The teller finally looked up from her computer.
"I'll need two pieces of identification."
Grandpa nodded.
"Of course."
He reached into his wallet and passed her his driver's license and Medicare card.
His hands were rough from years of work.
The skin around his knuckles was thick, and there were small marks on his fingers that had come from tools, wire, and machinery.
I had seen those hands repair things that other people would have thrown away.
I had also seen them hold a newborn calf steady while it struggled to stand.
To me, they were simply Grandpa's hands.
The teller accepted the cards.
She picked up his driver's license and raised it toward the ceiling lights.
I stared at her.
She turned it slightly, examining it with a level of suspicion that seemed absurd.
Grandpa watched her quietly.
I felt my shoulders tighten.
There was nothing wrong with his identification.
There was nothing suspicious about a man in work clothes wanting to withdraw his own money.
But she continued studying the card as though she expected to catch it lying.
Then she placed it beside her keyboard.
Her attention returned to the withdrawal request.
"Two thousand dollars is quite a bit of cash."
Grandpa gave a small nod.
"That's what I need."
She glanced at the computer again.
"What are you planning to use it for?"
I waited for Grandpa to tell her it was none of her business.
I would have said it myself.
He didn't.
"I need a part for my tractor."
That should have been the end of the conversation.
Instead, I heard a short laugh behind us.
The older woman waiting in line had reacted to the exchange.
It wasn't a loud laugh.
That almost made it worse.
It was the sort of little sound people make when they believe they have found someone safe to laugh at.
I turned around.
She quickly looked away.
Grandpa didn't even turn his head.
He stood there holding his cap, apparently willing to let the moment pass.
The teller smiled.
There was no warmth in it.
She spoke as though she were explaining something simple to a child.
"Most customers in your circumstances find the ATM more convenient."
I looked at the machine near the entrance.
It wasn't difficult to understand why she had mentioned it.
She seemed to think the machine was the proper place for a man who looked like Grandpa.
Maybe she thought he would be confused by the counter.
Maybe she thought he didn't belong in the building.
Whatever she believed, she had stopped treating him like an ordinary customer.
Grandpa remained polite.
"I can't get the amount I need from that machine."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Then perhaps you should reconsider how much you need."
For a second, I couldn't believe I had heard her correctly.
I looked at Grandpa.
He was still holding his cap.
His face hadn't changed, but I knew him well enough to recognize the way he went quiet when he was giving somebody every opportunity to correct themselves.
He had given her that opportunity.
She hadn't taken it.
I stepped closer to the counter.
"He's asking to withdraw money from his own account."
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
The teller looked at me as though I had interrupted a private conversation.
"I understand that."
"Then why are you giving him a hard time?"
She didn't answer the question.
Instead, she glanced toward the other people waiting.
That small movement told me she knew there was an audience.
She seemed more concerned with maintaining control of the conversation than with helping the man standing directly in front of her.
Grandpa finally looked at me.
It was a brief glance.
He didn't tell me to stop talking, but I understood what he meant.
He wasn't asking me to defend him.
He was asking me not to turn an unpleasant situation into a public argument.
I swallowed what I wanted to say next.
Looking back, I wish I had paid more attention to what he was doing.
He wasn't shrinking.
He wasn't apologizing for his boots.
He wasn't trying to prove that a farmer deserved the same treatment as anyone else.
He was simply waiting to see what kind of person the teller would choose to be.
And she kept choosing badly.
She reached for the telephone on her desk.
My stomach tightened.
There was no reason for that call.
Grandpa hadn't raised his voice.
He hadn't threatened anybody.
He hadn't even complained about the way she was speaking to him.
Yet she lifted the receiver and pressed a button.
"Rick, could you come to the third window, please?"
She paused.
Then she added something that made my face burn.
"I'm having a problem with a customer who's becoming difficult."
I looked at Grandpa again.
He was standing exactly where he had been standing before.
His cap rested between his hands.
His shoulders were relaxed.
He hadn't moved toward her.
He hadn't struck the counter.
He hadn't done anything that could reasonably be called difficult.
The woman behind us stopped smiling.
For the first time, I wondered whether she was beginning to understand how ugly the scene looked.
I wished I could say I stayed calm.
I didn't.
My hands had curled into fists at my sides, and I was working hard to keep my mouth shut.
Grandpa noticed.
He gave me the smallest shake of his head.
So I waited.
The teller set down the phone.
She looked satisfied, as if she had taken the proper step to handle an unruly stranger.
She had no idea what she had just set in motion.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: The Security Guard Approached My Grandfather, but Grandpa Was Looking Somewhere Neither of Them Expected
All We Needed Was Two Thousand Dollars, but the Woman Behind the Counter Had Already Made Up Her Mind
Part 2 of 8
