It’s raining outside. Wet tracks mark the foot traffic on the bank floor. The six foot markers dividing space are fairly new. I’ve been scoping out this same branch for about a week now. These markers are yellow and striped. Two days ago, they were green.
When I stand on the marker, the woman in front of me shoots a look. Her mask has cartoon-esque faces of every conceivable race; some real, some made up. I stand back slowly, place my feet behind the line. Her eyes soften.
When you did a bank before, you just walked in with a mask, everyone knew the drill. Customers got down, tellers handed over the draw, insurance paid the claim. You were in.. out. Now there’s a line. Everyone has a mask, the bank has a policy.
What is this guy at the teller doing? Are those individual checks? My weight shifts in my feet and the manager reminds me that everyone is going as fast as they can. His mask is light blue, plain. His tie matches.
My teller is a middle-aged woman. She’s a rule follower; this will go okay. I make my demand. She looks confused. I thrust my bag at her. I tell her again and for the first time I hear my muffled voice. She leans in closer to hear better. Then other patrons stir, the manager comes to the doorway in his office.
I lift my mask, “Give me all of the Fucking money!”
Her eyes widen, “Sir, please do NOT remove your mask.”
No one moves. The customers and manager are still.
Filling the bag she mumbles. “Just because you’re young you know, that doesn’t mean anything. You could be an a-symptomatic carrier.”
“Okay, yeah.” The mask is back on my face. The bag is full and heavy.
I leave and my shoes squeak on the wet floor. The disapproving looks can be felt. When I’m near the door, one woman calls out, “Someone your age died. They were TWENTY-eight.” She emphasizes all the the t’s.