By Terry Scott Bond
“Nothing is real… everything is fake… Especially hard currency.”
Last night, after reviewing my bank account, I realized I didn’t care about money anymore. This is a true story. I should start with that. I should really also start with I don’t care; if you knew how much I didn’t care you would be scared. That is sort of some poetry that I wrote. I hardly write, but I have to write about this one night. So here goes…
Everyone was telling me they were broke. No money. Fucking pansies-they had no money, everyone had no money, I thought. Not even for coffee at the cafe. This is a fact. Know this. They told me to watch my bank account! All those wiser and older than I-“save your money”, they said. You know act like a fucking adult with responsibilities. Get a job, and like it. Wait! Don’t like it, just get a job that can pay the bills, so you can live. Everything that I’ve done in my life has been planned by others, all those accomplishments-the debt, the regret, and a bunch of the loss. I always have people plan my vacations; I pay and such, they make the itinerary. I just go. I am a monarch, royalty, sort of. I’m smart.
An aside: Latent effect is an incredibly powerful effect. It may bite you in the ass, but it has me sitting here comfortably.
Back to the story: Take care of your money, watch out for debts, and avoid it at all cost, they would say. I thought if a bank entrusted me to a credit card with a credit line of $10,000.00, well then that was their own damn fault. I now own the plastic which is connected to their cash.
The other night, I thought I’d test it out. I walked outside. I walked down the street to the bar. The sun was out, so it wasn’t really exactly night. However, I would consider it nighttime now that I am nearing 30, at 26 years of age, and it was past 5 PM. I had a beer or two in my mind.
I thought of how I was broke. How I had no money. How my debt didn’t matter because a dollar was debt anyway.
Anyhow, I walked into the first bar and started a tab, Nye’s Polonaise. I ran wild I sat with that one beer for about 20 minute and I thought of my next drink. After that one beer I told the bartender to make me the fanciest drink that he could make. The place was dark. The lights were dim. At this moment I realized that a person only (probably) lives one life, so I needed to treat myself for all of the misfortunate in this one special life. Cheers, right?!
I owed myself. This was owed to me.
He poured, mixed, and poured. Spoons and elbows all over the place and in the air. A splash of this and that, little ice; more booze for my tummy. He looked at me as if he needed something, I pointed at the card. He said all right buddy. Then he reached below the counter and grabbed his finest drink. I drank it down. It tasted about as good as the Grain Belt before, not much too it, but the bill was a piece. Holy shit! If I was worried about money I would have been a little stressed at this point, but you read the first part. After he slid my card in the register he hung the long slip of paper in the air-a waste of resources if you ask me-and he asked me to sign at the bottom. A spool of toilet paper unrolled with some print, this was a hyperbole rather than a bill. There were little black dots here and there, apparently numbers which meant something. I couldn’t decipher these etchings in low light. They mattered not likewise.
There must have been gold flakes in that drink because my tab had set me back one tenth of what I started with…. Fuck, I thought. I would have to do this at least ten more times (100 more times we find out later, but who is counting) tonight, and still I had to make it to a job that didn’t pay me in the morning, the serendipitous situation of which befell. Like wow. I sat on the cold red leather barstool by myself and the mirror, signed the tab, tipped 20 percent-to be fair I should have tipped him 30 for dealing with my pitiful ass-and I exited through the front door.
(Let me clarify, when I say one tenth I mean around $100.00 for two drinks. Which means one/one thousandth of what I had to work with. Mathematically I was wrong, and I figured this out after I got over the hangover. Hence one hundred more times tonight.)
I thought of my previous student loans and how I had spent those on CDs, alcohol, and rent, or anything I wanted actually. It was an amazing feeling. Fleeting, but who cares? We will all die some day. Why not live our lives?