Paper Bag Credit Cards

Credit cards did not exist in Brooklyn 3, but a there was a system of consumer credit by merchants based on paper bags and clothesline.

People needed to eat every day, but payday was once every two weeks, and sometimes by the end of the cycle the household money had run out, or even before the end, like at the beginning.

So the butcher, the grocer, etc. would hang you credit.

Come in and place your order. Tell the store you need credit. They add up your order and reach not towards the register, but for a small paper bag.

They write your name on the bag. They write the amount you owe. They hang it with a clothespin on a clothesline behind the counter.

It is revolving credit. There is room on the bag for more owing. But not that much. It is a small bag on purpose.

The owner's expectation is that you will make good on it by the end of the bag. You probably will, because if you don't, you will have to consult with the finance department, which is the owner telling you that your hung credit is dead. You do not wish to be told this when your family is hungry.

You also don't want it known by the neighbors. Chances are they have already seen that your bag has a lot of numbers on it, preceded by plus signs, and no minuses. It is shameful among the people, and also hurtful to your credit rating at other stores.

Some people, however, were hard to shame, or even cajole, and were good at extending credit for themselves. My grandmother was among the best. I suppose you could say worst, if you were an economist. But if you appreciated art, the best.

I was with her one day on Church Avenue. She had money for the bakery and the butcher, but was holding out on the deli, where we stopped for a small treat.

- This is going to be cash, isn't it, Mrs. Keane?

- Ah, no, Morrie. I think I need a little more credit today.

- Well, I was thinking about asking you to settle up some, Mrs. Keane. I mean it's getting a little heavy here.

- I haven't got it, though. Not today. Soon. Just this little purchase, and we'll settle up before you know it.

- Well, I'd like to know it, Mrs. Keane. I mean you owe us quite a bit on this tab here.

- Well, you know, Morrie. I'd rather owe it to you than to have to cheat you out of it.

In the face of such artful intransigence, not only does Ma not get screamed at, or even scowled at, she gets today's order on the line, too. Morrie knows that otherwise he does not see her for a while. And if he is to tell others about the day's dealings with Mrs. Keane, they will only laugh. So the shame factor is non-existent.

She is funny. Chances are Morrie laughs, at least later.

It's not about the money. It's a dance, a bit of theater on the street, in the middle of bland afternoon.

A day's tedium is shattered for a while. No worries. A laugh today. The money? Maybe tomorrow.