When I was very young, I was a good little boy, followed the rules, did what I was told, was polite to everybody, and was silent when not spoken to.

Then I grew up a bit, and I was a teenager.

That’s when your body gets about as big as it’s going to be, and the rest of you has to catch up. I have a friend who says he grew six inches overnight.

I was now part of a generation. My generation pushed the limits and broke the rules. I agreed with some of it.

I decided to try my own acts of disobedience, to strike out for individuality, all that stuff you’re expected to do in your teens.

At first I was awkward, not very good at it. I wasn’t used to being an individual person, and certainly not part of a movement, a gang, a generation. I thought a movement is what you do with your bowels.

But then I said to myself, “If I’m going to be my own person, I ought to find some way to test it out and stake my claim on myself.”

So I went to the bank. I spoke to the manager. He opened his office to me because my Father banked there for many years and they knew each other.

I said, “I want you to issue me a Bank Draft for a million dollars. I’ll write you a check for a million dollars, which you’ll never cash because I don’t have a million dollars. So of course I’ll never be able to cash the Bank Draft, but I just want it to impress this girl I know. Wink wink.”

“I hear you,” he said, suddenly a teenager again himself as he thought back to his own life and the girls he tried to impress before he got married. We were conspiratorial buddies, and he called out, “Mrs. Jones, cut a Bank Draft for a million dollars made out to my friend here. Post date it.”

So I left with a bank draft in my pocket and went straight to the malt shop on the corner and ordered an iced tea. “Make it an Arnold Palmer,” I said, sounding experienced and adult like a frequent customer. Everybody knows about Arnold Palmer. Apparently he played golf. He got so good that he won, and then he’d go inside and order iced tea. “Make it half lemonade,” he said, and ordered it so often they called out, “Another Arnold Palmer,” and people heard it, and said, “Bring me one too,” and they liked it and it swept the country, and they even serve it in Canada and some European countries.

So I drank my Arnold Palmer and the check came and I went to the cash register. I said, “I seem to have come out without pocket money, can you make change?” and I showed my Bank Draft for a million dollars. The manager rushed over, looked at the Bank Draft, and said, “Your credit is always good with us, sir,” and I signed an I.O.U. and kept a copy.

It worked like a charm.

So I went down the street and had a donut and signed another I.O.U.

Then I went to a restaurant for dinner. Another I.O.U. I was getting a collection. I carefully chose places that were not too upscale, to be sure they didn’t have enough cash in the register.

It worked everywhere. I opened charge accounts, and collected I.O.U.s. I bought a car on credit.

I didn’t try to buy a house, because I know my limits, and I know something about the economy from direct experience.

I looked around to see if I could find a girl to impress.

Everything was going so well until. I made the fatal mistake of going to the Big Department Store and tried to buy an expensive pair of shoes. “Can you make change?” I asked, expecting the usual.

But a Brinks truck drove up and they started unloading big bags of money on dolleys down a ramp and putting them in my new car.

Then one of the store managers looked at the Bank Draft, noticed the post date, looked at me, and called the police.

Now I’m sitting in my own little room, looking through the bars.

I wonder if I learned anything.

At least there’s a little narrow bed where I can sleep. No more Arnold Palmers, but the food is free.