A couple of years ago, my son lost his Social Security card and mine, being about 40 years old and barely held together by paper fiber, needed to be replaced. So, I told him I’d take him. The idea of going to the big city Social Security office was a non-starter. I was told that a brand new office had opened in a small town not too far away so that was the plan.
We drove about an hour and a half—much more tranquil than waiting in an unending line in Houston—and pulled into an empty parking lot of what looked like a brand new post office building. I was worried we’d come all this way and it was closed but the parking lot behind the building was full. Are there that many employees at this location that served maybe 2,000 people total?
It was your typical government office with carpet tile and ceiling tile, florescence lighting and a long counter from wall-to-wall. I seem to think the façade of the counter was orange but maybe not. As we entered, a young lady with a stroller disappeared behind a door at the far end of the lobby which I figured was the bathroom. With her gone, it was my son and me and absolutely no one else in the lobby. Behind the counter were probably ten employees, all in cubicles, all staring at computer screens. Every once in a while, one would type in a couple of somethings and then sit back and watch the screen.
I approached the counter. No one came up at first. I watched this woman slowly stand and begin walking between her desk and some undetermined destination but walking really wasn't what she was doing and shuffling would be too ambitious. Finally a guy looks up from behind a desk and ambles my way.
“We’re here to get a new copy of our Social Secur…”
He interrupted, “You have to take a number.”
I slowly turned my head back and saw the empty lobby and then glanced at my son. “Well, he’s with me so…”
He pointed at the gizmo that holds the roll of paper tickets. I really thought he was screwing with me.
I chuckled. “We’re all the customers you have.”
“Number,” he pointed at the machine and then turned and shuffled back to his desk.
I pointed at my son, “Him too?” but there was no reply.
I stared behind the counter and with the abundant amount of employees, I figured even with the lady with child still in the bathroom, we could all be accommodated. I shrugged my shoulders nodded to my son and we took a number. It was, say 53. (I don’t remember the exact number. I wish I had kept it as a memento of government ineptitude.)
I had no idea what number had last been called until I sat and saw the electronic number board above the bathroom, from where the lady and her baby had yet to appear. It was on 50.
We sat there, the woman was still moving (an overstatement) toward wherever she was headed. Maybe I missed tiny jumps she could be taking, allowing a bit of earth to rotate beneath her feet.
After about five minutes the guy I had spoken to ambled up to the counter and yelled out, “51.”
Again, there was only my son and me. I glanced around the lobby to witness some paranormal being appearing from thin air to take his turn but no such luck.
Maybe the disappearing lady with child was 51 or 52. At this point and time: screw the lady. Get to your feet, lose your seat.
He clicked a button and the number switched to 52.
“52.” I was biting down hard on my lower lip. Where did 51 and 52 go? I knew that if the guy instructed me to go into the door at the end of the lobby I wasn’t going to do it. Poor lady.
“53.” I felt like I had won the lotto.
There were forms and other forms plus forms to qualify the original form and after about ten minutes, we were out of there. The woman had finally made it back to her desk though she had become perturbed when she realized she had left whatever she was looking for at the place it took her ten minutes to get to and, with great effort, rose from the chair and began the awkward gait to that far off land.
Forever etched into my brain: this is government work and I’m glad I never pursued it when I was a kid.
And the lady never emerged from the bathroom. No child either.