The Bank Manager Refused to Cash My $40 Check Because of How I Looked, Then I Asked Him to Pull Up Account 0001

I thought about it.

 

“Because George would have,” I said. “In 1985, when the whole county was going under, a lot of farmers came into that bank angry. Some of them said terrible things to George. Called him names. Blamed him for the interest rates, the land prices, the weather. One of them threw a chair through the front window.”

 

“What did George do?” Brandon asked.

 

“He gave the man a loan,” I said. “Fixed the window himself. Never pressed charges. The man paid back every cent. His grandson runs the feed store now.”

 

I picked up the bowl of peas. I held it out to him.

 

“George used to say there are two kinds of people in a bank,” I said. “People who’ve been treated badly. And people who are about to be. You can be the one who treats them badly. Or you can be the one who doesn’t. That’s the only choice you’ve got.”

Brandon looked at the bowl of peas.

He took it.

He sat back down in George’s rocking chair. He set the bowl in his lap. He picked up a pea pod and split it with his thumb, clumsy, the way somebody does when they’ve never done it before.

The peas rolled out into the bowl.

“Like that?” he asked.

“Like that,” I said.

He came the next Saturday at eight in the morning.

He was wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt and old sneakers. White ones. Cheap. He’d bought them at the Dollar General on Route 9, he told me later. He wanted them to look like his grandmother’s.

He didn’t know anything about gardening. Nothing. He didn’t know a tomato sucker from a tomato leaf. He pulled up half a row of my carrots thinking they were weeds.

“Those were carrots, Brandon.”

“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

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