my curious relationship with cash

Apparently how I handle cash is weird, or weird enough that people have seen fit to comment on it on several occasions lately. I've been asked if I'm a cab driver, if I just robbed a bank, if I even own a wallet. Upon pulling up to the Boulevard Drive-In and being asked for 7 dollars, I did what I always do: dug into my pocket, wrapping my hand around the large wad of singles, fives and the rare ten and twenty and unfold them from the bizarre pocket origami they've gotten themselves enmeshed in. After unfolding and seeing if there's any larger bills, I begin pulling singles and stacking them in one hand. The guy at the booth, with cowboy hat and interesting facial hair in equal numbers, instead of getting annoyed (like I likely would have) just said, "Looks like you have the same respect for money I do." And we both laughed.

I do own a wallet. I don't drive a cab. I haven't robbed a bank. There's just something ultimately satisfying about digging into your pocket and producing a thick lump of currency, all stuffed in there indiscriminately and shuffled about by walking, sleeping, sitting and the various other activities that people do. Pulling them out is always a surprise, cause I never know how much cash I have on me until I check the wad, but the magic of the bulk is that there's always enough in there to cover whatever I happen to be buying at that moment. Down to the last dollar. Occasionally I'll end up with a dollar left over, for good luck or something, which I figure is fate giving me the nod that my hobo money situation is just fine with the world at large.