I come from a long line of cheap people. Don’t feel sorry for us. We’re not poor. We’re just cheap. When my grandfather smoked, and I believe he quit because it was costing too much money, he used to smoke half the cigarette and leave the other half for later. There were always five or six half-smoked cigarettes pushed into the little grooves of his ashtray. I once caught him picking a cigarette off the ground that had already been half-smoked. He grinned at me and pocketed it for later.

Aunt Suzanne used to take my cousins, my brother and I roller-skating. She’d take my cousins in first and when she paid, they got wristbands. My brother and I waited in her car while she took my cousins to the bathroom to confiscate their wristbands. Then she’d pop out to get us and we’d force the bands over our bigger hands while they waited in the bathroom for us to return. The roller rink was so busy on the weekends that none of the workers noticed. It cost $3.00 each to go roller-skating on a Saturday afternoon. That was $3.00 too much for Aunt Suzanne.

Uncle Larry runs a scam on old ski-lift tickets, movie stubs and coupons. He changes the dates by using numbers from magazines or newspapers that match the look of the old numbers and glues them on top. He once made my brother, who was ten at the time, use one of his “Larriations” at the ski resort while he used my brother’s money to buy a real ticket. He argued that if my brother got caught with the phony ticket, he’d just get kicked off the slope. But my uncle could go to jail. This would lead any normal person to ask if it’s worth it, but not Uncle Larry.

My father never took us to real restaurants. We always went to buffets. We’d order water and fill up with Sprite at the drink stand. At the ripe age of fourteen, I had to pretend to be twelve so I could get the kid’s price. My dad would say, “Rachel, honey, slump down a little. And if anybody asks, you’re twelve.” At least I was short. My brother was the tallest twelve-year-old ever, standing at almost six feet.

The lowlight of my family’s penny-pinching rolled around with Christmas, at my mom’s holiday work parties. She hated going since she despised everyone she worked with, but I think the turkey hooked her in. They always served a steroid-enhanced turkey that could feed six countries in Africa. With only a few people there to eat it, half the turkey was left at the end of the night. My mother asked the wait staff for tin foil to take the turkey home. She never asked her boss if it was okay or got anyone’s permission to leave with the turkey. She just did. It was so big, my dad had to struggle to carry it out and my mom would bring the car around to pick him up. The turkey would sit between my brother and I in the back seat, secure in it’s own seatbelt. The half-eaten carcass would later grace our dining room table on Christmas day. The car smelled for months.

I used to roll my eyes whenever a family member bucked the system. A mix of embarrassment and admiration over their ingenuity washed over me. Now I’m one of them. I’ve shown where I come from. It’s in my blood. I’ve proven myself a Stikeleather.

Last week I made a fake student ID. All my years of studying Graphic Design have finally culminated in the ultimate reward – a student ID earning discounts at the movies. I’ll be able to save a few bucks every time I go, which isn’t often, but that’ll probably save me $20 this year. That’s if I even decide to pay for the movie. After all, Uncle Larry taught me how to get in for free.