Like the bank, the man was old and distinguished, but in more of a tweed jacket sort of way. He waited patiently in line as the queue marched slowly forward. Eventually he reached a counter. Politely he presented the service revolver hidden in his pocket and slid a note to the young woman behind the counter.
The note read Hand over the bitcoins!
‘What?’ said the young woman.
The old man slid a second note across the counter. This is a bank robbery!
‘That’s why I’m confused,’ said the young woman. She was impressively calm.
The old man furrowed a brow that had already been half furrowed for the past forty years, and then withdrew a blank note and scribbled quickly but carefully. Now I’m confused as well!
‘Bitcoins are a cryptocurrency.’
The old man scribbled a fourth note. His handwriting was impeccable. I don’t know what that means.
‘A digital currency in which encryption techniques are used to regulate the generation of units of currency and verify the transfer of funds, operating independently of a central bank.’
Wait, so, they’re imaginary?
‘In a way.’
Why would anyone want imaginary money?
‘All money is imaginary.’
There’s a two dollar coin in my back pocket.
‘There’s a metal circle in your back pocket. It’s only money because we all agree to pretend it has value. And what do you think would happen if you deposited it?’
You’d put it in a big vault.
‘Well, sort of. But then we’d change the digital number in your digital bank account, and your money would exist digitally until you withdrew it again, at which point you’d be given a completely different physical object, but it would still be the same money.’
The old man’s hand had begun to shake as he wrote. So, nothing is real?
‘Lots of things are real, but value is imaginary.’
This is a nightmare. What’s to stop me just saying my socks are worth a million dollars?
‘Nothing at all. Ask a modern artist. The tricky bit is convincing everyone else.’
Then, what’s the point in any of it? Why have we dedicated all of human existence to collecting arbitrary and imaginary numbers?
‘Numbers are easier to quantify than abstract concepts like happiness and fulfilment.’
What about me? Do I exist independently, or am I simply a collection of other people’s largely imagined perceptions?
‘I work in a bank. To answer that you’ll need a philosopher.’
A single tear rolled down the old man’s face. I am a philosopher. Why do you think I had to rob this bank?
Sam Rugg's Concise Narratives 