At the Union Square Bank in the late '90s
An exercise: Write about a mundane errand and rely on the character to make it interesting
Note to readers: Thanks for being here! The following exercise is fiction. I usually write nonfiction, so it’s important to clarify. But, it’s relevant to my nonfiction practice because I’ve been thinking a lot about how much memoir utilizes elements from fiction, so it’s fun to practice with a broad spectrum of real/not-real. This piece germinated from a real memory of taking out money at the Union Square branch of Amalgamated Bank before I flew to South America for nearly a year-long adventure in 2001. I don’t actually remember standing on line at the bank, but I knew I took the money out. This short bit is really about practicing description and characterization. Enjoy!
The line inched forward. The older man in front of her leaned hard into his cane, making a squeaking sound. How much will I need? She looked up at the cavernous ceiling, shadows and light masking the flight of sparrows. If I have too much, I’ll probably get robbed. But how much is the right amount to risk losing? Her sandaled feet shifted in place. Her arms waved slowly back and forth, dashiki sleeves waving. She became a flag. No. Behave! She bit her lip.
Shuffle forward. The A.C.vent caught her calves in the new position. Only two ahead of her. Gooseflesh rose from her feet to thighs. She wished for her sneakers. Anything to cover her toes. She curled them tight. Ten tiny armadillos. Her attention wandered after the vision of little armored creatures crowding together for warmth in the frigid bank hall.
The line moved. The woman behind her cleared her throat. She stepped forward, and the line snaking behind her seemed to step in unison after. Now the man with the cane stood at the teller window. He lay out a stack of checks. One of them needed a signature. He balanced the handle of his cane on the ledge and reached for the pen on a metal chain.
She rubbed her fingers together in a soft, almost snapping motion, wondering if one hundred dollars was the right amount. One foot idly extended out and completed an unconscious ronde do jambe. A metronome sounded in her mind. Her sandal skipped on the break in the tile. Now she was the squeaker. No wooden ballet floors here. The old man joked with the teller. She looked down. That’s it! she thought. Travelers Checks and cash. Some for each pocket.