Now Serving E98

I had to re-apply for a replacement Social Security card today.

And while this is a common complaint, it still amazes me how sitting and waiting in U.S. government buildings (ie. the DMV, the Post Office, the aforementioned Social Security office, etc.) always makes me feel like I'm not in America anymore -- or for that matter, not even in a First World country anymore.

I'm not an aristocrat, a blue blood, or a prude, so it isn't like I'm above waiting in line to get my business taken care of. I've been to buildings far more dilapidated and in far worse condition than this, so it isn't like I can't survive a measly 45 minutes. I don't have to endure any physical bodily pain (I can't even complain of any mental anguish as I brought two books with me to stave off the boredom), so it's already got a leg up on getting your wisdom teeth extracted at the oral surgeon's. But still, all of that aside, it doesn't change the fact that government offices are always entirely unpleasant.

Even by the kindest and most generous of standards, my fellow patrons are unattractive and overweight. People take the empty seat next to me instead of the empty seat next to the empty seat next to me. There's a single-toilet bathroom here, but I can wait; there's a water fountain here, but I can wait. A sign on the wall says "No Weapons" with the Ghostbusters sign crossing out a picture of a handgun and a knife; this is funny because of how absurd it is, but also a little troubling because people have assuredly set the precedent for these warnings by walking inside with a loaded, concealed revolver. The waiting room doesn't necessarily look disease-ridden, but I abstain from touching anything. For some reason, crying children are louder in here than they are in most other places; I don't know, it might be the acoustics. The crowd's overall hygiene could stand for a little improvement. A guy one row in front of me asks another guy in my row which way he's headed home and if it's possible if he could bum a ride -- I frantically divert eye contact.

But all in all, I'm not suffering, as that would be an over-dramatic and irresponsible use of the word. I'm definitely not fearful for my safety, as the armed security guard sitting near the front door looks more than capable of protecting me from getting shanked. And I'm not agitated to any appreciable degree, as I can think of very few things that are less stressful than simply sitting quietly and waiting. So I'm not in terrible shape, but at the same time, I am not content. I would like this to be over soon.

Even with the company of my two books, the perpetual sitting and waiting allows for the mind to wander, and I make trivial observations on the minutia of details that surround me:

There are headshots of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney on the wall; it goes without saying that Cheney has the most unflattering smile/sneer ever, but Bush is actually very photogenic. He has an effortless smile, so smooth and natural. With the way he flashes it for the camera, you wouldn't know that the weight of a nation -- and with that war on terror of his still waging, it's really the weight of multiple nations -- sits squarely on his shoulders. I actually find myself growing a little envious, because by comparison, my own smile is a little stiff and forced. I'm like a schoolboy on picture day, completely self-aware that other people are expecting me to smile and that it's what I'm supposed to be doing at that particular moment.

I intently watch as the office employees call out numbers on microphones from behind glass partitions: A207, E88, N13. This is the numerical order of our freedom. Once our number is called, we know that our sentence is almost up. I have ticket E98. I try to figure out the order, try to unlock their secret. It's like those math problems we used to have do in Liberal Arts I & II: "3, 6, 12, 17, 22, 42...what digit comes next?" Eventually I give up because I'm an awful math student and I'm convinced that they're just calling out numbers randomly and arbitrarily. I know this because they actually called E99 before E98, which caused me to suffer a mini panic attack until they called my own ticket number about 3 seconds later.

I am grateful to the kid wearing the Hannah Montana t-shirt. Seeing it was confirmation that, yes, I was still a part of civilization. It was oddly reassuring. It was a reminder of my previous life, the one just outside these front doors. Even in this purgatory, pop culture still exists. Thank you.

I'm an amateur sociologist, so I'm always aware of the people around me. After a quick survey of the room, I can report that 1/2 of the crowd is black, 1/4 is Hispanic, and the remaining 1/4 is a mixture of about three or four white people, one Middle Easterner towards the back, and me, the lone Asian. I've noticed that these figures are pretty standard for any time I have to visit any kind of government building. No one ever looks like me at places like this, not their facial features, or bone structure, or build, or hairstyle. And not just physically, but also from a personality standpoint -- judging entirely by everyone's book cover (and let's be real here, even though we've all been conditioned to consider this an entirely un-politically correct practice, I really do believe that our assumptions hit a lot closer to home than many of us are willing to admit), none of these people look like they have anything in common with me. Nothing, not music or art or ideology or cinema or literature or politics or philosophy or fashion. I imagine the only thing we do have in common is that we both happen to be sitting in this room together on this particular day, that and I'm guessing we both eat and breathe and sleep every once and a while. I wonder, where are all the other like-minded 20-something-year-olds? I never see them. I mean, certainly they have to replace their Social Security cards and renew their driver's licenses and mail out their Christmas presents sometime. Anyway, this always makes me feel so lonesome; not really the crushing, existentialist nobody-understands-me kind of loneliness, but more like the I-don't-have-anyone-to-sit-with-and-chat-with-at-this-one-moment kind of loneliness. It's sort of a bummer, I guess, but it's very temporary. I can't get too sad because I have the luxury of knowing that my plight can, and will, be remedied. Soon enough, they'll call me up, I'll turn in my replacement card application, and I'll get to go home to friends and family.

Surprisingly, the lady that I got was really nice and helpful. We even ended up making a little small talk as she processed my information.

And on a sidenote, it turns out that federal law states that each citizen is entitled to no more than three replacement Social Security cards in a year, and no more than 10 replacement cards in a lifetime. I highly doubt that I'll need 11 replacement cards before I die, but that still seems at least a little steep to me. I mean, what if...? This stipulation isn't enough to keep me awake at night, but it is enough to plant a tiny seed of doubt in my head. It's just something to keep in mind.