Cheapskates

I come from a long line of cheapskates. Our family crest looks like the flag of Japan, only with a big, anxious rear end.

The curse, legend has it, started with a sorceress who appeared as a beggar at the door of my great, great grandfather...

"Dear steward, have ye any spare change for a weary drifter?"

"Spare change?" he said. "You mean money I don't need anymore?"

We've all been pinching halfpence ever since.

My shrink says that stinginess derives ultimately from a fear of death. I think that's what he said: I could hardly hear him over the fact that he was costing TWO DOLLARS A MINUTE.

The curse has spared no one in our bloodline, but it has churned out some pretty good lines...

"Slow down before you fall and crack your skull. You know how much that would cost?"

"Two dollars a transaction?! We're being robbed by the bank!"

"No, I distinctly said that you can halve your allowance. That's why we ask for things in writing."

As a boy, I spent a lot of time with grandpa, whose blood was closer to the curse. One day I mentioned how I liked convertible cars.

"Convertibles are for idiotic idiots," he said. "You can stick your head out the window any time."

I was afraid to walk in one day and find grandma doing a headstand...

"Grandma?"

"It's okay, sweetie. I'm getting a facelift."

Sometimes grandma got fed up with old Ebenezer. They'd be sitting in the den while the parakeet chirped in its cage -- "Cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep" -- and grandma would say, "He's talking about you, you know." Then grandpa would fan toward her the air around his butt. So it goes.

So, no, I didn't come from money so much as double coupons. I really can't blame my parents. They struggled financially ever since that day when my dad, in a fit of passion, uttered those fateful words: "Yes! Yes! Oops."

My folks made certain sacrifices such as shopping at Goodwill. They saved money, and I went to school dressed like J.J. from "Good Times" (DY-no-MITE!). You just can't get away with plaid pants in the third grade.

My dad would pull into gas stations and stare at the prices till the attendant came over.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"No. Just lookin'."

To this day I catch myself doing super-stingy things like reading newspapers through the dispenser. At the movie theater, I get so bent about the price of Milk Duds that I want to smash the encasement and scatter chocolate through the streets. "Take back what is yours! Rise!"

But life is like a box of chocolates: expensive. If they raise the cost of stamps one more time, I'm going postal. No wonder they sell postage by the ounce: It's like crack.

"Whatchyou want, man? Whatchyou want? I got hearts, I got flags, I got the Lucille Ball Commemorative."

The curse has kept me indoors at times. My mom asked about it recently.

"It's just gas," I said.

"Gas?! Is it really that bad?"

"Over three bucks a gallon."

Even my wealthy relatives shop at the dollar store, which just makes them poor with more zeroes at the end.

To break the jinx, I have no choice but to become so rich that I stop looking at price tags altogether, so rich that when people visit my home, they say, "Is that one house?", so rich that I lose touch with reality and feed the seagulls $100 bills.

And the next time a drifter stops at my door, I will empty my pockets on the spot. "Take it! Take it all! Would you like a sandwich? A backrub? My first-born son?"

If that seems dramatic, remember my grandfather who is even at this moment griping in his coffin:

"Can you believe the cost of this thing? They should've just wrapped me in a blanket. And I thought the cost of living was high..."