My View From the cheap seats

I have begun to suspect that money is no longer real.

I don’t mean that in the deep, philosophical sense, though I’m sure someone on the internet has a podcast about it. I mean it in the practical, old-fashioned, I can hold this in my hand and accidentally leave it in my jeans pocket sense. Money used to be something you could fold, crinkle, misplace, and then rediscover in the washing machine like a small financial miracle.

There was a time when you paid your debts with paper bills. Real ones. You bought a newspaper with coins and felt like you were participating in the economy. You dropped pennies into an old jar on the dresser, convinced they would somehow multiply if left alone long enough. We didn’t know how interest worked, but we trusted the jar. The jar had wisdom.

Money made noise back then. It jingled. It clanked. You could tell how much you had just by the weight of your pocket. If your pants sagged, you were either broke or doing pretty well. Sometimes both.

Then came checks.

Checks weren’t money, exactly, but they felt official. You wrote them carefully, using a pen you trusted, because this was serious business. You spelled out the amount, just in case numbers couldn’t be believed on their own. You balanced a checkbook, which was a monthly math test designed to remind you that confidence and accuracy are not the same thing.

The bank would send you your canceled checks, neatly bundled, as proof that yes, you really did pay the phone bill in April. You kept them in a drawer, because throwing them away felt irresponsible, even if you had no idea what you were saving them for.

Then online banking arrived, quietly and efficiently, and checks faded away. Bills were paid with a mouse click. The checkbook went into a drawer with old instruction manuals, expired warranties, and keys to cars you no longer owned. Money became something you looked at instead of something you touched.

And now, here we are.

I can walk into a coffee shop, order a Café Mocha that costs more than lunch used to, and pay by tapping my phone against a little glowing box. No wallet. No cash. No sound. It feels less like paying and more like politely agreeing that the coffee should be mine.

If I owe a buddy $20, I don’t hand him a bill anymore. I send it through an app. He might be three hours away, and it doesn’t matter. The money moves instantly and silently, like it was never really there to begin with. We don’t even say “thanks.” We say, “Got it,” which sounds more like a medical update than a financial transaction.

You can now live your entire life without touching actual money. You can earn it, spend it, save it, and lose it, all without once hearing a coin hit a countertop. Money has become polite. It doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t wrinkle your clothes. It doesn’t even leave fingerprints.

This is all very convenient. It’s efficient. It’s modern. It works beautifully.

Right up until the power goes out.

Then suddenly, your phone is just glass. The card reader is just plastic. The screen says, “No Signal,” which is modern language for “You’re on your own, buster.” Cashiers stare at registers like archaeologists confronting ancient ruins. And somewhere, in a dusty jar on a dresser, a handful of pennies finally get their moment to shine.