“I’m the manager,” he says.
Sometimes they believe him. Sometimes they don’t.
He always cashes their checks anyway.
Last month, a woman came in.
I was there. It was a Thursday. I’d stopped by to drop off some rhubarb for Shelly.
The woman was maybe forty. Thin. Tired. Wearing a gray uniform with a name patch that said CLEAN-PRO SERVICES. Rubber gloves sticking out of her back pocket. White sneakers with bleach stains on them.
She had a little girl with her. Seven or eight. Holding her hand.
Ezoic
She came up to Brandon’s window. She held out a paycheck. Her hand was shaking a little.
Ezoic
“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.
