Very delicate, precise red text surrounding the "L" on one of the dollar bills in the office money jar caught my eye.
It called to me: Where has George been?
Immediately I thought of how grossed out A. would be knowing he could track the many, many hands that touched the bills he handled. He shudders at the potential traces of all the germs, residual bodily fluids, etc. that stick to money. He worked at a truck stop just long enough for the dismal hygienic standards of the truckers to leave him with such vivid impressions of total grossness that only the special effects on CSI can come close to adequately expressing his imagined fears.
(On the other hand, my mind should have been employed by the art team for the CSI shows, as well as the X-Files: I have visions of blood and goop and parasites and general craziness every time I handle meat, clean a toilet, walk up a dark stairwell ...)
Oddly, money doesn't gross me out nearly as much as it does A.