Currency

When a creative writer starts thinking about economics...

 

            It was another grey sky on another grey day, and the only thing that made it worth getting out of bed was the fact that it was payday. Nothing’s better than that feeling of a wallet full of bills nestled securely in my pocket. Some may have their credit cards or their checks, but green is my favorite color. Quite frankly I’ve never trusted banks, which is why I always have my checks cashed. You never know what they’re doing with all their figures and accounts; one guy forgets to carry a one and suddenly I’m broke. It’s not a risk I want to take. At least if my cash goes missing I’ll have something to look for.

            Now I’ve never been a morning person, but this morning was different. As I strode into work, the marble floor stretched out before me like that of a Roman palace. I was Caesar, but today the ides of March held no threat for me. I walked in briskly and took my place. The mahogany desk, nice as it was, wasn’t exactly a throne fit for the emperor I was; I quickly remembered my place as the servus I was. The procession of customers began the instant 9:00 struck. I thought the day would never end, the hands of the clock rotated with a speed that called mountains more to mind than wheels. Finally though, the clock fell to 5:00 and I was free. I retrieved my paycheck and went to exchange it for my hard earned green.

            So with my wallet fuller, and my outlook a little brighter, I stepped out of the bank. Just as my shoes hit the pavement, the first drop of rain hit my face. Isn’t it just like life? You’re in a good mood, and suddenly you’re all wet. Ah well, there’s an easy solution to any problem: the right store, the right item, and the proper allocation of currency. The convenience store on the corner, an umbrella, and about $7.50; I did the presidential roll call when I reached the register, “Franklin, Franklin, Franklin, Grant, Hamilton? Come on guys, Jackson?” To my chagrin, I passed a fifty-dollar bill to the cashier, and apologetically explained I had nothing smaller. I double counted my change, it was all there, And walked back out into the pouring rain.

            “Jus’ hand over the wallet and walk away,”

Something about that small unfamiliar, but very easily identifiable pressure, in one’s back will make one very susceptible to persuasion. This just wasn’t a day I was going to let be ruined by some riff raff,

“Es tu Brute?” I smiled wickedly to myself.

“What the f**k?  Now give me the money.”

I could tell I had caught him off guard by the perplexed tone in his question. I felt justified in taking full advantage of his confusion. My right hand slowly reached for my wallet as I turned to face my collector. Meanwhile my left arm raised my newly purchased umbrella to strike…

There was a sudden jolt.

*            *            *

When I came around I was slightly startled to find I hadn’t been shot. I was fine: my umbrella, my wits, and best of all, my wallet were all present. I looked around, a little dazed, and saw no sign of my would-be attacker. The rain had stopped completely, the air, my clothes, and even the pavement were bone dry as I resumed my walk back home. I thought I must have taken a wrong turn because the city started looking less and less familiar as I walked.

I thought I’d stop off for dinner, since I’m sure I was already late. My wife never appreciated all the extra money I was bringing in, choosing instead to bite my head off every time I put in an extra hour or three. I’d be in enough trouble for being late, never mind having to go through the kitchen drama as well. So I went into a shabby-looking deli and ordered a simple ham sandwich. Why waste good money on food when I’m in a hurry?

“That’ll be $12.37.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! Is the bread made of gold?! Lucky for you I’ve got no time to argue, here”

Slowly, grudgingly, I reached into my wallet, sorted the bills, and handed the kid a twenty.

“What in hell are you tryin’ to pull? Either you pay me, or get out. I haven’t got time to deal with this s**t.”

He was ridiculously rude, but I couldn’t blame him too much. Anyone would be unhappy if they were shackled into food service servitude.

“I don’t need to counterfeit my money. This is legal. So just take it. You’re already robbing me with these prices.” I was fuming.

“I ain’t never seen that stuff before, and in any case I need money, not pieces of paper. I’ll swipe your card for you if it’s too difficult for ya.” He indicated the credit card pin pad.

I was ready to walk out the door when a strange hand touched my shoulder. It was cold, despite my clothes, it was cold enough to cause me distinct discomfort. I knew as soon as I saw the fingerless glove, when I turned around an apparently homeless man greeted me.

“Here, it’s on me,” he said as he pushed me lightly aside and slid a card through the pad. The deli clerk handed me my sandwich with a look of pure contempt for both me and my new associate.

