When I left on this trip I took a decent amount of cash with me, which I always keep in my wallet (right hip pocket for you pickpockets out there). I took about $600 in twenties, the rest in hundred dollar bills. Although people talk about this being a cashless society, it is not. You cannot charge everything. You need money for tips, incidentals, for the kids, for purchases when the credit card machine doesnt work, and for places that don't take credit cards, like every Greek restaurant on the planet. If you have kids and you have ever been on vacation, you know you are spitting out cash faster than an ATM.
Unfortunately, the largest practical denomination of currency in this country, despite the devaluation of the dollar over time, is the twenty dollar bill. I don't understand it, but it is true. Nobody likes fifties because they look like twenties. Even I don't like fifties because if I don't have my glasses on they look like twenties. Hand the clerk a fifty for a $17 purchase, and he will invariably hand you back $3 change, whether he knows it is a fifty or not. "I gave you a fifty" you point out. "A thousand pardons, my friend" he quickly says as he gives you the other $30 he was hoping to steal.
The hundred dollar bill might as well be foreign currency, or a savings bond. Whip one of those Franklins out in most places and the clerk will turn ashen. If you have a $100 bill, you must be a drug dealer. Or it is counterfeit. Or it will render their business illiquid if they give you change for it. If they will accept it, they have to rub a brown crayon all over it first to make sure it doesnt have AIDS or something. It's ridiculous. First of all, and sad to say, $100 is not a lot of money anymore. So what's the problem? When I was young I saw a guy pay a gambling debt with ten $1,000 bills (Grover Clevelands). That was huge money then. They should make $1,000 bills now, which would be the $100 bill of yesteryear. But they are long extinct.
I am carrying all those hundreds because to carry an equivalent amount in twenties, my wallet would look like a softball. So the plan is, they are for emergencies and I will refill my wallet with twenties at any of the thousands of conveniently located ATMs throughout this great country.
If any of you are looking to change careers, or are looking for a business opportunity that is recession- proof, here it is: ATM repairman. Because everywhere I go on this trip, when I need to obtain twenties from the ATM, either the ATM is Out of Service, with a hand written sign proudly stating so, or it cannot read my ATM card, meaning it is also out of service, but no one knows or cares.
Yesterday morning we were leaving Brian Head, Utah. Before we left, Connie went to breakfast at the hotel with Fiona and Neil. I loaded the van with Owen. She asks me if I want anything. I say "two ham and eggs sandwiches on toast to go". We get the van loaded finally and they come out and get in the car. "Here is your bagel" she says. My mouth has been watering for a ham and egg on toast. "I wanted ham and egg sandwiches!" I protest. She says "They don't make them."
Obviously Connie has never seen Five Easy Pieces and the scene with Jack Nicholson in the diner. It would be very easy to get ham and egg sandwiches from this restaurant in Brian Head. You just have to walk them through it after the sandwich request is denied:
"Do you have ham and eggs then?"
"Yes. How would you like your eggs?"
"Over easy. Can I get that with toast?"
"Yes. White or wheat?"
"Wheat. Can you put the egg on top of one of the pieces of toast?"
"Uh, sure."
"And the ham on top of the egg?'
"Okay."
" One more request, I don't mean to be a pain here. But then could you put the other slice of toast on top of the ham?"
"Sure, okay."
"You got any waxed paper in the back?"
Anyway, Connie won't harrass people like this so I am out of luck, for there is no time for me to go into the restaurant and do this, much as I would enjoy it. As a consolation she tells me "There is an ATM in the lobby."
This is great news because I am in need of 20 dollar bills. I never noticed it. "Where is it?" I ask. She tells me it is in a niche around the corner from the front desk.
I go inside and there it is, in a confessional booth where you would never find it unless you were hunting for it. I put in my card but it will not read it. I try it fast, then slow. I then try the three other orientations that the card will go in the slot. "Card error try again" is always the response.
I go around the corner five feet to the front desk and ask Lance or whatever his name is whether the ATM is broken. "I hope not!" he says overdramatically and races out to see what the problem is. He takes my card, swipes it once and the machines blinks into action. Must be in the wrist.
The machine asks me what language I am, English or Espanol, and then I have to check the box that says I agree to their $2.50 fee for this service. I say "I do" and we are off to the races.
The machine displays a screen that says: Check how much you would like to withdraw: $10, $20, $30, or Enter Different Amount. I am thinking en Espanol :"Are you chitting me?" I push Enter Different Amount.
