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“Just means fewer haircuts, Dave,” he’d tell me, laughing as he ran his fingers through his wispy hair. He didn’t care about that as much as other men seemed to. My mother would have winced if she’d seen him go to a fancy appointment like this wearing his work jeans and an old T- shirt with a comic book character on it.Īt least he’d combed his hair, though it was starting to thin. His hands were thick with calluses, his skin tan from days spent working in the sun. “Everything I own is on there,” my father said, indicating the paper on the desk in front of us. “If we had more collateral . . .” the mortgage man said, showing teeth. Much like the man in front of us wore an imitation of a smile. It was an imitation of a comfortable home. There were little wood- framed pictures of family members on the walls, a cup of cheap candy with a glass lid on the desk, and a vase with faded plastic flowers on the filing cabinet.
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Our cubicle had glass sides, which made it less confining, but it still felt fake. We were to the side of the main bank chamber in one of the cubicles where the mortgage men worked. Thinking of his agony on that day still makes me shiver. I’d never heard it raised, save for that one time at my mother’s funeral. “David, turn around, please,” my father said. Everyone showed so much variety back then. The different shapes of faces, the hairstyles, the clothing, the expressions. I knelt backward on a chair that was too big for me, watching the flow of people. Men and women streamed in and out, as if the room were the heart of some enormous beast, pulsing with a lifeblood of people and cash. Two large revolving doors opened onto the street, with a set of conventional doors to the sides. A single open chamber with white pillars surrounding a tile mosaic floor, broad doors at the back that led deeper into the building. We used the old street names back then, before the Annexation. My father and I were at the First Union Bank on Adams Street.