Eight days ago I opened a birthday package from my son Stan, from Seattle. The number 8 is significant because it is the perfect square of 64. And 32 multiplied by 2 is 64.

     Now that we’re all proficient in Math 101, let me explain. For days after my birthday, my son kept asking if I’d received something from him in the mail. I said no. I had, however, put aside a tube that came in the mail, which stuck way out of the mailbox. Since usually only sample razors and unsolicited Brittany Spears posters come in tubes, I didn’t think it was important.
     When I opened it, I discovered a sheet of brand-new uncut two-dollar bills, eight down, four across. Let’s see, the total is 64, coincidentally my age. And my son used the perfect number to deem his dad a perfect square. Since then I’ve purchased two more such sheets. They cost a bit more than face value.
     For years, our first-born has teased me about my penchant for collecting two-dollar bills. Over the years I’ve initialed the back of thousands of them, and each time I get a new supply, I look for the familiar initials. I’ve gotten only one of them back. Now the rules are that you can’t pay at the register and keep buying things in the hopes of getting that bill back. The autographed bill ideally should come from a bank, months later; besides, few stores give twos as change.
     Twos are hard to come by; it seems everybody collects them. Recently, we paid in twos for a meal at the Eighty-Five Cafe, and the cashier pocketed the eight dollars, pulled the same amount in ones from her purse, and put that into the register.
     The sheet of bills has become a conversation piece. The most common comment is, “I see you just printed them up.” Parting is sweet sorrow. A few of them, intact, but separated from the main sheet, made their way to Amanda Pacheco, the Optic’s circulation assistant, who’d just graduated from Luna Community College. She says she’ll frame them.
     Other reactions include incredulity: Jesse Gallegos, Optic editor, swore it was a gag but still wanted to know how and were to get some.
     A worker at McDonald’s hesitated to take three joined bills for a $5.84 purchase. Explaining she had never seen bills still attached, she excused herself long enough to take a closer look, possibly believing the backs of the bills to be blank. She returned two minutes later to announce that the restaurant’s bill reader didn’t recognize them as currency. No doubt she suspected a counterfeiting job. Strange, but if you cut the bills apart carefully, they’re suddenly legal tender; but joined, they appear bogus. An employee at Salvation Army just had to run his hands through them. After agreeing that the texture seemed real, he wanted to know where they came from.
     A carhop at Sonic hesitated to take the twos for an order, saying she’d prefer real money instead. Trying to trade with joined twos presents a double handicap in that some people are suspicious of that denomination anyway; the fact they’re still connected makes them seem like something off a laser printer.
     Meanwhile, Stan emailed a picture of a two-dollar bill, printed in 1891 and bearing the image of William Wilson, worth $1,500 on Ebay. This rare bill contains a red seal on the obverse side, an ink hue that hasn’t been seen for years but which will appear on the new 20s.
     The experience has shown that people will accept any given amount of two dollar bills, provided they’re handed over one at a time. So as long as the bills remain in a sheet, getting rid of them can be a problem.
     Perhaps Amanda Lujan has the best idea yet: if she holds on to the framed gift, she will never be broke.
     I wonder if the MacDonald’s worker ever even ran the bills through a bill reader. It’s more likely McDonald’s employs a Mr. William Reader whose opinion is often sought regarding unusual currency. Or perhaps she was just reacting to the expression (which I didn’t fully appreciate until now) that “it’s as phony as a two-dollar bill.”