"Enter the Amount You Would Like" says the ATM. I enter: $500. The screen says: "Request Invalid. Enter Any Amount in $10 Increments Up To $200."
I say a very bad word too loudly. This panics Lance, unseen on the other side of the confessional. "Is everything all right sir?" I mutter yes and pocket the crummy 200 bucks, cursing the 1.25% vigorish I had to pay the thieving maching. I vow to conserve these precious twenties.
We had a fabulous drive all day- 560 miles down a narrow two lane backtop through the mountains and valleys with hardly anyone on the road. I stop for lunch and gas in Ely, Nevada. It is one of the few gas stations on this route so whoever is on the road, is here. There are two formica tables inside and a sandwich counter so Connie takes the kids inside for lunch. Neil wants to check the air filter since we went through a big dust storm in the Wah Wah Valley. I try to operate the pump. My fuel card requires a driver ID and the odometer to be entered on the keypad at the pump. The machine reads my card and then asks me for Driver ID. But the keypad is unresponsive- I can't enter it. I try a credit card but the machine wants the Driver ID and declares my attempt to use a different credit card invalid. I can't cancel the transaction because the keypad doesn't work. I stubbornly try everything. Finally, I trudge inside and explain all of this to the girl behind the counter. I leave her my fuel card. Connie asks me what I want to eat and I tell her. I go back outside. A bunch of motorcyclists are waiting for a pump to free up. But since Neil is taking apart the engine they assume the van has some problem and that is why it has been sitting here for ten minutes already. The tank is nearly empty and it takes a while to fill up.
I go to pay for the gas and she hands me a key pad. "Enter Vehicle Number" it says. No machine ever asks this. I enter my Driver ID instead, figuring that is what it wants. Then it says "Enter Driver ID". I now know this transaction is doomed, but I enter it anyway. "Enter Odometer". I enter that and wait while the machine thinks it over. Finally the girl says "Invalid Vehicle Number". I tell her I don't have a vehicle number. She advises me that this is part of the approval procedure. I hand her a different credit card. Her machine will not read it. This is the third problem she has had with me. "Do you have any cash?" she asks. I pull out a hundred. She doesn't trust me by now and shakes her head. I reluctantly fork over three of the twenties I had vowed to protect. I turn around to see how the sandwiches are coming. The sandwich girl is preparing them with the care of a mosaic craftsman, and at the same pace. I have hundreds of miles to go. I take a deep breath.
Everything goes great until about 325 miles later when I need gas again. I pull into an Arco in Carson City, two blocks down from the State Capitol building. There is nothing on the pump to feed my card into. Instead, it instructs me to visit a central automatic kiosk. I go to the kiosk, which looks like it will take cash or cards. I enter my pump number, then insert my card. It cannot be read, of course. I try a different one. It cannot be read. Meanwhile Connie and the kids all scramble for candy and bathrooms.
I go inside to the counter. "My card won't work" I tell one of the two ladies there. "Is it a credit card?" she asks. I tell her yes. "We aren't set up for credit cards- only debit cards or cash". Who carries debit cards? Arent they for people who are trying to repair their credit or something? I tell her this is the most insane thing I have heard of. She tells me there is a Shell station five blocks in the wrong direction that takes credit cards. But retreat is not in my creed, plus the family has scattered. I hand her a $100 bill. "We can't make change for a hundred" she says. "How do you know I won't buy $100 worth of gas?" I plead. "Can't do it- it's our policy".
So three more twenties vacate my wallet. I have now lost 6 of my 10 expensive notes purchased only this morning. I go outside and fill the van. $58.08- good guess. While I am filling it I read the signage on the kiosk and it says it accepts cash, debit cards, and ATMs. I curse myself for not having read it before.
When I am finished I go inside and tell the second lady I want to pay for my gas with my ATM. She asks me how I pumped it in the first place. I tell her I handed the other lady a $60 cash deposit. They tell me unison that it is too late; that this has been recorded as a cash transaction and it is impossible to undo. It's like a tattoo.
I get my buck ninety two in change and I think- there are casinos up and down this street. They must have an ATM here in the station that has high limits. Probably it will give me a thousand in twenties. I ask the lady hopefully "Do you have an ATM here?"
She shakes her head. "It's broken."
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I love reading this - you should publish it!!!
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