By Merlin Lessler —<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve 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.<\/p>\n
\u201cI 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!<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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\u2019d have to wait; this was an important event, and I was eager for it to unfold.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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\u2019s window.<\/p>\n
That’s when I started to have misgivings about doing this in person. “Number six,\u201d I said to myself. \u201cI’ve got number sixteen, ten to go and it took twenty minutes to call one number.”<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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, \u201cSocial Security \u2013 Helping People Live Better for 65 Years.\u201d<\/p>\n
Otherwise, the place was bleak: green walls, granite floors, a clock on the sidewall above a plastic rack of information booklets. I didn\u2019t feel \u201csecure,\u201d in spite of the proclamation on the banner at my back.<\/p>\n
Number six and his wife finally made it to the teller. \u201cI\u2019m here to collect my pension,\u201d he announced. \u201cWhat\u2019s your social security number,\u201d replied the stone-faced clerk. He didn\u2019t get past the first three numbers \u2013 \u201c007,\u201d he said. Then his wife stepped in and informed the clerk that it was 077, not 007.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s when I decided to pack it in. I knew I\u2019d never get out of there. I went home and signed up on the Internet; it took ten minutes. My big day wasn\u2019t as big as I thought it would be.<\/p>\n