Social (In)Security

My husband Jeff and I recently had to go to our local Social Security office; needless to say, there really wasn't anything social about this call. We had been given information from another office that we weren't too sure about; the young woman who'd helped us there was not 100% clear. (Considering the fact that we were there because we are old, I thought she could have been more clear. )

Anyway, off we go to our local office to try to clarify this situation. A young man called our number. He, not for nothing, was wearing an old sweatshirt decorated with an eagle surrounded by feathers, and as he was as pasty-faced as I am, was NOT a Native American. He rather superciliously (for someone wearing a sweatshirt) informed us that we could not talk to him about it, we had to talk to our "original server", back in the other office. He gave us some information (that turned out to be wrong), and we left feeling very insecure, unsettled, and somewhat guilty for being so confused, a.k.a. stupid.

We went home, and we called our "original server". The message machine let us know that she was no longer "dealing with any cases unless your name starts with M through P". Since ours doesn't, we went back to our local office the very next day.

It was 9 A.M., and no one else was in the office except a Security Guard who, it's pretty fair to say, has seen his share of Big Macs, and Chief Raggedy-Ass Sweatshirt. He called our number, and we walked to his "office", which meant we sat in chairs facing him, with a sheet of glass protecting him from us. (A speaker was positioned in the glass so we could, in fact, communicate with him, although my husband continued to talk a little too loud; maybe he wasn't sure if the Chief spoke English or Lenni Lenape.)

We told him our sad story about not having a name that started with M through P, and he listened intently, blinking his eyes rather rapidly (I thought), then said "Well, I can't help you with your problem, because you have to make an appointment to discuss this."  I looked around the room; there was, still, no one else there. I raised my voice, and stated the obvious. There's. Nobody. Else. Here. I then used my sweetest smile, although Jeff told me later I had a rather pronounced facial tic going, and suggested "How's about you help us now, since there's no one else here?"

"No," he blinked, "you really have to have an appointment. It's the Rule."

Time stood still. I looked over at the Security Guard, who was watching the Today Show. The glass partition was an impediment, but I really thought I could find a way around it. I felt lightheaded; I wanted to revert to base, impolite behavior and call this kid a name, like Chief Whackjob, but I held my tongue. After a minute, he gave us our new appointment:

"You can come in tomorrow at 9 A.M."

I looked again at the Security Guard; he was pretty fat, and Matt Lauer and the Today Show Gang were being particularly enchanting... I knew I could get my hands around this kid's skinny neck before the Guard even got up from his chair. I stared at him, and in my most defiant, middle-income, retired lady manner  said,

"Seriously?"

I actually half rose in my chair. Jeff put one restraining hand on my knee; he was more in tune with the fact that the Security Guard also half rose in his chair, and was now much more interested in what I was doing than what Al Roker was doing. I sat back down: did Security Guards have a license to Bear Arms? Probably. Hey, if this idiotic, Native American Wannabe could make us come back in 24 hours to do the exact same thing he could do right the heck now, well, fatso over there could be packing something Smith and Wesson-ish, am I right?

But, there's a happy ending to this tale, and it is this: when we went back the next day, our appointment wasn't with Chief NumbNuts. Instead, a very knowledgeable and understanding woman helped us through the quagmire, and I even got a chance to tattle on the Chief, as he had indeed given us the wrong information. So there.

I had to resist the urge, on the way out, to walk by his "office"/glass partition and tell him to Number 1, get your facts straight, and #2, lose the eagle sweatshirt and wear a shirt and tie; you're a Public Servant, damn it. I had to resist because the Security Guard was now watching me constantly, with his hand resting on something, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't a Happy Meal.