backforthmenu Cash. Three or four all-nighters at work last week to finish the Spring catalogs. Can’t remember how many nights exactly—it makes no sense to write down the hours. No overtime pay. Slept maybe three hours tops on most of the other nights for the last two weeks. Spent the night there a couple nights. Got it done. Finally. Friday was the press check in Commerce—a city, it seems, devoted to printing presses. 1pm. I went, checked one side and found myself faced with an hour and a half of waiting while they changed the plates, turned the sheets over and set it up again. “You eaten yet?” asked my print liason, a man who wears slippery dark suits with collarless shirts and loose gold chains over that. Gold watch on the left wrist, gold bracelet on the other. Wrap around sunglasses. Always chewing gum. Beard. And rings too. “No,” I answered, not wanting to spend any more time than I have to with him. Nothing personal, I was just in no mood to talk, much less, talk shop. “I have a bunch of errands to run, so...” I left. Errands? Food and a breather. Problem; not enough cash money on me. None in the account either. I no longer carry checks since I dropped the size of my wallet (gift). Mastercard and Visa were cut to pieces in a fit of anti-establishment rage—just last week. Ahhh, American Express. Where to pull over, sit, eat, and hang out for almost two hours, in the City of Commerce? Roadside greasy spoon. I sat, ordered a BLT, eat, drink two Cokes. Then a thought crossed my mind; what if they didn’t take American Express? Total due: $8.05. The waitress was nice, and new, so I left her $2, all the cash I had. I didn’t really want to leave yet—I still had an hour to go—but I had to shit and I had my backpack with me. Couldn’t leave it at the table... The bathroom. I go into the handicap stall and sit down. Clean. A plaque on the wall opposite me spells out the just how clean; THIS RESTROOM IS CLEANED AND SANITIZED EVERY DAY. I proceeded to destroy the place with sound, then stink. Someone came in before I finished. They were whistling... for a while. Then they got real quiet. And left. I left. Cashier; “I’m sorry, we don’t take American Express.” I was unshaven. Sloppy. I gave him my ATM card. I already knew what was going to happen. Denied. I skipped groveling and just left my backpack for collateral. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.” First stop, Wells Fargo bank about five minutes away. The line was insane. I waited patiently and frankly, surprised myself for not freaking out—though a large black woman at a window to the far left did. “DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?!” she yelled at the window teller. I then realized most of the people in line were Latino. A few chuckled at her question. “Next.” I quickly assessed my teller. She looked nice enough, but would she help me? Please let her help me... “Can I get a cash advance with my American Express?” She had a large mole above her lip, her black hair looked wet—I believe this is what the girls are going for these days. I was unshaven. Sloppy. “I don’t think so, let me check.” Not a good sign. She came back; “No, sorry.” “What about my Wells Fargo Visa—only... I don’t have it with me.” I imagined the cut-up pieces in the bottom of a trash can. “Do you know the number?” at this point I realize she is not one bit interested in helping me. “Is it hooked to your account?” “Yeah, here’s my.... account...” I dug though my new, little wallet, “...number.” and handed her a wadded up deposit slip. She turned to her computer and hit a few keys on the keyboard. “You’re $542 overdrawn, sir.” I could barely hear her through the super thick, bullet-proof plexiglas. She made a weak attempt to turn her monitor towards me to prove it. Heat rushed to my face when I realized where this day was headed. I gave her a half-hearted thank you and left quickly, my mind working out the next scheme. Let’s see... gas station. I’d gas up and get a some cash back with the purchase. Yes! “I’m sorry man, I can’t do that. Can’t give you cash back. Do you have an ATM card?” I gave it to him though, again, I already knew what was going to happen. Why did I hand it to him? Because this guy really wanted to help me. Shit. Now what? A department store a block away. Yes, I could surely get a cash advance there. I checked the door for an AmEx sticker. Accepted. I was in. What do I buy? I walked to the camera counter, I needed Polaroid film. No help around. I waited. There was a dinger bell on the counter. Did I use it? No. I waited a little more and I was about to leave when the P.A. sparked to life with a crackle; “CAN WE GET SOMEONE OVER TO THE CAMERA COUNTER.” Someone came. “Can I have three packs of the Spectra Polaroid film.” “Which one is dat?” I pointed. They searched dumfounded. “To the left... yeah, right there. Just to the left. Left. YEAH THOSE.” “Here you go sir, pay at da registers.” The registers. I put the film down. I put my AmEx down. I looked the teller in the eye, “Can I get $20.00 over?” The woman looked back at me, cocked her head, “Oh no sir, we can’t give cash back on American Express...” and pointed to a hand-made sign just over her head. NO CASH BACK ON AMERICAN EXPRESS Back at the restaurant I explained to the manager that I lived nowhere near Commerce and I promised to come back the following day with cash. (pause) “Okay, just leave me your drivers’ license.” (pause) “But I need that to drive back to San Pedro.” I point in the general direction. “Ahhh...” “How about my American Express? And a business card?” I returned the next day. The manager wasn’t there and my card was locked in his office. I payed the previous days check and asked them to please mail the card back to me. Two days later, the green plastic card arrived via mail with a nice hand-written letter from the manager himself and a customer satisfaction form for me to fill out. I marked everything “yes,” sent it back, and vowed to always carry cash. 1/31/98