CULTURE
Show Me The Money
By Arlene Malinowski
I miss money. I don’t mean having or not having it. I mean, I miss money you can touch: paper money, coin money, real money.
I miss the jingling in my fathers’ pockets as he walks up the stairs after a day at the factory. I miss filching a smooth dollar bill hidden in the folds of my mother’s old alligator wallet.
I loved holding a new ten spot up to my nose to breathe in its familiar and distinctive smell, as indescribable as the scent of a freshly painted room.
And the taste of money! I know you’re not supposed to put it in your mouth but admit it, we all have; and its sharp, piquant flavor is like no other.
My first real job was working at The Mart., a family-owned women’s apparel store in downtown Paterson, N.J. I worked accessories and sportswear, coats and better dresses, fine lingerie, layaway and the switchboard. The minimum wage was 2 dollars and fifteen cents; and every Friday I was handed a 3 x 6 manila bank envelope filled with cash and a little change to spend as I liked.
In college, my side job was waiting tables at the Extension Diner -- conveniently located next to the Extension Lounge, which proclaimed itself “longest bar in New Jersey”. I would put on my black polyester uniform over a frilly slip to ensure better tips. When I bent over to wipe down a table or scoop up plates, I felt my effort was rewarded by a small booty of quarters, nickels, dimes and the occasional buck or two left at nearby tables. Getting tips in cash was like dying and going to heaven. The harder I worked, and the nicer I was, the more legal tender I could squirrel away for fifty-cent pitchers at the campus pub.
When I was growing up, my parents carefully counted and rolled pennies and nickels for their Christmas club or our yearly vacations down to the shore. Fingering the finished rolls gave me some appreciation of the care and effort they put into my happiness.
Nowadays, I use Visa for everything. Restaurants and movies, lipstick and groceries, taxis and Weight Watchers. I have cards for Starbucks, massages at Urban Oasis and Borders books. I don’t need money for the bus or the El because I have a CTA card. Everyone does. Even tollways and bridges have jumped on the cashless bandwagon and installed I-Pass.
Sometimes I wonder how panhandlers, strippers and Salvation Army bell ringers are coping in this cashless culture. My godson gets his allowance deposited into an account that he manages with a debit card –– and he’s 9-years-old.
I miss the joy of opening a birthday card from Aunt Rose and watching five-dollar bills flutter to the floor. Remember how great it felt to put your hand into the back pocket of your jeans and find a crumpled ten-dollar bill?
I hate that there is never any loose change in my couch anymore, and I can’t scavenger enough change out of my car seat to get a Slurpie or a 99 cent burrito when I’m running a little low.
It seems to me that the only place that cash is still used is in the movies where the ransom note demands a suitcase of unmarked bills in exchange for the kidnapped kid (who always turns out to be Dakota Fanning.)
My sister Diana once swallowed a quarter on Thanksgiving. It caused a block-wide panic. The pumpkin pie was abandoned, my sister was shaken upside down and we all took a trip to the emergency room. For days afterwards, my mother had to check her poop for the wayward coin.
This would never have happened if Diana had a Discover card but then my family would have been denied one of our favorite stories that we tell and retell every holiday. Incidentally, my mother still has the quarter safely wrapped in tissue and tucked away in an envelope marked “Thanksgiving 1965”.
Even the wallets we use today are different. There is hardly a place to put your paper money –– and forget a zippered pouch to collect your coins. Instead, they’ve been replaced with long rows of empty slots to store your green or gold or platinum cards.
Yes, real money is sometimes heavy and unwieldy and messy. It makes our hands dirty. Everyone knows it pass germs. And yes, I agree that using cash makes life a little slower. Just stand behind someone in the checkout line who pays for their lunch with exact change. But, in the big picture, is that so horrible?
I’m not waxing rhapsodic for the good old days, but I did like how it felt to carry real cash. With my Mastercard, I can get something whether I have the funds for it or not. I can buy things whether I need them or not.
With my Mastercard, it doesn’t even feel like I’m spending money. When I used currency, I felt like I was engaged in a real transaction. When I used ready money, I knew how much I had to spend and I watched every dollar as it fled my hands. It made me realize what I got in return for my hard work. When I had money in my life –– hard cash –– my money was gone when it was gone.
Now it’s gone before I even get it. So I, for one, am going to make cash the new credit. And you can take that all the way to the bank.
