Once, when I was broke and in need of cigarettes, I walked to the corner gas station and wrote a check. The check was for 89 cents – not the cheapest pack they had, but the cheapest that didn’t taste like total shit. The gas station attendant glared at me, squinted, and shook his head. Then he took the check. Apparently it cleared; but the next time I went there was a new sign by the register that read NO PERSONAL CHECKS. I thought of that today when I got a royalty check in the mail. The check was for 96 cents – not enough for a cheap pack of cigarettes (anymore) or even a beer. I’d deposit it, but I’m afraid the bank teller will glare and squint, only to laugh about it later in the break room.
