The first time my roommate Nick joked about being an ATM, I just laughed. 

“Wouldn’t it be great if you could just text me for cash?” he said. “Like a personal ATM. No fees, no stress. Just instant withdrawals.” 

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, scrolling my phone, not giving it much thought. 

At the time, it sounded like one of his usual bits—Nick had always been a generous guy, the type to cover dinner without a second thought. But looking back, that was probably the first sign. 

Nick worked in fintech, something with automated banking and AI-driven financial modeling. The job suited him; he loved efficiency, optimization, and removing “friction” and “pain points” from everyday transactions. One night, over drinks, he told me, “Finance is just a game of inputs and outputs. The human element is the biggest inefficiency.” 

I joked, “What does that say about you? You realize you’re human, right?” 

He smirked, sipping his beer. “For now.” 

At the time, I just thought he was being his usual quirky, vaguely existential self. I had no idea he was already slipping away.

The first OmniPay transfer came out of nowhere: $200 received from Nick. 

I blinked at my phone, my thumbs already swiping to open my messages app. 

Me: Dude, why did you just send me $200? 

Nick: Bank error in your favor. 

Me: That’s not how it works. 

Nick: Is now. 

I tried to send it back, but Nick declined the payment. 

Nick: Consider it a withdrawal. No strings attached. 

It was weird, sure, but not alarming. I figured maybe he’d gotten a bonus or something. Perhaps he was just being generous in his own weird way. 

But then it happened again. And again. It was always random amounts, and the message was always the same: Would you like to make another withdrawal? 

At first, I refused. I told him to stop, that it was too much, that I didn’t need his money. But the more I pushed back, the more insistent he became. 

“But I want this,” he said. “It’s what I’m for.” 

That was when I started getting really uneasy. 

One night, I invited him out for drinks. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said. 

“Why not?” 

“It just feels weird. Imagine walking into a bar with a big, bulky ATM. That’s not normal. People would stare.” 

I rolled my eyes in frustration, but his monotone voice sent a chill up my spine. 

“Dude, you’re not an ATM.” 

“But I am.” 

Nick disappeared into his room without another word. A moment later, my phone buzzed. $200 received from Nick. Written in the memo was Drinks and apology. 

“Apology for what?” I shouted at his closed bedroom door. I received silence and then a text message. 

Nick: For the inconvenience of not being portable. 

That was when I knew it wasn’t just a bit anymore. Nick was becoming something else. He became increasingly reclusive, seldom leaving his room except in the middle of the night. On the rare occasions when we crossed paths, he barely looked like himself. His expression was vacant but not empty. Not sad, not lifeless, just… waiting. Like a machine waiting for input. 

“Hey, man,” I said cautiously when we bumped into each other in the kitchen. “You good?” 

“I am efficient,” he said. 

I hesitated. “Why are you doing this?” 

His eyes darted away from mine. He appeared lost in thought as if he were processing a request. “Because it is easier,” he said after a long silence. “No complications, no expectations. Just function.” 

“Dude, you’re not a machine.” 

He smiled. “Then why does it feel like I am?” 

Not ten seconds after he retreated back into his room, I received a notification from OmniPay. $419.79 received from Nick. The odd amount puzzled me until I read the memo: 21 words at $19.99 per word. 

For a while, I stopped responding to his texts. The OmniPay deposits kept coming, though. I’d try to send the money back, but he’d just block the transactions. I told myself I wouldn’t use money. I told myself that Nick would snap out of it one day and want it back. I wanted to be a good friend and not exploit his obvious delusion. 

But then my car needed repairs. Then I spilled coffee on my laptop. Then my brother’s bachelor party came up, and, well—Nick had always wanted to help, right? 

So I withdrew. Just once. 

And it felt good. 

No stress. No guilt. Just money, there when I needed it. No questions asked. 

After that, it got easier? 

Why fight it? I told myself. Nick wanted to be an ATM. It made him happy, and honestly, it made my life easier. I stopped feeling weird about it. After he changed his OmniPay profile from “Nick” to “Nick-ATM,” I stopped questioning it altogether. His bio told me everything I needed to know: Open 24/7. No fees. No limits. No identity. 

Now, I’m doing great. Drinks are always on me. I leave massive tips at restaurants. I pick up the tab for friends without hesitation. 

I love how people look at me now—like I’m that guy—the one who always takes care of things. The generous one. The provider. 

And why not? It’s easy, it’s effortless. It feels right. 

Just the other day, a buddy of mine tried to protest when I paid for dinner. 

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, smiling. “I stopped at the ATM on my way over.” 

Want to read more works like this? Send Me a tip as a way to help support this and other writing endeavors.