawn and rose above the roof line. Black eyes bore down on the crowd of gawkers, a scarlet smile painted across its face. Its glowing torso had me wearing sunglasses whenever I gazed out of my picture window from across the street. The eye-sore loomed above the toddler-size train racing along a figure-eight track on its journey to nowhere. The tooting horn kept rhythm to the nauseating Christmas tunes blaring from loud speakers. Holiday lights blanketed the house and lawn like a Monet painting on steroids.

A police cruiser arrived. Its front tire jumped the curb. The officers got out and waded through the field of candy cane cutouts and jolly-faced characters held erect by wooden stakes. One of them found the bear’s motor. It whined for the last time then fell silent. Hissing – the bear bent forward. Its nose dove for the ground.

Buster T. Boggs came into view. The crowd gasped. Mothers scurried away with their children. My neighbor dangled a few feet from the roof, suspended by a noose of twinkling Christmas lights. A metal ladder lay on the ground beneath him. The top half bent at an angle. The larger cop waved his arms. He urged the crowd to disperse. A siren bleated in the distance.

I turned away from the window and dropped the screwdriver in my toolbox. They’ll find the missing screws when the snow melts. If anyone asks – the polar bear did it.