Pablo Tanguay reveals his
bookmarking banking habits:
I hide money in books. Always have. Certain correspondence, too, though the need for that has lessened in the past decade or so, what with the digital and the family-man lifestyle. When I did them, I hid drugs in books, in foil and wax paper and glossy magazine pages, creased and folded, stuck deep between a book’s leaves, edged up against its inside spine. Nowadays, I hide money out of habit, mostly. It’s not like someone’s trying to thieve it.
Over the years, there’s been little rhyme or reason to which books get how much money, why A Hundred Years of Solitude, say, got, this past year, two twenties and a ten while Slaves of New York got but a fiver. When I started the habit, in adolescence, I split my money between my sports books (Ball Four, Bang the Drum Slowly, etc) and a kind of book on my mother’s shelf (Fear of Flying, The Joy of Sex, etc). I can’t remember how I reasoned that my mother wouldn’t open her books and find my dollar bills and wonder how they got there.
I sometimes think I could create a chuckle, even if just for myself, by hiding money in Marx or Adam Smith. I’ve never hidden money in either, though. I like them both so much as writers, as stylists, especially Marx, and so think a crass easy joke would somehow be inappropriate, even unkind. Ha ha, I hid $100 in The Communist Manifesto! See what I mean? On the other hand, I’ve found it perfectly acceptable to hide money in All the President’s Men. I’ve done that more than once.