Never let it be said that I am some sort of Luddite. Yes, I have a taste for vintage this and retro that. Were I offered the choice between a new Tesla 3 and an impeccably restored 1962 MGA 1600 Mk II, I wouldn’t think twice: I’d buy the roadster and pocket the change.
Which, counterintuitively, brings me to the proof of my thorough modernity. Just as I have never had an impeccably restored 1962 MGA 1600 Mk II — were I tweeting, this is where a frowny face emoji would go — I now never have any pocket change. In best modern fashion, I carry no cash at all. My every transaction is managed by credit or debit. Sometimes I even Venmo.
The cashless society has obvious advantages. One is that change no longer piles up. Remember when you would come home and empty your pockets of pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters? Most of us had empty mayonnaise jars filled with coins. It wasn’t that long ago that supermarkets introduced a whiz-bang technology by which you could pour out your mayonnaise jar as if you were in a casino counting room. But my, how quickly new technologies are rendered obsolete. My grocery store still has a coin-counting machine, but it’s dusty from disuse. Given the ubiquity of card transactions, nobody has anything to put in their mayo jars anymore.
Which presents some problems. For example, passing a beggar sitting on a rain-slick sidewalk, dripping wet on a drizzly day, I would normally have dug out the change in my pocket and dropped it in his cup. No great act of charity, but enough not to feel callous. But now I have no change. So what is there to do? There’s an opportunity I guess for a hip new charity to provide the homeless with card-swipers.
However, I would recommend against what I did recently. As I was about to step into a Starbucks, I was asked for a cup of coffee by a panhandler. This being a gesture that would require no cash or coin, I said “sure.” But instead of waiting for me to bring the coffee out to him, my panhandling pal walked in on my heels and began ordering a smorgasbord of fancy drinks and pricey pastries.
“Two regular drip coffees,” I had said.
“And a chocolate croissant —”
“I’m not paying for that.”
“— and a venti chestnut praline latte —”
“I’m not paying for that.”
“— and a grande almond milk caramel macchiato with extra foam —”
“I’m not paying for that.”
He had clearly done this before because he knew the intricate ordering routine for the most elaborate and expensive drinks. But having seen it all before, the lady working the cash register crossed her arms, raised an eyebrow and asked me, “Are you buying all that?” When I said “no,” she swiped my card for one cup of coffee and handed me cup and card with a look that said, “Go get yourself back on the turnip truck.”
The lack of cash proves a problem in taking care of those worthier as well. Washington events often include free valet parking. It’s customary and reasonable to give a few bucks to the guy who returns your car without having scraped the quarter-panel against a concrete pillar. Many have been the parties where I’ve found myself panhandling among my fellow guests, begging someone to lend me a couple of dollars so I could retrieve my car without embarrassment. But, of course, none of the partygoers have any cash on them either.
I guess this means I should shun the valet and park myself on the street. If only I had quarters, I could feed the parking meters. They take credit cards, of course, but the odds of finding a meter or parking-chit machine in the District of Columbia that actually has a functioning card reader are something like the chances someone is going to offer me a choice between a new Tesla or a 1962 MGA 1600 Mk II.
Eric Felten is the James Beard Award-winning author of “How’s Your Drink?”
