Few holidays are more commercialized than Christmas. The chorus of BUY BUY BUY on TV drowns out any rendition of SILENT NIGHT, as hordes of Americans flock to the malls in their SUVs to buy products made in China. Credit cards are whipped out at the cash registers to complete their Xmas gift list on December 23 and 24, the last two shopping days of the shopping frenzy. My last purchases on Christmas Eve were two beers at Jacob Wirth’s in Boston, a good luck cat from a Chinatown shop, and a T ticket from South Station to Braintree.

My hand went into my pocket in the train parking lot. My sister had bet that I wouldn’t be on time. Our first rendezvous of 5:45 was blown, so I doubled or nothing for 6:10. I was three minutes late. Her lovely daughter Sara got the $20. I sat in the back of their Benz and we drove through Weymouth Landing to a party at my old neighbor’s house. The orgy of buying was over. It was time to consume.

Drinks, food, friendship.

My cup slippeth over and my other brother-in-law dragged me from the house, a glass of whiskey in my hand.

“Merry Christmas.”

My exit was cheered by the stayers-on. David said, “You won the drunk of the party award.”

“There was never any doubt in my mind.”

The next morning I woke in a wounded state. I called my kids in Thailand. They were happy and Mem still had a little money left in her wallet. I wouldn’t have to go to send a Moneygram on Christmas. We opened gifts and no money passed any out of or into any of our hands. Dinner was free and I begged off going to the movies with my nephew and my sister that evening to drink with my brother-in-law.

Free.

I crashed on the sofa around 10pm.

A day without money.

If only every day was Xmas.