P.I.N.

Ted Craver was sixty years old, a Vietnam veteran, and perhaps the
first senior citizen to be gazing at the rap albums in a Sam Goody
store after eight o'clock.

He'd been browsing for a good half hour, his reading glasses perched on
his pocked nose, a yellow sticky note in his right hand. His wife's
handwriting was clear and legible: "M &; M. The Marshal Mathers LP.
Jimmy says its rap."

Begging off any help from the clerks, Ted figured he could easily find
the CD and escape before the situation became unbearable. It already
felt as strange as it looked-he felt the eyes upon him from both the
two members of the staff and the pack of teenagers who were flipping
through the posters. The kids had rainbow hair, pants big enough for a
weight loss infomercial, and cast whispery snickers that even his
failing hearing could pick up. He knew that more than a few were caused
when he held up albums, squinting to identify them as large black men
drenched in diamonds flashed their gold teeth on the cover.

The first delay was caused by Ted gazing at the DVD area, and he
browsed for several minutes, only realizing when he picked up "The
Mothman Prophecies" that he was looking at movies. Casually making his
way to the CD area, Ted had looked up and down the "M" section and
there wasn't one sign of any rapper named M &; M.
One of the clerks walked by, his pitch-black hair intentionally
gel-fried to stick up as far as possible. He wore a seashell necklace
and carpenter jeans, his face spackled with acne. An ID card hung from
his neck, bearing a photo and the name Jason.

"Closing in a few minutes sir. You sure there isn't anything I can help
you with?"

Ted figured he'd looked stupid long enough. "I think so . . . stopped
in to pick up a CD for my grandkid, but I can't seem to find it. M
&; M ring a bell?"

Jason gave a chuckle. "Rings all kinds of bells. He's pretty hot right
now, but he doesn't spell his name like the candy. It's right over here
in the . . . . E's." His fingers danced over the CD's like piano keys
until he located the correct one. "Here you go."

Ted took the album from him and examined it through his glasses.

"Eminem. You don't say. You're telling me people can't even spell their
initials right nowadays?"

"Guess not. I can get you right over here."

Clutching the album, Ted shuffled over the register, just in time to
see the pack of teens depart-the final customers in the store. They
laughed all the way out. Ted just knew it was at his expense.

"Do you have a replay card sir?"

Ted stared at him, dumbfounded. "All's I got is this card." He put his
FNB debit card on the counter.

"A replay card earns you points and gift certificates when you use it,
and when you sign up, it automatically saves you five bucks. So right
now, you're total is 18.43, but if you fill out the replay form, you
save the five bucks, so it's a pretty good deal."

"Hopefully, that card'll do. It's past my bedtime you know."

"So you don't want it?"

"Yeah."

"Ummm. . . . yeah you want it or yeah you don't want it?"

"I don't want it," Ted said, tapping his foot. He wanted to leave in
the worst way.

Jason picked up the debit card and slid it through the scanner. They
waited in complete silence as the register dialed out.

"OK sir, you just need to put your PIN number in here." Jason pointed
to a numeric pad that Ted hadn't noticed before.

"Hmmm . . ." Ted surveyed the pad, eyes narrowed in concentration. He
had no idea what his PIN was. Carmella, his wife, took care of most of
the shopping, and was the only one who had it memorized. He punched in
four random numbers.

"OK sir . . . says that PIN was no good. You'll have to try it
again."

"Sorry to say it, but I don't know the number. I forgot it."

"Would you like to pay some other way?"

"There isn't any other way. If I try and get cash from an ATM they lop
three bucks that ain't theirs right off the top. People don't take
checks anymore without a blood sample. This is all you people have let
me have, and now I can't use it without a number?"

"It's a debit card sir. It requires a PIN for me to process the
transaction. Some cards let me process as credit, but not this one.
Sorry." Jason kept his eyes on the register, afraid to look. The lack
of eye contact was mutual as Ted looked down at the counter, palming
his wallet, simmering at the thought of wasting an embarrassing half
hour for nothing.

