Bare walls. A rosary hangs on a door knob. Milk cartons turned upside down act as tables. There is one chair in the corner. A soft, easy chair that has been worn in. Sat in by the tennant before him and the tennant before him. A mattress lays on the floor. Stained sheets that have not been washed and a pillow case with white sweat marks on it is what he lays in at night. And, sometimes, during the day when there is no energy to move. The old man will lie there for hours before getting up and walking down the hall to fix a cup of instant coffee. His mirror has toothpaste spit on it. This has been his home for twenty years. He’s not moving.

The phone rings. It’s a landline. One of the last of its kind; a square box with a round dial on it, numbers, zero means operator. It’s his brother from California calling. His annual Christmas call. Telling the old man he’s wiring him some money Western Union. He can pick it up at the drug store on Lexington Ave. The old man listens. He smiles when he hears the amount. A hundred dollars, his brother tells him. I’m sending a hundred. Maybe you could use that money for a coat. Or, maybe a pair of pants. A couple of pairs, he laughs. The two brothers wish holiday greetings and say goodbye. They won’t talk again for another year.

He goes to the Rite Aid on Lexington to pick up his financial gift. He’s already got plans for it. The old man is dressed n his finest used suit. He can barely get the buttons to lock on the jacket. The zipper is halfway down. It is a peach suit. Bought it in the spring for Easter services. The colors are worn. It’ll have to do for Christmas. He tells the cashier his passcode. It is Simic equals Poetry. She looks at the piece of yellow paper and shakes her head, then hands over the money in twenties. Tells him Merry Christmas, and he smiles back at her.

He starts at Second Avenue Deli, where he feasts on lox and bagels. An everything bagel toasted with cream cheese, tomato, lox, a red onion, and capers sprinkled on top. The old man then walks to Washington Square Park, where he spies lovers holding hands and kissing every once in a while; remembering when he was married.

As he strolls down Lexington, there are cabs lined up in front of Indian buffets. The smells of curry flow out into the streets. The old man walks in and sees dark men praying on carpets, praying to their god. He sits and offers thanks as well. The food is good and plentiful. A mango lasse washes it down.

It is nighttime, and the holiday is completed with a drink as he watches ice skaters at Bryant Park. A seventeen dollar Manhattan. He feels a tickle in his throat as the whiskey goes down.

And now he is broke. Christmas is over. He goes back to his rented room and says, it was a very good day.