Last Tuesday I finally got up the ambition to go to the Social Security Office.
The doctor advised me to get the process going seeing as I have degenerative disc disease. Yeah right, okay, um. Well this sucks.
And so last Tuesday I went to the brand spankin’ new SSO, new state of the art building, new parking lot.
We were the only vehicle in the parking lot. It was about 2 in the afternoon. I walk in and the first person I meet is a police officer packing a gun. I’m thinking, this is Fergus Falls. Population 12,000.
And why would the SSO need this type of protection? Are people that crazy? Anyway, I look at him, he looks at me and says, “Sign in over there.”
I looked to where he was pointing and it was this black kiosk? Is that what they’re called? A little island computer doodie that asks me three questions: Do you have an appointment? Do you want an appointment? Do you want to talk to someone? I clicked on I “want to talk to someone.”
This little machine on the right spits out a paper that said I was number 65. I looked around the room, wondering where the other 64 were.
I was the only person/customer in there. The officer told me that my number would be called next. I’m not kidding.
I sat down in a chair that was facing the window, bullet-proof glass, I think, that enclosed the social security workers that I figured I’d be talking to. I sat right in their eye view. While they were talking about the happenings over the 4th of July, the food, someone getting drunk and hurting their shoulder, the boy getting sunburned, I looked around.
Nice shop. Important shop. Must be. Armed guard, bullet-proof glass, numerical punch combination lock on the main door to the offices. Whew!
This is damn important.
And while I sat there waiting, those women just kept talking about potato salad and their teen-aged daughters, and did you see what she was wearing?
This important place was nicely air conditioned, so I didn’t mind, although I started thinking about our tax dollars.
And the longer they talked the more unimportant I began to feel. Feeling unimportant in an important place that your tax dollars are supporting…well, I think I understand why they have an armed police officer there.
Some people, customers, or taxpayers might get a little fidgety. Not me. I just sat there in the wonder of it all.
After about 10 minutes, one of the women must have gone back to her own desk.
Then I heard, I am not kidding, my number being called out over an intercom. “Number 65! Number 65!”
You can’t make this stuff up.
Here I am, the only one in the room, a room the size of Pizza Hut, (in fact, Pizza Hut is right across the street), and it takes an intercom, apparently, to get my attention when I have been in her eye sight for the past 10 minutes. I am amused.
I walk up to the bullet-proof glass and here is this young woman speaking into a microphone that looks like something a DJ would use. She asks me how she can help me. I tell her that I need the forms to fill out for Social Security Disability. She tells me that I’ll have to make an appointment. I tell her that I will just fill them out online instead.
I left there thinking, “Wish I had her job.” A receptionist for the Social Security Office. A Federal employee. Sweet.
I have since decided to change my career path.