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number 68, please approach window C
Jan. 22nd, 2004 12:11 pmI would attempt to go back to sleep if I thought it would do much good. Have been up since 9:30am, which is early for someone who worked til 1am last night.
I woke up so early to venture to the Social Security office, which is indeed more hellish than the Driver's License office. There is no parking of course, so one must circle blocks until a meter spot opens up somewhere, and preferably not in a place where one would have to try and parallel park. (I can't parallel park without hyperventilating these days, not since I hit that car.) An interesting fact about many meters in the vicinity of 9th and San Jacinto: the meters are capped at one hour parking.
With luck I managed not to get a ticket despite spending more than an hour away from my vehicle. The SS office is located in a large building that also houses probation offices and various other federal entities unknown to me. Once upon a time it was home to the post office. But they moved several blocks over to Guadalupe where they could have an actual parking lot.
The men working the metal detectors and security desk all look as if they would be more comfortable at the country club, or sipping scotch in leather armchairs. Inside the confusing mass of humanity I found the ticket machine and pulled my number.
Thursdays are apparently the days when they have a deaf interpreter on staff, and so half of the crowd was deaf, mute or both. I do not know sign language, but fuck you is fairly obvious no matter how you say it. I am not sure why there were so many angry deaf people in the waiting room today.
Unwilling to wedge myself on a plastic chair between the woman with a Persian cat's smashed up face and the large deaf woman making rude gestures, I stood against the wall where I could see all the counters. One thing I have never quite understood about government offices is why they have so many windows when there are never enough people to work all of them. Is it some forlorn hope that one day they will be able to process people faster, that the wait times will not exceed an hour?
At about 10:30, a very large man with the body language and aura of a sexual predator began staring at me. I glanced at him once, noted the track pants, the Wal-Mart style tshirt, the greasy and curly black hair and brown eyes before I looked away. He remained though, out of the corner of my eye. The look was unmistakable. I've seen that look, from another man's face. It's something very close to hate. I moved away and he followed. Fifteen minutes later, one of those kindly Southern gentlemen with a gun on his hip sent the man away. He asked if I was okay, and I smoothed out my crumpled papers.
Having your number called is really a tease. The person behind the counter figures out what you want, and then sends you back into the waiting room hell to wait for someone to call out your name. I waited another fifteen minutes, thinking about my car and wondering how much parking tickets cost these days.
Despite the instructions on my paperwork that clearly state I must bring two forms of identification, and that my original Social Security card would not be accepted as identification, all the clerk wanted to see was my marriage license and my SS card. The passport and two drivers licenses, one in each name, were useless. In seven to ten days, a new card will arrive.
I cut someone off on the highway coming home, half because I was exhausted and half because I was feeling spiteful. My head hurts, and I've lost an hour of my life to a dreary government office that looked like something out of the USSR circa 1970, except without the hats and coats.
I woke up so early to venture to the Social Security office, which is indeed more hellish than the Driver's License office. There is no parking of course, so one must circle blocks until a meter spot opens up somewhere, and preferably not in a place where one would have to try and parallel park. (I can't parallel park without hyperventilating these days, not since I hit that car.) An interesting fact about many meters in the vicinity of 9th and San Jacinto: the meters are capped at one hour parking.
With luck I managed not to get a ticket despite spending more than an hour away from my vehicle. The SS office is located in a large building that also houses probation offices and various other federal entities unknown to me. Once upon a time it was home to the post office. But they moved several blocks over to Guadalupe where they could have an actual parking lot.
The men working the metal detectors and security desk all look as if they would be more comfortable at the country club, or sipping scotch in leather armchairs. Inside the confusing mass of humanity I found the ticket machine and pulled my number.
Thursdays are apparently the days when they have a deaf interpreter on staff, and so half of the crowd was deaf, mute or both. I do not know sign language, but fuck you is fairly obvious no matter how you say it. I am not sure why there were so many angry deaf people in the waiting room today.
Unwilling to wedge myself on a plastic chair between the woman with a Persian cat's smashed up face and the large deaf woman making rude gestures, I stood against the wall where I could see all the counters. One thing I have never quite understood about government offices is why they have so many windows when there are never enough people to work all of them. Is it some forlorn hope that one day they will be able to process people faster, that the wait times will not exceed an hour?
At about 10:30, a very large man with the body language and aura of a sexual predator began staring at me. I glanced at him once, noted the track pants, the Wal-Mart style tshirt, the greasy and curly black hair and brown eyes before I looked away. He remained though, out of the corner of my eye. The look was unmistakable. I've seen that look, from another man's face. It's something very close to hate. I moved away and he followed. Fifteen minutes later, one of those kindly Southern gentlemen with a gun on his hip sent the man away. He asked if I was okay, and I smoothed out my crumpled papers.
Having your number called is really a tease. The person behind the counter figures out what you want, and then sends you back into the waiting room hell to wait for someone to call out your name. I waited another fifteen minutes, thinking about my car and wondering how much parking tickets cost these days.
Despite the instructions on my paperwork that clearly state I must bring two forms of identification, and that my original Social Security card would not be accepted as identification, all the clerk wanted to see was my marriage license and my SS card. The passport and two drivers licenses, one in each name, were useless. In seven to ten days, a new card will arrive.
I cut someone off on the highway coming home, half because I was exhausted and half because I was feeling spiteful. My head hurts, and I've lost an hour of my life to a dreary government office that looked like something out of the USSR circa 1970, except without the hats and coats.