“Do you have Venmo?” Thomas asked awhile back.
I owed him money. He owed me money. Somebody owed somebody money and the conversation revolved around how this money might be paid back.
“Venmo?” Backwards, the syllables spelled mo-ven, which could mean mo-technology, mo things of which I was uninformed and mo reasons I want to put a pillow over my head and not come out until they’ve changed the sheets.
“It’s an app,” he said.
An app? It wasn’t long ago I didn’t know what an app was and moreover, I was afraid of them. The word was intimidating and required a breezy technological fluency best illustrated by dropping it into a conversation regardless of whether it fit or was relevant.
We learn, we download and we become experts in spite of ourselves. We go kicking and screaming to the altar and come back changed people, confident people and people likely to overestimate their response to the next technological challenge.
“No, I don’t have Venmo.”
You think you have every app but go to bed one night, turn over and over like a rotisserie chicken and by morning, they invented 100 more.
“No, you’d like it,” Thomas said. “It’s handy.”
He was being reassuring in the way that adult children can be. He was saying, “You’re going to be OK, Dad. I believe you have what it takes.”
I had used PayPal, so I had some chops. PayPal is where you order an espresso maker online you don’t need, have room for on your kitchen counter and won't make espresso as good as the espresso you buy in the fancy coffee shops because you didn’t spend enough, it’s not from Italy and doesn’t have as much chrome as a pipe organ. Instead of paying for it on a credit card where you will have to look at it in next month's bill and realize what a fool you are, you run the transaction through PayPal, which takes the money out of your bank account and makes it seem more anonymous and as if somebody else made that purchase.
Turns out PayPal owns Venmo, so I felt as if I were among friends. I downloaded the app, signed up, entered my bank account number and created a username that was either the same as my 10,000 other usernames or different enough that I would never remember it or write it down either because I’ve only written down about half of them. I should have stuck with “Big John,” our first dog, but since Big John is also the answer to one of the three security questions, using him twice becomes untenable.
I looked Thomas up on Venmo, and there he was dressed in a red shirt and I either paid him $150 or he paid me.
That was easy. That was quick. That was satisfying.
Can we do this again? It was like being invited to a party where the host and hostess are as glad to see you, as you, them. Paying or being paid had the feel of a good deed done. When we meet again, we can meet as equals, offer one another a hearty handshake or an affectionate slap on the back and think, "We’re square."
How many times have we heard or said, “I’ll send you a check?”
When? I’m still waiting or perhaps you are too.
Venmo lists recent transactions among friends, siblings and cousins without revealing the dollar amount: “Skye Lucas paid Elizabeth Benham,” “Patty Reis paid Melanie Reis,” and “Brad Merrilll paid (maybe loaned) Olivia Merrill.” I feel like we’ve shared a moment or at least, checked up on one another and found we’re all in this together.
Money is flowing and making people whole. It’s fun. Mo fun is mo better.
November 10, 2020 at 01:38AM
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HERB BENHAM: Give me mo - The Bakersfield Californian
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Herb
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