I offered him half of my sandwich, “Here, you paid for it.”

“No, no, think nothing of it.”

“No. I insist. Here, eat.”

“No really,” he smirked at me, “It’s literally nothing.” He pulled a very expensive looking touch screen phone out of one grubby pocket and started pushing buttons rapidly.

“Follow me, and I’ll explain.”

He led me outside the deli, where we sat inside of a neglected bus stop shelter. He looked at me gravely, his deep-set eyes piercing my very soul.

“I don’t know where you got the cash, but it’s worthless here.”

“Cash? …Worthless?” I was dumbfounded.

He laughed quietly; he seemed to enjoy my pain at this discovery.

“Some years ago economists like myself started noticing that the majority of people were using credit cards and electronic banking most of the time. Finally we realized that more money was being spent on the production of paper money, than was being actively circulated. It was decided that currency had, quite frankly, lost its currency in the market. It was a thing of the past. Sure a few people still favored cash in those days, but they were distinctly the minority, and soon enough all their “hard-earned” money became useless. Businesses and banks switched to 100% electronic cash registers. What was left of the cash was given to the homeless by most of the poor fools who had still hung on to it. It made everyone feel very philanthropic for a week or two; there were cheery front page articles about how people had become so much more giving, but the truth was, even the homeless had no use for the money but to burn it to keep warm.”

“Wait a minute! You were an economist?!”

“Yes, I was. Money was my entire life, but I’m much better off now, without it.”

“Better off?”

“I was an economist. Now I’m the Economist. When the changeover occurred, everyone was terribly excited about the future. They believed that without paper money there would be no more bank robberies, no more muggings. Their money was safe in its imaginary existence. If there’s no physical item, what’s to be stolen?”

“But credit cards are stolen all the time. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Of course not. Credit cards are the most secure things in the universe, with all the new security devices, retinal identification, PINs, fingerprinting, you name it. Its not as if anyone has ever been able to work around computer security; that’s where I come in, the Economist; it was I who spread the techniques of shadow banking to the masses. It was a couple friends at first, but you know: they tell two friends, then they tell two et cetera et cetera…”

Again he laughed, there was something deeply sinister about him, “Turning water into wine? Child’s play. But making money from nothing: therein lies the challenge.

I couldn’t answer with anything more intelligent than a blank stare.

“Physical money will be safe because it won’t exist, but electronic money? It’s the easiest thing to steal in the universe. You don’t have to worry about security guards with guns, security cameras plastering your face across the television, none of that mess. Any two-bit hacker can figure it out. A few cents here, a few dollars there…”

Something just didn’t sit right with me here, “Wait, ‘will’? What are you talking about?”

He again drew the cell phone out of his pocket, this time purposefully showing me his work, “and voila! Your sandwich is paid for. A few more buttons, and this nice little device is paid off, and completely unrecorded in the phone company’s system.”

“But that’s just theft!” My head was spinning.

“Au contraire, how can one steal something that doesn’t actually exist? Credit cards used to represent actual dollars, much like dollar bills were a representation of the gold that backed it. Why else would we have put so much worth in pieces of nicely colored paper? After a while the gold backing fell away and the paper simply became habit. Just as now: even the paper no more than worthless kindling; and there’s nothing left but the numbers.”

“That may be, but you’re still spending money, in whatever form, that doesn’t belong to you. You’re a thief.”

“Think of it this way: currency has become obsolete. In the past, you could get away with using paper in place of gold because the gold was so recent in people’s minds, but now the surrogate has been replaced again- With nothing.”

He paused his diatribe long enough for a couple of suits to walk by. They shot disgusted looks at me, a respectable looking man, listening to the ravings of a hobo. Once they passed he resumed, “The proletariat, if you will, thanks to my teaching them all that I’ve taught you, will know that money is worthless. Only the banks and corporations, whose sole purpose is to keep their numbers up, will still put any faith in their system. And why shouldn’t they? The global economy will never been better. Prices will keep going up, and people will keep paying it. They’ll be making their own money over and again, and never be the wiser. As long as the stocks keep rising they’re happy. As long as we get what we need from them, we’re happy.”

“If everyone knows that money is worthless, as you say, how do they deal between one another? What do you bet in poker?” If I had been Caesar, this guy was Nero.

