Shredded cheddar

Getting rid of damaged money is a lot like trying to throw away a garbage can: You can’t get anybody to take it.

I learned this, much to my chagrin, after numerous attempts last week to unload a $1 and $5 bill that my dog shredded. Based on the forensic evidence, the mutt liberated the currency from an open pocket in my daughter’s duffel bag, where it was stored near a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum, the canine’s true target.

The dog has had a hankering for gum since she was a pup, and even in her dotage, we sometimes find shredded wrappers littering the floor. This time, two dead presidents had the misfortune of getting in her way, and along with the optimistic yellow of the Wrigley’s wrapper, I discovered the grim greens of shredded dough.

The story could have (and maybe should have) ended there, with me throwing away the money. But just as “something there is that does not love a wall,” something there is in me hates to waste money, especially when the wasting is literal.

So with a little tape, a lot of patience, and the theme from “The Six-Million Dollar Man” ringing in my ears (“Gentlemen, we can rebuild him…better than he was before…better, stronger, faster”), I set about to reconstruct United States Currency.

What I ended up with was more Frankenstein monster than Bionic Man. George and Abe were patchwork quilts of their former selves, their eyes set crookedly, their jaws lacking the traditional square of presidential authority. The once Great Seal leaned precipitously, like a building in the final throes of an earthquake. The bald eagle was more crooked than proud.

Worst, I realized the dog was digesting a large piece of both bills – a missing pyramidal shape in the bottom left. Time might yield these up, but there is a limit to even my thriftiness.

I remembered a kindly parish priest in my childhood who used to give me 50 cents by tearing a dollar in half, and that I spent that money just as I would two quarters. So I had hope that somewhere out there, somebody would accept these stunted remnants of two of our greatest presidents.

I tried first at my daughter’s soccer game, but had the bad luck to try the transaction with a ticket taker who once worked at a bank. “The serial number is missing on both these,” she said. “They have to have at least that.”

It was the monetary equivalent of a yellow card before I was even in the door, but I didn’t necessarily believe the information.

I tried to pass the money at lunch the following day, but the result was the same. Later in the week, I started folding the money carefully to hide the missing chunk, but as soon as cashiers unfolded it, I was busted. I even magnanimously offered to let them keep the change, hoping they would tuck the money into the register before the gaping hole where the serial number should be became noticeable, but no luck.

I started to scheme about how I could unload the money. Vending machines were out; no way would the currency pass muster there. I could leave the bills as a tip in a restaurant, but that felt wrong, especially if the service was good. I could give it to some Little Leaguer collecting at the door of one of the four dozen pharmacies in Alliance, but those kids all look so doe-eyed and innocent I would feel like Jack the Ripper.

My wildest scheme was to place it carefully in a public restroom or trashcan so that the denominations would be easily seen by passersby, one of whom would surely take the bait and rid me forever of the curse of the maimed money. But messing around in public restrooms like that is imprudent and likely unsanitary, and my cries of “Free at last! Free at last!” as an unwitting sucker took the bait likely would give me away, anyway.

A quick check with the U.S. Treasury Department reveals that its Office of Currency Standards will accept damaged currency, and that it will “reimburse the full face value if clearly more than one-half of the original note remains.”

My money meets that criterion. However, the feds also write, “Unfortunately, it is impossible to predict how long this procedure will take, due to varying workloads. However, they make every effort to speed up shipments when possible.”

Which is the government’s way of saying you will likely never see your cash again. Besides, you’re not supposed to mail money anyway. Do I insure the six bucks, even when it’s not really six bucks anymore? And what about the cost of postage and the aggravation of waiting on line at the post office?

No, I’ll keep my tattered currency for a while longer, I think, and keep trying to pawn it off locally. Somewhere, somebody who has never heard of Treasury Department regulations is dropping a drawer into a cash register, and that person is my lawful prey.


This column predates 2009, but I don't know by how much. Maybe a lot. The dog that chewed the money has been gone for a long time, and my daughter hasn't played soccer since high school. But how to dispose of damaged money is still a concern, right?