The trouble with money

By TAD BARTIMUS

Pay the faces first.

Mom muttered those words every time she paid bills, dealing them onto the kitchen table like unwanted cards in a bad hand: this one, now; that one, next time. He can wait; she's overdue. The doctor because you never know when you'll need one. The teenage girl who mows the lawn, yes; the phone company, yes (they came in the last thunderstorm). Hard to conjure up a face at Visa; ditto Sears. The car insurance is almost due; can I hold a garage sale in time?

Franklin D. Roosevelt was right, of course; it's the fear we fear, the tomorrows, the road ahead.

Everybody worries about money. Do I have enough? Can I hang onto what I've got? How do I get more? Even Bill Gates must wonder once in a while if Janet Reno will take some away from him.

My money anxiety is in the back of my mind like low-level freeway noise; usually I juggle the budget, squeak by and ignore it. When I'm flush I throw a big check at the credit cards; when I'm not I add ten bucks to the minimum, castigate myself for that new pair of sandals and vow to do better. I listen to Jimmy Buffett (Happily Ever After, Now and Then), recycle plastic wrap and remind myself of a friend who can't stay on a $10,000-a-month allowance. Without knowing why, her woes make me feel better. If I had $10,000 a month, I tell myself, I'd be fine.

But tonight I'm scared. I'm sick and lying in the dark playing the "what if" game. What if I don't get better and can't work? What if my health insurance disappears? What if we lose the house? In search of a panic fix, I dial my insomniac millionaire entrepreneur friend:

"Are you kidding? Me have the answers? Remember that time a few years back when I had health problems? I didn't know if we'd make payroll. I was eyeing the kids' college funds. I'm just one heart attack away from disaster."

My vagabond pal who lives on a shoestring picked up on the first ring:

"I'm older now. I've had a great time traveling around the world but I don't own a house or have a pension. My car is 10 years old. I'm healthy but ..."

The best corporate guy I know -- the 25-year veteran, the good soldier, the one who says the CEO is just "misunderstood" -- was unusually glum:

"I'm in trouble. They say I'm too nice, that I need to get leaner, meaner, or I'm toast. What does that mean, toast?"

I went down the address book: godmother, 72, won't retire because husband's fixed income no longer enough to cover mortgage; neighbor who's been a nurse for 20 years laid off in a statewide cutback; single mother of three fired because her foreign employer faces bankruptcy; couple who ran their own business for 25 years forced to close when mega-store opens across the street.

Franklin D. Roosevelt was right, of course; it's the fear we fear, the tomorrows, the road ahead. We think money will make us secure; to a certain extent that's true. At least when I have it I spend it like it does. The problem is, there are no guarantees.

Still prowling at 3 a.m., I turn on talk radio and there's a guy complaining he makes $50,000 a year but his bank won't loan him money to buy a house. "Do you have any credit?" asks the talk show host.

"Yeah," says the whiner, "I've got 22 plastic cards with a credit line of $200,000."

Wait a minute: he makes $50,000 a year but he can charge $200,000 on his credit cards? I went back to bed and slept like a baby.

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