When I was 7 years old, I accompanied my grandfather when he went shopping for a new car. He looked at Chevys, Fords, and Chryslers, he hemmed and hawed, kicked some gravel, and decided on a six-cylinder Plymouth Cranbrook with straight drive and black-wall tires. He wasn’t happy with any of the flashy two-tone models on the lot, so he ordered a Plymouth from the factory in his favorite color — black.

I recall the salesman asking my grandfather, "Would you like a heater in the car?" (In those days, heaters weren’t standard equipment.)

My grandfather answered without hesitation, "Certainly not. When I ride in a car in the winter, I wear a coat."

That’s the way I feel about all those ATM machines that are stuck in every available wall. No doubt they’re a necessity for some people, but when I go shopping, I take money with me.

You can call me an old fogy. But I don’t think I am. I’m a sucker for any new gadget. My car has a CD player, remote side-view mirrors, electric door locks, and of course, a phone. I’m a computer junkie, and soon I’ll be able to call up the Internet on my cell phone. Give me those gadgets!

But I don’t like ATMs.

Probably I should be on the side of consumers who are complaining heartily about incurring double charges — a charge from their bank and a charge from the bank that owns the ATM — when they slip their plastic identities into the machine. But I’m not.

If folks don’t like getting charged twice, they ought to avoid using the ATMs. If that happened, ATMs would go the way of the Edsel, the mood ring, and the Nehru jacket. Which, I believe, would be a positive development for at least three reasons.

First, folks wouldn’t be so easily tempted to spend every red cent they earn.

I once wrote a story on the video poker palace at lovely South of the Border, and while I was there, I noticed that when gamblers had squandered their life savings and their kids’ college educations, they simply inserted their credit cards into ATM machines and borrowed money. Plastic cards and ATMs have made it possible for Americans to borrow money they may never earn.

Second, certain ATMs aren’t safe. Location, location, location. I wouldn’t go to an ATM at night in the city unless I had the 82nd Airborne to cover my back. I know ATMs have video cameras, but they only help the police identify the druggie who whacked you. That’s small consolation.

And last, I believe there are a lot of drunks who go to ATMs at night to get money to buy more booze. They think: I can put plastic into this wall and paper will come out for which people will give me more beer. The drunks would be better off — and we’d be better off — if they went home. The best scenario would be that they used the ATM money to hire a cab, but I doubt that’s often the case.

And how about those greedy banks? They’re crazy for the addictive personalities who consistently use their ATMs. They want you to rise from your bed and think: I’ll take a shower, eat a bowl of All-Bran, brush my teeth, and stop by the ATM.

Why? Because ATMs are a good deal for the banks. We give them our money, and they charge us, sometimes twice, to get it back. They loan out our hard-earned bucks, rake in the interest, and collect hefty fees when they allow us the privilege of retrieving of our own cash.

How many tellers are required to provide this service? Maybe there are one or two employees whose job it is to stuff the money into the bank’s machines. And those employees are probably responsible for other tasks. Banks have to pay health and medical benefits to human beings. Nix one employee, and the bank saves thousands.

And consider this: the banks started by not charging us an ATM fee, a ploy they no doubt picked up from drug pushers. Now that we’re hooked, they’re charging us double for their services. "Here little girl, the first piece of candy is free…."

I say let’s get this ATM monkey off our backs. Let’s kick the habit. Let’s open a wing of the Betty Ford Clinic to those poor souls who have a compelling urge to do their financial planning 30 seconds ahead of time.

As for my grandfather, he paid cash for everything, including his black Plymouth Cranbrook. Unfortunately, the winter was a little colder than he’d anticipated, so he had an after-market gas heater installed.

Have you ever ridden in a car with a gas heater? I’ll tell you one thing: it’ll fry your socks.

Stephen Smith is a professor of English at Sandhills Community College. A collection of his columns, "Worst I Ever Had Was Wonderful," is on sale at The Pilot, the Country Bookshop, Celebration on Broad, and Nature’s Own.