Even at the filthiest hole-in-the-wall bar down by the West Side Highway they were playing "Jingle Bells," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," "Here Comes Santa Claus," and my own favorite, "The Chipmunk Song," which made you glad arsenic was invented. And all of this joyous noise was playing on an endless loop. Satan himself was the Christmas D.J.

Truly, this was music with no prefrontal cortex.

So if you sat and drank enough Rolling Rocks, the same songs repeated over and over. And if you rolled your eyes and muttered, "Jesus fucking Christ," within hearing range of the bartender, he might walk right up to you and say, "What's the matter, fella, didn't get to sit on Santa's lap today at Macy's?"

The fact is, if you don't "get into the holiday spirit" people will not only be angry with you, they will think something is wrong with you and they will decide you are a bad person. A spoil sport. "He's a Grinch."

They will feel a visceral mistrust, a hatred, even.

They will reject you.

And you will find yourself on the outside of the snow globe.

I paid up and walked out.

What seemed like a couple of hours later, I suddenly sort of woke up I guess and found myself sitting on the filthy red carpeting outside the entrance to the Art Greenwich Cinema at the top of my street. My back was pressed against the glass door to the lobby. And when I glanced down, I saw that my clothes — khakis, white T-shirt, blue button-down shirt over that, Timberland boots — everything I had on was inexplicably dirty. Almost as if I had been wearing the exact same outfit for days and done nothing but slime around on the streets. And I was smoking a cigarette.

But none of that truly alarmed me. The jolt of terror came because there were two reeking, shockingly filthy wretches huddled up next to me, one on either side. Call them whatever you want — 'the homeless,' bums, vagrants, winos, bag men, beggars, hobos, tramps — but when your nose was literally inches away from their hair? The only name that fit was disgusting.

According to my watch, it was 3 A.M. on Christmas morning.

Yet. There I was. Right in the heart of their clan. And here's the really weird thing: according to my watch, it was 3 A.M. On Christmas morning, which kind of begged the question, Where did I put those forty hours I was carrying around with me?

At least they hadn't ripped my coat off me. Not that it did much good. It must have been twenty degrees. These bums were nuts to be camping outside in this weather.

God, what was I doing thinking about the weather? I had to get up, pry myself out from between those horrible creatures. And I moved about two inches forward and it was instantly apparent that it was not my coat which was keeping me warm: it was the bums.

A more sickening feeling, I cannot imagine. But the stinking heat radiating from those two life forms was the only thing keeping me alive. Of course, now that I thought about it, I could actually cross the street and go home. I didn't have to stay here one more minute. I began to stand up.

Just flexing the muscles in my arms to push myself up was enough; the movement caused both of the bums to spring fully awake and launch to their feet. They were standing above me in less time than it had taken for me to even get my ass off the ground.

Seeing me, their faces instantly relaxed into easy, friendly smiles. Relief, even. "Oh, hey, man. You scared the shit out of me. I felt that movement down by my feet and I thought somebody was trying to take my shoes," the bum said, then he laughed. He was a white bum, only around thirty. So that was pretty scary, the guy was just five years older than me.

The other guy was a black bum and he wasn't all that old, either, now that I got a good look at him. He might even have been the younger of the bums. "Are you okay?" he suddenly asked me. "To be honest, some of us have been a little worried about you. I was keeping an eye on you myself — Anita asked me to, but I would have anyway," he smiled. "Wanted to make sure you didn't choke to death or swallow your cigarette." Then he said, "Oh, and ah, thanks again for the sandwiches. I'm not sure it registered the first time I told you," and he chuckled and reached forward, slapping me on the shoulder.

Was I among the bums or frat boys? And who the fuck was Anita?