She had a little girl with her. Seven or eight. Holding her hand.
She came up to Brandon’s window. She held out a paycheck. Her hand was shaking a little.
“I don’t have an account here,” she said quietly. “I just need to cash my check. It’s from my job. It’s a real check. I’m sorry. I only have one ID.”
The bank got quiet.
I watched Brandon look at her.
I watched him look at her uniform. At the rubber gloves. At the bleach-stained sneakers.
At the little girl, holding her mother’s hand. Watching. Listening.
I watched something move across his face. Something old. Something from a marble-floored bank in Chicago a long time ago.
Then he smiled.
“Good morning,” he said. Not loud. Not slow. Just normal. Just kind. “One ID is just fine. Let me take care of that for you.”
