Crazy Uber stories: Alabama mattress money

You wouldn’t believe the things people tell you when you’re driving them around. It’s like the backseat of my car was some kind of confessional booth with cup holders. Once I picked up a guy in a sharp suit who smelled like new leather and desperation. Said he worked as a finance manager at a car dealership. “Finance man,” he called himself, like it was a superhero title. His nemesis? Cold, hard cash.

Now, I’ve always thought paying cash for a car was the golden ticket of adulting. But this guy? He painted a picture so vivid I could practically smell the mildew.

“Do you know how much we hate it when someone shows up with cash?” he said, leaning forward like he was about to tell me a secret that could get him fired.

Hate it? Isn’t that the dream scenario? No loans, no fuss?”

He shook his head. “No loans, no commission, buddy. Financing is where the money’s at. But that’s not even the worst part. You know what cash smells like?”

“Success?” I guessed.

“Wrong. Feet. Feet and bad decisions,” he said, deadpan.

I nearly swerved. “Feet?”

“Yup. A guy walks in last week, says he’s paying cash for a new F-150. Whips out this ratty duffel bag like he’s auditioning for Breaking Bad: The Prequel. Opens it up, and I swear to you, the smell nearly knocked me over. Like damp socks and old salami had a fight and nobody won.”

“Where does someone even get that much cash?”

“Said he’d been saving it for years. Under his mattress.” He paused for effect, giving me a look in the rearview mirror. “And his mattress? Was in a trailer with no air conditioning. In Alabama.”

I gagged a little, but he was just getting warmed up. “And here’s the thing—they don’t count it for you at the bank. Oh no. We’ve got to sit there, me and the sales manager, with those little counterfeit marker pens, while the whole showroom smells like a wet dog convention.”

“Why don’t you make them get a cashier’s check or something?” I asked.

“Buddy, do you think the kind of guy who carries $60,000 in stinky bills is going to walk into a bank and fill out paperwork? Half of them think the bank’s in on some kind of government conspiracy to steal their money.”

I couldn’t argue with that. The number of “cash-only” people I’d driven was disturbingly high. “So what happens if the cash is… uh… unusable?”

“Oh, we take it. We have to,” he said, throwing his hands up. “But let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. We had one guy whose bills were so bad, we had to Febreze the office for two days. Another time, someone’s money was literally damp. Had to lay it out on the desk like we were drying laundry. And forget about the weird stains. I don’t even want to know.”

“Sounds like you’re earning that commission,” I said.

He laughed. “You think it’s bad for me? Imagine the poor guy at the bank when we deposit it. They have to count every bill. By hand. I’m pretty sure one of them quit after we dropped off the Alabama Mattress Money.”

By the time we got to his stop, I couldn’t decide if I was amused or horrified. As he climbed out of the car, he turned back and said, “Hey, next time you think about paying cash for a car? Don’t. Save everyone the trauma. And for the love of God, air out your money.”

I drove away wondering if my glove compartment Febreze could handle the next passenger’s secrets.