He laughed derisively, as one does at a 5-year-old repeatedly asking “why?”

“it makes no difference. When the financial system finally collapses, people use their natural talents and skills: simple bartering. It’s all laid out so neatly. People are so predictable, and so easily manipulated. This is the future I will create, and all thanks to this little gadget.”

Like a commissioned salesman, he eagerly handed me the device whose limitless features he had just demonstrated to me. I held this alien piece of technology as if I had expected it to at any moment sprout teeth and legs, and devour me. All of this had come as quite a shock of course. I had spent my life in pursuit of money and material things: Persian carpets, ; the irony is that my material lust might have helped save this horrifying future I beheld.

“When in Rome, I suppose; even if Rome is burning… But how do I use this torch you’ve given me?”

“The tutorial is all set up and ready, and besides I can help you out with anything you need. It won’t be much longer yet, but I’m sure you’ve got the skills and everything necessary to survive the coming collapse. It’s the bourgeois who still play the money game I almost feel sorry for. Their safety nets and economics degrees are all going to disintegrate and they’ll be left at the mercy of the people they’ve spent their lives abusing. I can hardly wait. So what is it you do? Or rather, what did you do?”

“I am, err, was, a banker myself.”

He purred, “Perfect… just perfect. You couldn’t have come along at a better time.”

“A better time for what? I haven’t followed a single word you’ve said yet.”

Suddenly, the city vanished from beneath my feet, and I found myself standing on the dusty streets of Ancient Rome. It was indeed burning. Flames leapt from the windows of the stone buildings. Columns crumbled, the rubble piling around the bottoms. On the floor of the forum, I noticed a great mosaic of Cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell.

Violin music called my attention back to where my hobo had been.  Now a man with a dark suit and jet-black van dyke beard stood in the same spot. He smiled wryly, “You’re not as dumb as I thought, after all. You’ve worked it out. Welcome to Hell.”

It finally made sense, the jolt that brought me here, the unseasonable cold, I must have been killed by that mugger. I never believed in god, or heaven or any of that, but I had a feeling I’d end up here sooner or later. I’d just been hoping it’d be later rather than sooner.

“So this is hell. What? No torture, no fire and sulfur? No eternity of torment?”

“No, I have much bigger plans than that. Your eternity will come, but for now I’ve a proposition for you.”

He again presented his strange touch screen device, “You need answer with only your thumb print, yes or no. If you agree, I will send you back to the land of the living, where you will invent and distribute this device, this infernal phone. You will make billions in the first month. Do this for me, and your untimely death shall be undone.’

I didn’t hesitate for even a second before pressing the pad of my thumb to the “yes” square. The promise of life, and money was one I couldn’t pass up. It was a deal with the devil, but what’s the worst that could happen? Hell?

There was another flash.

*            *            *

 This time I distinctly felt the bullet traveling backwards out of me, and heard it clink as it bounced onto the pavement. I took a couple minutes to get back up to my feet. It was raining again, but rather than use my recently purchased umbrella, I simply relished the feeling of the warm rain on my face. I tossed the umbrella to a nearby homeless man. I was alive. Things were going to be different.

The next day I got up around 11:00, it was nice to sleep in and not worry about a job hanging over my head. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I noticed the sinister device lying idly on my bedside table. “Why not?” I thought. I got dressed, slid it into my pocket, and stepped outside into the midday sun.

            I walked into the patent office, which was little more than a bare concrete cell containing one forlorn receptionist.

            “Hi there. I’m not sure what the procedure is, but I have an invention I’d like to patent.”

            I was informed that I’d have to have some sort of schematic in order to get a patent. Engineering was never one of my strong points, so obviously schema were not something I had access to. I could have sold it directly to some sort of technology oriented company, and let them figure it out, but I just didn’t have enough faith in any of those sharks.

Instead, I decided that it was better no one should have it, if I couldn’t sell it myself. So walking home, I ducked into a long neglected alley and buried the sinister device in a dumpster, so that no one should find it until it was incinerated. Problem solved; I wouldn’t make any more money, but at least I could hold on to the money I already had.

Life resumed its normal flow. The only thing that bothered me was the nagging feeling that the bum at the dumpster looked somehow familiar…