I don’t get paid at my job. At least not in money.

I know what money looks like; it comes in coins and special paper. They come in different sizes and denominations for my convenience. And I hardly ever see any of it.

Instead, every two weeks I get a number. It’s a nice number, and it seems to work for me, because every time I want or need something, I can subtract from the number, and I get what I want. And other people make demands on that number. I click “approve” on an online bill-paying screen, and my big number goes down.

Waving plastic through the machine changes the number. I “swipe” the card, and the electronics swipe a sum. I hardly have to write numbers down on checks anymore, but I have to keep up with them in the check registry. Losing track of the number means trouble -- at the very least having a smaller number to work with the next time I get paid.

This cashless living has a curious side effect. It makes me numb when I think of money. I’m not handling money; I’m just making the number go up and down. Mostly it’s a game of how slowly I can make the number go down, since it only goes up every other Friday. I play math games, and I’m not good at math. So when I worry about money, I’m actually worrying about math.

What’s this “savings” to which you refer? Saving money? I can’t. I don’t have any.

Oh, I know I can convert that number into money, in theory. But those who demand big chunks of payment don’t want that, just the number. Sign here. Click on this screen. Number goes down.

Sometimes I use the number to get some money. It feels nice to have. It comes in handy. I once figured that I -- at best -- saw about ten percent of my earnings as cash. No wonder I have difficulties giving properly to my church -- I fall short on tithing to myself.

Sometimes I find people who aren’t interested in the number. They just want money, right there, in their hands. My plastic doesn’t impress them. They aren’t prepared to trust my checkbook. And it is in these instances that I realize that, no matter how big or small my number is, I’m as broke as a homeless beggar.

Worse, actually -- the homeless guy has a cup of change.