PART 2: My Grandfather Went to the Bank to Withdraw Money for His Tractor, but the Teller Humiliated Him and Called Security
My Grandfather Went to the Bank to Withdraw Money for His Tractor, but the Teller Humiliated Him and Called Security
She stared at his boots.
Then she looked at the mud prints on the carpet. From the door to the window. A trail.
Then she looked back up at him.
Her face did something. A little twitch. Around the mouth.
“Do you have an account with us, sir?” she asked.
“Sixty-one years,” Grandpa said.
She typed on her computer.
Frowned.
Typed some more.
Frowned harder.
I could see the screen from where I was standing. A little. At an angle.
She’d pulled up something. A customer profile. She was scrolling.
Her eyes got wide for a second.
Then narrow.
“I’ll need two forms of ID,” she said.
Grandpa reached into the bib pocket of his overalls.
He took out a wallet. Leather. Brown. Cracked. Held together with a rubber band. My grandmother bought it for him at Younkers in Des Moines in 1981.
He slid off the rubber band.
He took out his driver’s license. And his Medicare card.
He put them on the counter.
She picked up the license.
She held it up to the ceiling light.
Tilted it. Back and forth. Like she was checking a fake twenty-dollar bill.
She looked at the photo. She looked at him. She looked at the photo again.
“That’s a lot of cash,” she said. “What’s it for?”
“Tractor part,” Grandpa said.
Behind us, the woman with the Coach purse snickered.
Out loud. A little snort. Through her nose.
The teller heard it.
She smiled.
A really fake smile. The kind people give when they’re about to tell you no.
“Sir,” she said. “People in your—”
She paused.
“—situation,” she said, “usually find the ATM easier. Less paperwork.”
People in your situation.
My grandfather looked at her.
He didn’t change expression.
“The ATM won’t give me two thousand,” he said.
“Then maybe,” she said, “you don’t need two thousand.”
My face got hot.
I’m not proud of what I felt next. But I’ll tell you.
For one second, I was embarrassed.
Not for her. For him.
For the overalls. The boots. The mud on the carpet. The cap in his hands. The rubber band on the wallet.
For one second, I saw him the way she saw him.
An old man. A dirty old farmer. Who didn’t belong in a place with a fancy coffee machine.
Then I was ashamed of being embarrassed.
And then I was angry.
“He’s asking for his own money,” I said.
She looked at me. Then back at Grandpa.
She picked up the phone on her desk.
She pressed a button.
“Rick?” she said. “Can you come to window three? I’ve got a gentleman getting agitated.”
Agitated.
Grandpa wasn’t agitated at all.
He just stood there. Holding his cap in both hands. In front of his chest. The way he holds it during the Pledge of Allegiance at the Corwith Fourth of July parade.
Like he was at church.
The security guard walked up.
Thirties. Big. Heavy. A gray uniform shirt with a patch that said SECURITY. A name tag. RICK.
He walked across the lobby from the door. Slowly. With his thumbs hooked in his belt.
He stopped next to Grandpa.
His right hand moved.
It rested right on his belt.
Right next to a holster. With a pepper spray canister in it.
“Sir,” Rick said. “I’m going to need you to step aside.”
Grandpa stepped aside.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t put up a fight.
He took two steps to the left. Away from the window. Toward the coffee machine.
The woman with the Coach purse was smiling now. Openly. Watching.
The young guy in the John Deere jacket was looking at the floor.
The older couple holding hands looked uncomfortable.
Grandpa didn’t look at any of them.
He didn’t look at Rick. Or the teller. Or the coffee machine.
He looked right past all of it.
Straight across the lobby.
At the glass office in the back corner.
“Miss,” he said.
The teller looked at him.
“Is Tom Callahan still in the corner office?”
The teller smirked.
She actually smirked. A little half-smile. She looked at the woman with the Coach purse. Like they were sharing a joke.
“Mr. Callahan,” she said, “is the bank president. He doesn’t come out for withdrawals.”
“Would you tell him Earl Doyle is out front?”
“Sir…”
“Just my name,” Grandpa said. “That’s all I’m asking.”
She let out a sigh.
A big one. Loud. So everybody in line could hear.
She rolled her eyes.
She picked up the phone. She pressed a button. She leaned back in her chair.
She held the phone up a little. So her voice would carry.
Like it was a big joke for everyone in line.
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