SHAVE ICE

"I just want

to say one word

to you, Ben,

just one word:

plastic!"

- Charles Webb

"The Graduate"

With characteristic directness and a little chagrin, Republican presidential candidate John McCain has admitted he doesn't send e-mails or use a computer on his own.

While not likely to affect his performance in the Oval Office, McCain's personal unfamiliarity with cybernetic pastimes like surfing, blogging and twittering has exposed him to some gentle ribbing from computer savants and late-night TV hosts.

I don't often agree with Sen. McCain politically, but I can feel his pain on this issue. I, too, know the sting of censure from well-meaning "moderns" who keep trying to frog-march me into the 21st century.

"That's the last time I'm making all our reservations," one declared recently. "This week, you ARE getting a credit card."

"No!" I wailed. "I won't have that card a day before some Nigerian Internet hustler has stolen my identity and cleaned me out."

"Cleaned you out of what?"

"You may have a point there. . . . "

"Seriously, it's unfair to expect others to keep bailing you out on this. You don't even have to use the card very often. Just get one from the bank so you can buy tickets and rent a car when we travel. You can hide it in the attic the rest of the time."

"Then how will I get money?"

"What money?"

"I see you putting your card into those machines all the time, and $20 bills come peeling out. How can I do that if my card's in the attic?"

"That's a different kind of card," she sighed. "That's a debit card. It takes money from your savings or checking account."

"That's the one I want."

"No, you need to get both. I expect to see them in your wallet or in the attic in two weeks' time. Capiche?"

"OK. I'm off to the bank."

I drove the long way around - via Waiko Road - because I needed time to get used to the idea of "packing plastic." Excepting one brief and disastrous experiment with Master Card in the late 1970s, I've been credit-free my entire life. I've also been largely asset-free, but that's another story.

Because of that credit-free status, life's periodic wallet thefts haven't freaked me out as horrifically as they might a credit-card holder. In addition, no overbearing sort of person has tried to sell me a time-share unit, a dolphin painting or a new car. And I've managed to maintain control of my identity, more or less.

Cash-and-carry has been my lifelong mantra, and it has served me well - so long as someone else was willing to front for plane tickets and rental cars. But lately, I've begun picking up ominous signals that my breezy greenback lifestyle might be nearing its end.

The first chill shadow fell over me in Chicago's O'Hare Airport, when I was unable to locate a single pay telephone that took actual pocket change. You had to have a swipe card. It was terribly modern.

Back on Maui, in line for show tickets at the Maui Arts & Cultural Center box office, I proudly whipped out my checkbook and started scribbling out a check. (To me, being able to pay by check instead of folding money has always seemed incredibly modern, almost Utopian).

"I'm sorry, sir," the cashier said. "We don't take checks any more. Do you have a credit card?"

"Must have left it in the attic," I muttered, slinking away.

Even at retail and grocery checkouts, I've begun getting unkind looks from waiting shoppers as I laboriously pen my name, the place of business, the date, the amount of purchase (once in Arabic numerals, once again in longhand), my driver's license number and phone number onto my check, then flip open my wallet so the cashier can verify it all. Why would that bother anyone?

Anyhow, what with one thing and another, I finally caved in and applied for plastic Saturday morning at the bank. To their credit, the bank personnel were able to keep straight faces, although a twinkle of merriment did enliven the customer service representative's glance.

"What credit limit would you like?" she inquired.

"I'll take the lowest one, please."

"You sure you wouldn't like a higher one?" she urged. "You might need it in an emergency some day."

"This is an emergency already," I assured her.

When I got home I told Irene I had done the deed. She gripped me by the shoulders and said: "Today, you are a man."

"Not yet," I said. "I still have to buy something with plastic."

"What's your first purchase gonna be?"

"I think I'll go for the moon," I said. "Cell phone."

* Tom Stevens is a freelance writer whose "Shave Ice" column appears every Wednesday. He can be reached at shaveice@maui.net.