Friday, October 5, 2007
Little Social Security Office of Horrors!
I lost one of my books for school and had a bit of a meltdown. After doing one of the mandatory stress tests and totally freaking out on the poor women whose job it is to read the shit, I felt a little better. I decided rather than waste the day reading comic books and watching movies, I'd be productive.
As I've stated in the past, I don't drive. Never got my license, driving permit is expired, I have no valid ID whatsoever. After going to the tattoo place, I was informed I'd need at the very least a Mass ID. The only problem with a Mass Id, is that I need a real social security card and all I have is a photocopy. I glanced over the Social Security website for the requirements of getting a replacement, and it stated clearly that they could not use photocopied ones or birth certificates. At this point, I'm freaking out. What a vicious circle! Can't get ID because I don't have a Social Security card and can't get one because I don't have ID! I took my school ID, birth certificate, pieces of mail, and my photocopied card just in case.
For those of you who are familiar with Quincy Center, the Social Security office is in Presidents Plaza, across from the T station. I had no idea, but yes, it is apparently more than just a Dunkin Donuts, a "Stash's Pizza, and a Dentists office. Who knew? Anywho, it's on the second floor of this building. I went in, took a number, and sat down in my own section of the room. What a sight it was.
On one side of the room, you've got a myriad of cultures, all trying to figure out social security or they've been caught using a fake one, who knows? On the other side, it was a grazing ground for a group of industrial size vats of tapioca pudding, vaguely resembling human beings. And last but not least was a band of coffin dodgers, older than the hills and smelling of Polydent and death. They were there to let the Social Security people know that against the very will of the universe, they would still be receiving their social security checks. Adult diapers and hard candy aren't going to buy themselves, now are they?
I waited for what seemed like an eternity, I thought for sure we'd have at least one casualty before my number was called. Between the shifty eyed Latino man jumping out the window at the sight of an INS agent, the Mack truck sized woman, whose breathing I could hear over my (very loud) music, heart giving out, or one of the denture wearing geriatrics to simply getting too close to the air vent and turning to dust before my very eyes, leaving a pile of orthopedic shoes, cataracts glasses, sensible slacks, and a "Life Alert" bracelet behind.
Alas, nothing of the sort. Waiting, waiting, waiting. There was a slight argument, but no blood, not even profanity. Finally, number 104 (that was me) gets called. I snake my way through the refugee camp, fat camp, and the AARP headquarters and get to the window. I tell the woman behind the glass my needs, and present my Student ID and application. In the back of my mind, I half expected to be told I didn't exist. A SWAT team busting down the doors and repelling through the windows to haul me off to some secret base in a mountain somewhere. Or have to face an interview with Harrison Ford or something to determine if I was a replicant (Blade Runner reference...) Safe this time. She entered my info in the computer and gave me a piece of paper. I will be the proud owner of a brand new Social Security card in 7-10 days.
Blame Hans Strongo