I work hard on my checks to the phone company, the utilities, the landlord and those irresponsibly naïve organizations that have entrusted me with credit. God bless their mortal souls. My checks are late and never for the recommended amount but they are works of art. They tell of my condition without irony. I would pay more often if I could—not for as much as is demanded but for as much as is deserved—if only for the joy I take in filling out those little blanks with all the equanimity I can muster. My checks are beautiful babies; like babies they bounce. I use the Memo line to thank recipients for their understanding and to assure them that we are friends despite their neediness. Often an attachment is required. I’ve gotten good results with purple ink. Why is there a space for numbers and a space for words, and why those spaces? Don’t my checks work just as well when I mix them up? I recognize the value of the date. I use it with hope and every due sincerity to indicate the day on which I think I might be bequeathed the amount I’ve detailed elsewhere in numbers and in words. How I would love to be the person whose job it is to open the envelopes that contain these beautiful representations! If ever a person were given the chance to tip the scales of justice to favor the cosmic good I believe receiving one of my checks would deliver me such a chance. But maybe that’s just me. I live in a world where money is a weapon to keep good workers from sniffing their dreams. I can’t expect a clerk to understand an act of pure anarchy. Still. Surely my effort is worth something.

Copyright © January 04. 2008 David Hodges

Advertisements