Old Coot is on the dole

By Merlin Lessler —

I’ve been on the dole for two decades, getting back some of the contributions I paid into the Social Security System for 40 years. This is what I wrote in September 2004, when I hopped on the bandwagon.

“I applied for Social Security the other day. It’s something all old coots eventually do. I went in person; I thought it too important to do over the phone or on the Internet. I was wrong!

It started the minute I entered the Federal building in Binghamton. You have to enter through a revolving door. I don’t like those things. I always get whacked or pinched when I encounter one. This door was out of kilter; it started hard and then wouldn’t stop. It threw me into the lobby, the same way that a bouncer tosses a troublemaker out of a barroom.

Two rumpled security guards met me inside, asked where I was going, checked my knapsack, waltzed me through a metal detector, and pointed me to the waiting room down the hall.

I entered and settled myself into an orange vinyl chair in the corner. The room was nearly full. An elderly woman leaned over and advised me to take a number. I’d walked right by the rack on the way in, so I went back and got one, number 16. I didn’t care that I’d have to wait; this was an important event, and I was eager for it to unfold.

I took out my notebook and started writing; it was the article about a squirrel swimming across the river that I followed in my kayak. I wrote for 20 minutes, glancing at the clock and my fellow citizens who had come to deal with the bureaucracy.

They were a mixed bag. Some were old coots like me, signing up for our government pension. Others were young: getting a replacement card because they’d lost theirs or applying for a death benefit for a relative who had passed away. We were all in the same boat; we had to wait our turn.

Finally, one of the two clerks that serviced the room from behind bulletproof glass yelled out, “Number six.” Nobody moved. She shouted it again; an old coot and his wife from the other side of the room stood up and shuffled toward the teller’s window.

That’s when I started to have misgivings about doing this in person. “Number six,” I said to myself. “I’ve got number sixteen, ten to go and it took twenty minutes to call one number.”

That’s when I began to examine my surroundings. The door caught my eye first. It was open and fastened to the wall next to the “take a number” dispenser. It had a sign on it; everything in a government office has a sign on it. This one said, “Social Security – visitors only, no food or beverage.” They can’t just identify the room and let it go at that. They have to exert authority; let you know who’s in charge.

There was a video camera in a corner of the room near the ceiling. They must expect one of us to get irritated and cause a ruckus. They’ll get it on film to assure a successful prosecution. I looked at the wall behind me; it held an official government banner, “Social Security – Helping People Live Better for 65 Years.”

Otherwise, the place was bleak: green walls, granite floors, a clock on the sidewall above a plastic rack of information booklets. I didn’t feel “secure,” in spite of the proclamation on the banner at my back.

Number six and his wife finally made it to the teller. “I’m here to collect my pension,” he announced. “What’s your social security number,” replied the stone-faced clerk. He didn’t get past the first three numbers – “007,” he said. Then his wife stepped in and informed the clerk that it was 077, not 007.

That’s when I decided to pack it in. I knew I’d never get out of there. I went home and signed up on the Internet; it took ten minutes. My big day wasn’t as big as I thought it would be.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com.