Very early on in life, I decided the hell with it: material

Host: The winter wind howled against the windowpane, whistling through the cracks like an ancient violin. The street outside was a river of light, Christmas bulbs twinkling in every shopfront, their colors bleeding into the snow. Inside a small, dimly lit diner, the air smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and a faint melancholy that hung in the steam.

Jack sat in the corner booth, coat still on, hands cupped around a mug of black coffee. His eyes — grey, cold, unblinking — followed the reflections of holiday lights in the window. Across from him, Jeeny had a scarf wrapped tight around her neck, her cheeks still flushed from the cold. She was watching him the way one watches a candle trying not to go out.

Host: The radio in the corner played a soft, nostalgic tune — “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” But here, in this quiet, forgotten diner, the words felt like a memory, not a wish.

Jeeny: “James A. Michener once said, ‘Very early on in life, I decided the hell with it: material things weren’t for me. Christmas would come, and other kids would have all these presents, and it wouldn’t bother me a bit.’”
She smiled faintly, stirring her tea. “I think there’s something pure about that. About choosing to let go — to find freedom in not wanting.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just numbness dressed as virtue.”
He took a sip, his voice low, almost tired. “You say freedom, I hear resignation. When you stop wanting, you stop moving. The world doesn’t run on contentment, Jeeny — it runs on hunger.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, its headlights flashing through the frosted glass, casting a brief, golden shimmer over their faces. Jeeny watched him, silent for a moment, as if weighing every word before throwing it like a stone into the stillness.

Jeeny: “You think wanting is what keeps people alive, but it’s what makes them slaves. Look around you, Jack — people trample each other on Black Friday, fight over phones, cars, status. You call that living?”

Jack: “No, that’s survival. And it’s ugly. But it’s also real. You can pretend you’re above it, but even you — you want things. Maybe not jewelry, or a car, but you want meaning, connection, a place to belong. It’s the same instinct, Jeeny. Just dressed better.”

Host: The light from the lamp above them swayed, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across the table. A waitress passed, smiling politely, leaving behind the faint scent of vanilla and weariness.

Jeeny: “You’re right — I want things. But not the kind that can be wrapped. I want to feel something real. To love, to understand, to give. That’s not hunger, Jack — that’s humanity.”

Jack: “And yet, even that is a kind of possession, isn’t it? You want love because it feeds you. You give because it makes you feel worthy. Don’t fool yourself — every act of goodness has a shadow.”

Host: His words hung in the air like smoke — beautiful, dark, poisonous. Jeeny stared at him, her eyes burning now, hurt but not defeated.

Jeeny: “You’ve built a cage of your own logic, Jack. You call it truth, but it’s just fear — fear of being disappointed, fear of needing something you can’t control. So you mock desire, but deep down, you’re still thirsty.”

Jack: “Maybe. But at least I’m honest about it.”

Host: The rain had started to fall, softly, slowly, like the sky itself was whispering. The lights outside blurred, melting into a mosaic of red, green, and gold.

Jeeny: “You know, my father used to tell me that the richest people he ever met were the ones who could lose everything and still smile. That’s what Michener meant — when you’re not attached, you’re untouchable.”

Jack: “Easy to say for a man who ended up famous, celebrated, comfortable. It’s always the ones who’ve had enough who talk about not needing it.”

Jeeny: “No — he meant it long before the money came. He was poor for years, living in cheap rooms, writing because he had to, not because it paid. That kind of choice — to reject comfort — that’s what makes it real.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just didn’t have a choice. You ever think of that? Maybe he pretended not to care because he couldn’t have what others did.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup, steam rising like a ghost between them. Her eyes were wet, but not from sadness — from fury.

Jeeny: “You always twist virtue into weakness, don’t you? Maybe that’s your defense — if nothing is pure, you don’t have to believe in anything.”

Jack: “Belief is expensive, Jeeny. And I’ve learned not to buy what the world can’t refund.”

Host: The diner fell quiet. Only the rain, and the faint ticking of the clock above the counter, filled the space. The radio had moved on to silence.

Jeeny: “Tell me something, Jack. When was the last time you wanted something that wasn’t practical? Something useless, beautiful, just because it made your heart feel alive?”

Host: Jack hesitated. A faint crack in his armor. His gaze drifted toward the window, where a child was laughing, throwing snow at his reflection.

Jack: “When I was a kid... there was this toy train I wanted. My parents couldn’t afford it. I told myself I didn’t care. Maybe I still don’t.”

Jeeny: “No. You still remember it. That’s how I know you did.”

Host: Her words landed like a hand on a bruise — gentle, but unforgiving. Jack looked down, his expression softening, melting under the weight of something long buried.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been wrong, Jeeny. Maybe wanting isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s what we want that makes us lost or found.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not the gift, it’s the giver. Not the object, but the meaning we pour into it.”

Host: The rain had stopped now, leaving the streets glistening under the lamplight. A bus rolled by, slow, empty, its wheels hissing through the wet.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why people cling to Christmas. Not for the things, but for the memory of being seen, loved, wanted.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. That’s what Michener meant when he said it didn’t bother him. He wasn’t empty — he was full of something else. Of peace.”

Host: Jack nodded, a tired, honest smile on his lips. The neon light flickered across his face, reflecting in his eyes like a confession.

Jack: “You know, maybe I’ll try that this year. No gifts, no noise. Just… a quiet night. Maybe I’ll write again. Maybe that’s my kind of Christmas.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s the only one that matters.”

Host: The waitress brought the check, smiling softly, wishing them a Merry Christmas. They both nodded, silent, content. Outside, the snow fell again — slow, gentle, forgiving.

Host: And as they stepped out into the cold, the city seemed to breathe, its lights glowing not for what they showed, but for what they hid — a world still hungry, still hoping, still learning that the richest kind of wealth is the one you cannot hold.