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July 29th, 2002 | by Scott Jennings |I’m a little short on cash right now. Well, the entire month of July has been Short On Cash Month, after I paid the rent and had $100 left in my checking account. I’m pretty proud of myself for surviving four weeks between food and subway fare on $100 — my basic strategy has been to prepare giant pots of simple food and store it in the fridge for when the sudden urges to eat arise. Macaroni and cheese with ground beef, white rice with ground beef and onions and enough Essence of Emeril to make a normal person cry for several reasons, any inexpensive starch cut with some ground beef. Good stuff.
Anyway, that money ran out this week. But the good news was that I had that coaching gig this week that paid a usual coaching honorarium. The bad news was that I was paid with a personal check. I don’t exactly have what you might call an “active checking account” right now, so I had to get the damn thing cashed instead of just dropping it into an ATM. Since I’m Cap’n Lazy, I didn’t even think about trying to cash it until Thursday, when the plan was to swing by the bank in question before heading over to Eli’s Temp Assignment From Hell. Well, it didn’t happen on Thursday, ’cause I’m lazy, and could barely put myself in motion in time to be at work by five. So Friday was the day. I had to be to work by five again, so I hopped on the L train at four, cruised over to Union Square assuming that a branch of the bank in question (hint: rhymes with “Shitty Bank”) would be there. Not seeing one, I walked west on 14th until I hit Fifth Avenue, where I saw on on the corner of 13th. I cruised right in the ATM vestibule, taking off my headphones with one smooth motion as I reached for the door to the office. We all know where this is going. Locked. The branch closed at 4pm. It opened at 10am. It’s open six hours per day. If you need evidence of some sort of corruption or collusion or malfeasance in the banking industry, here you go. It hardly seems possible, yet I should have known better.
Back to the subway station to get downtown. But as I’m walking along 14th, I pass a storefront with a big sign reading “CHECKS CASHED”. Salvation! Surely I can suffer paying a modest fee for the convenience of having spendable cash in my pocket. So again, cruise right in, off go the headphones in one smooth motion. The decor doesn’t inspire as much confidence as the interior of a major bank branch, but as a trained economist, I recognize that banks spend money on opulent decorations to inspire confidence in their depositors and send the message that the institution is financially sound and here to stay; check cashing joints have no such incentive. I head up to the counter, take out the check to be cashed and my New York State non-driver’s ID card, and reach for the pen to endorse the back. Before I can start my awesome signature, the woman asks, “let me see that check before you sign it, sweetheart.” I love being called “sweetheart” by older women, it puts me at ease. So I slide the check under the bulletproof shield, she looks at it, we all know where this is going. They don’t cash personal checks. “Bank only.” It hardly seems possible, yet I should have known better.
Sort of makes the sign that reads “CHECKS CASHED” out front seem a little incorrect, eh? Maybe it should have read “SOME CHECKS CASHED” or “MAYBE WE’LL CASH YOUR CHECK” or something that more accurately describes the business in which they engage. Now, I am a trained economist, so you can skip your explanation of why this is so, since I already understand that the rates that check cashing establishments charge for cashing checks are regulated by the state, and that these rates are set artificially low, so it’s only profitable to cash low-risk checks like payroll checks or government checks, and since a higher proportion of personal checks bounce, they’re bad for business. I’m just saying it’s stupid. I need to get my check cashed after hours, and a business should be able to charge me whatever I’m willing to pay to make that happen. I’m stuck with the check until Monday with no cash, the business doesn’t collect a fee from me, and everyone loses. Bullshit. Fuck the government.
So I spent the weekend paying for things with quarters from my change jar, which I’m sure was adorable in its own way. And I was reminded of all of this when I was perusing my old journal (since nothing entertains me more than reading things that I wrote in the past) and I remembered that Zohar sold me a twenty Euro note from his last trip to France back in January or February or something, and it’s sitting in my bedroom just depicting imaginary buildings and bridges and not doing anyone any good. Damnit! That little blue banknote’s worth $19.76 now, up from the $18 Zohar sold it to me for. A weaker dollar PAYS, baby! I’m gonna go get that shit converted into dead American presidents and actual buildings tomorrow while I’m at the bank.
You know what’s great about pornography? Sometimes they’ll include a scene that’s meant to represent a female character’s fantasy. The camera will zoom in tight on the woman’s face, usually a uptight secretary-type with a severe hairstyle and glasses, she’ll close her eyes, and the shot dissolves into the fantasy sequence. The woman is suddenly dressed in frilly lingerie, her hair is down, the glasses are gone, and there’s a muscular dream man wearing tight jeans and no shirt. But you know what’s great? Even in the woman’s fantasy, there’s still a blowjob.
At the big table in the back of the Peter McManus Cafe after the last Proceed With Honor on Saturday night, I tried to convince Julie Klausner that the study of mathematics is the best way to nurture and develop a superior mind. I made the case that mathematics teaches us to think critically, solve problems systematically, recognize patterns in problems and problem-solving technique, and generally carves the right neural pathways (like I know what that means) and makes the world around us more interesting. Julie granted most of this, but offered that the study of mathematics wasn’t the only way to accomplish these ends. Perhaps. You may be able to accomplish the feeling you get after eating a pizza by going to a cheese shop for mozzerella, a garden for tomatoes, and some sort of pizza dough shop for the crust, or you can go to a pizzeria and get the job done in one stop. Shitty metaphor there. I didn’t use it during the conversation. Nonetheless, I was selling hard, but I don’t think Julie was buying.
Julie also reiterated that I should immediately regrow my hair, but I wanted none of that either. Overall, no one was convinced of anything.
I defeated Will Hines and Joe in a game of Trivial Pursuit earlier this evening. I won by knowing the last name of the character Fran Drescher played on “The Nanny.” I also threw Will Hines for a loop by knowing the full names of the characters played by Mike Myers and Dana Carvey in “Wayne’s World.” (Scott: “Wayne and Garth.” Will Hines: (smugly) “Ah, I believe those characters have last names.” Scott: “All right, Wayne Campbell and Garth Algar.” Joe: “Whoa-ho! He just bitchslapped you there!”) Will Hines lamented that I couldn’t play with his trivia team at a local bar on Wednesday nights. But I don’t think I would join his team even if I could; I’m a lone wolf.
Will Hines also refers to himself as “Will Hines” when referring to himself in the third person. That’s such an awesome detail.
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