"OK, you're into cards. Here's a card for you. It's my ID. It says that
my name is Ted Craver, and that's the name on that FNB card. You know
it's me, and I know the money is in there. It's thirty minutes for me
to drive to town, and my grandkid's birthday is tomorrow, so please, do
whatever you have to do. There's something you guys can do, isn't
there?"

"There's nothing I can do if you don't have the PIN."

"You can call the bank. I swear the money is in there."

"Bank's closed, and it doesn't matter if it were open, we can't operate
the transaction that way."

"OK, let me give my wife a call. I think she knows the PIN."

"That would work . . . but I can't let you use the phone. Business use
only."

"This is business, isn't it? You're trying to help a customer?"

"Our policy is to refer you to the payphone outside, and we're
officially closed right now anyway. Once you leave, I'm required to
lockup."

"This is ridiculous," Ted said, his anger gaining momentum. "I think I
need to speak to the manager."

"I am the manager," Jason said. His tone was cold and spiteful.

"Old man annoying you, eh?"

"It's not like that sir."

"It is like that. I've gone from fingerprints to dogtags to signatures
and now, even when I give you my ID and a card that I know is good, you
can't do nothing? Anything? Is that all I am, all anyone is, is four
numbers? 'Cause I'm not four numbers. I'm Ted Craver, and I might not
be good for much, but I damn well know I'm good for eighteen dollars
and forty-three cents."

"I can hold the album for you sir. You can come back tomorrow. That's
about the best I can do for you. Sorry."

"Some managing job your doing. I thought the customer was always right.
You're the manager . . . makes me laugh. You manage anything around
here? You're managing to make me pretty damn angry, that much I'll tell
you. You ever hear of respect? There's a reason this Eminem fellow has
the freedom of speech he does. A reason you can wear fag jewelry and
play doctor with your girlfriends and not worry. That reason is guys
like me, and you won't let me spend money I've earned on a product in
your store? You can't make an exception? Hell, write down my name and
address and I'll pay you next time I come through town."

"Listen sir, I've been really nice and really patient with you. I can't
lose my job for breaking store policy, even if you are a
veteran."

"Well that's what I am," Ted spat. He thought about saying that Sam
Goody just lost a customer, but figured it was too meaningless and
comical to actually say it. Instead he flipped open his wallet.

"Look at this . . . Kroger card, discount card, Schnucks card, Sam's
Club card, Subway card . . . look what you people do to me! I'm not on
a fucking poker run! All I want to do is buy a thing here or there, and
to do it, I've got to give you my life story so you can fill my mailbox
with shit. So I can waste time. So I can be hassled. I can't even get
my own money out of my own account without hassle. I'm smothered with
CD, DVD, ATM, PIN, IRS, M&;M . . . the whole alphabet, and I don't
even like Wheel of Fortune. I've had enough. So you can work out
something so I can buy that filthy album or you can politely ask me to
leave."

"I'll go you one better," Jason said, picking up the phone. "I'm
calling the cops. I've taken enough shit from you old man."

"I'll be that language is against Sam Goody policy," Ted said, laughing
and waiting.

* * *
It was nearly ten when Ted Craver snuck into bed beside Carmella,
waking her. Groggy from sleep, she whispered to him: "What took you so
long dear?"

"Let's just say I love Jimmy . . . I had to negotiate with the police
to get that CD."

"Goodness! What happened?"

"I'm tired hon. I'll tell you in the morning." Ted lay beside her,
never so happy to be in her company and in the dark, away from blinking
lights and debit cards. "CD," he whispered, laughing at the way it
sounded when he said it, as if he'd muttered a French phrase and was
shocked he knew the meaning.

"You know Carmella; so many people our age spend their time trying to
figure out when things changed. Well I know when they changed, now I
just have to figure out how to deal with it."

"We'll figure it out dear."

Thirty seconds of silence followed. He assumed his loving wife was
already asleep and had ignored his musing, and began to slip into sleep
himself.

"When? When did things change Teddy?"

"When the United States of America became the USA," he said.

Carmella gave him a chuckle, both understanding and dismissing him at
the same time, falling asleep minutes later.

Ted stayed awake for close to a half hour, wired with stress and deep
thought. Sleep came like it always did, and he welcomed it, along with
the glorious and comforting dreams of record players, piggy banks, and
handshakes that meant something.