And no money in our coats

by anna at 10:26 AM on December 28, 2003

I drive my wife crazy with my insistence on carrying around large sums of cash. It's something I inherited from my dad. He ran a restaurant before the prevalence of credit cards. Any cash that came in went directly into his pocket and I mean literally. He once bought me a brand-new car and paid cash.

But sometimes I forget. For Christmas my sister bought us tickets to see The Taming of the Shrew at the Kennedy Center as well as a voucher for a fancy dinner afterwards. Foolishly believing that all was taken care of, I set out for DC with a mere $15 in my wallet. Bad move.

The Kennedy Center is not an easy place to get into. You have to drive way past it, double back and then negotiate a confusing maze of signs that eventually lead(s) to a parking garage. The sign said parking was...$15. My raging paranoia about being caught with no cash set in. I asked the lady if they took Visa. She smiled politely and said, "Uh, no." So I parted with my last dollar.

We picked up the tickets. There was a half hour to kill before the show began. Cash bars were doing a brisk business as well-dressed patrons swilled their vodka and cranberry juice cocktails. Folks snacked on overpriced peanuts and pretzels. We looked on like famished dogs peering through the frosted window of a cheery Christmas morn. I was dying of thirst, but there are no water fountains. I figured I'd drink from the bathroom sink but it's one of those automatic deals that only dispenses hot water. I tried to cash a check and they just said to use the ATM. But of course I don't know my PIN. Bah!

A lone Japanese woman surprised me with her forwardness. She not only asked me to take pictures of her but issued highly specific instructions on the composition. I thought about asking her to buy us a round of drinks in return.

The bistro we chose was only .8 miles from the theater. But Washington isn't laid out in logical square fashion like New York. It was designed by some addled Frenchman on 10,000 mikes of acid. So that .8 miles turned into a harrowing hour of u-turns, near-wrecks, indecision and angry horns beeping at us. By the time we reached our designation a combination of thirst, hunger and frustration had my nerves frayed big-time. Does the restaurant have its own parking? At these prices it should have a freaking valet. But no: There is a shady-looking character with a postage stamp sized lot and a handwritten sign that reads, "Public Parking $8." Bah!

Fortunately my wife puts her change in the ashtray. So there we are, in all our Cristmas-present finery (I got her a fake Chinchilla coat to match her ranch and my mom got me a new camel-hair dress coast,) sifting through this pile of change: 25, 50, 75 cents, a dollar, a dollar ten, a dollar twenty, a dollar twenty five... After about five minutes of this, we determined that we had precisely eight dollars between us. We'd just taken in a show that cost $125. We were getting ready to enjoy a meal that would cost much more than that once the wine was factored in. But the parking guy took our last dime, literally. Bah!

We skulked into the restaurant feeling like paupers in a palace. The coat check lady asked for our coats. I reflexively handed her mine, as did my lovely wife. But it occured to me that we'd have to tip her or else our new coats would be mysteriously lost. I had to go back there and retrieve them for lack of a dollar or two. Bah!

There were four rude yuppies seated next to us. They drowned out our conversation with one of their own. This drunken guy was telling this chick about how his son would nail her daughter in a heartbeat but only with her consent, because he's instilled morality in the boy. He's no date rapist, or so his dad believes. I thought about stealing the stingy cash tip they left.

Of course we got lost again on the way home. There are no gas stations and no one is on the streets of DC. Again, this ain't New York. I spied a homeless man jingling coins in a coffee can. I'm like, dude, I will give him $5 if he will just point me toward one of many bridges leading to Virginia. But my wife reminded me that he had more cash than me. Bah!

So that's my New Year's resolution: Always carry at least $100. And here's to you, dad.