Green Party

I was reading today about the U.S. dollar in the investment pages of the paper. The manner in which publications, such as the Wall Street Journal, write about our dollar is never the way I'd write about it. Not that I write about the dollar all that often. In fact, this will be a first.

I'm a U.S. dollar guy, a fan of the buck. In my pocket, right now, there are three of them. They're not in pristine condition. Two are as faded as my Dad's old army blankets, and one is torn at the corner and missing the upper right digit signifying its denomination.

There are four dollars on my bedroom dresser folded over, and one on the floor of my car with a burn stain. It's supposed to be in the ash tray, for emergencies, but fell out. I have a silver dollar in my coin jar on my desk, and a dollar on the piano that got mixed in with my car keys when I pulled them from my jacket pocket and tossed them up there.

That's a grand total of 10 dollars. But I wouldn't trade them for a 10 dollar bill. Making the 10 dollar bill was cheating. I don't believe you can just label one thing 10 things, and thereby make it so. I prefer my 10 things separate.

There are people out there who'd love to see me buy a wallet. My dad passed on that advice quite often while he was alive. But I don't want a wallet. When I get change handed to me at a counter I want to move on and let the next guy in line have a chance to order. Fastest way to do that is to shove the bucks in my pocket and walk. Some people stand and carefully return dollars to their billfold, maybe their change goes into another special container. My uncle had a rubber coin holder that opened when you squeezed the sides. My God, the wait with that guy was interminable. And then his bills had to be folded just so and slipped carefully into his Bald Eagle money clip. He was still at the counter when people behind him started making those coughing sounds.

Of course he wasn't as bad as the woman who damn near balances her checkbook at the counter. She's doing her own personal banking in a line promising "fast food." Write down the amount and check number in your car, lady. The checkout clerk is having to talk over your head to the next customer, who's now paying by reaching over your shoulder.

No, I prefer cash, for its simplicity and speed.

I also like the look. The guy who designed U.S. currency was aiming for a combination of dignity, elegance, mystery and nobility. He got it all. It's not grandiose, yet certainly beyond perfunctory.

I've folded the dollar and turned George Washington's head into a mushroom over a hundred times. I never tire of it. I've played dollar poker with my pals more times than I can count. I've tossed a buck in a tip jar, placed one in the hand of a unkempt bearded fella standing on an exit ramp, and helped a business associate frame one for his wall on the first day he opened his retail store. Every time I held the thing I felt a thrill. It's not an overwhelming thrill. It's an almost imperceptible bit of electricity, coming right from that green ink. Some need a C-note for that feeling. I get it even from the one dollar bill. It's triggered by the texture of the paper itself. Nothing else feels like it. The tactile joy brings with it memories of every great purchase ever made..

Some have more memories with plastic. Their evocative transactions involve a rectangular card with a company logo. God help them. Who knows if anything was truly paid for. An exchange occurred, but it was artificial, and more than a bit suspicious.

When you pay with dollars, you know you've paid. When you're handed change, you know just what it is, what it's for, what it means.

Identity theft? No worries. Theft with dollar bills involves a guy who just wants your money, not your identity. You can tell because he's sticking a gun in your face. You experience it in real time, you don't learn of the theft later. And it's your call, which way to go with his demand. I like that. I know what the guy wants and what the stakes are. Plus, I get to meet him and he me.

I used to talk to bankers about putting my cash there, but they couldn't show me an actual spot inside a vault where my money would be placed, There was no shelf, no drawer. They couldn't promise me it'd be left alone until I needed it. I went back to using my pockets.

Sure, every now and then I lose a buck, but so what? Every now and then I find one. I found one outside the door at work just last month. Some guy, no doubt, reached into his pocket to grab his car keys and inadvertently dragged out a bill in the process. The wind caught it and sent it across the lot to a wall where it mingled with dead leaves and settled below a drain spout. It was beaten up like no bill I'd ever seen. Torn, worn, faded, thin, wispy, barely legal tender. I gave it a home in my car's ash tray. It'll be a special dollar for the bearded fella at the exit ramp. It's in about the same shape he's in. He'll take it and smile, not look at me with the quizzical expression he reserves for folks who hand him their plastic.