I got my identity back with a visit to the zoo

[Bob Womack]

I got my identity back with a visit to the zoo

Speaking figuratively, of course.

A few weeks ago, I received a letter from the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles correctly listing my legal name, date of birth, and social security number. The letter informed me that one of those items of information didn't jive with the information provided by the Social Security Administration and I would be denied a license renewal until the conflict was resolved. Yak! In today's world, no driver's license, no identity.

The demand for proper information on a Virginia driver's license is, I suppose, completely understandable, given that all of the 9/11 hijackers were traveling under forged Virginia driver's licenses. The state is tightening up. Good for them. However, my name and birth date have not changed for nearly 50 years. My social security number and information, established when I was issued my social security card in the early nineteen sixties, hasn't changed since then. Look, I still have my original Social Security card and the stub which state all this info, CORRECTLY.

I made the usual attempts at phone and internet contact with the huge, sprawling SS administration but gave up temporarily after wandering down countless phone-mail menus and internet pages to dead ends. Then, fortuitously, my benefits statement arrived from Social Security, addressed to one "Bob" Womack. "Bob" is my nickname, not my legal name. *Light bulb*

I made another fore' into the arcane halls of the SS voice menu system, deciding to use the "Survivor" teleivision show strategy and simply outwit and outlast the menus by surfing the ‘net while I waited. Lo' and behold, *forty minutes later*, a lady agent, giggling from a joke told to her by the agent in the cubicle to her left, actually picked up the phone. When I explained my situation, she said I'd need to fill out an application for a new Social Security card and provide my birth certificate to sort this issue. “What?” I replied, “You want me to send my birth certificate in the mail?” “No, no, no. You’ll have to go to your local office,” she giggled. The local office is also protected by an impenetrable wall of voice-mail. Preparing to send an application for a new card to me, she then double-checked my name and address, stating my name as “Robert”. Hello? Mailing name and subscriber name are different fields in the form. This can only be sorted with a birth certificate.

So, knowing that government only understands the power of the sword, I took a half-day off to visit the local Social Security office. Bureaucracy is the only constant in the universe. Remember folks, a true bureaucrat can no more understand customer service than he can understand the mystery of hiring on the basis of qualification. Remember that when you consider turning over healthcare to the government. And thus began my trip to the zoo. My wife has taught me the basic skills of "people watching". When all else fails and you forget to bring a book to the government waiting room (as I did), you can always people watch. In the waiting room, the only smile proffered by a person associated with the enterprise belonged to the pleasant female security guard at the door. Her comely smile and bold sleeve patch immediately identified her as a representative of a private, contract security firm. She issued me number “82”. I looked up at the counter boards to discover that they were currently on “67”. Right about that time, half of the agents went on lunch break. Hoo-boy. I settled into a seat in the middle row of the waiting room facing the windows with their “Interview in progress. Do not disturb!” signs.

In the row ahead of me was a guy we’ll call Mr. Hip-Hop. This young, white fellow had on the obligatory baseball cap perched at the obligatory odd angle, with the obligatory, multi-color “****-you!” logo, front and back. His obligatory black t-shirt, above obligatory oversized jeans, sported two hands on the chest: one making the thumbs-up gesture, the other making the common rude gesture. Nevertheless, and oddly out of context, young Mr. Hip smiled ingratiatingly at all around him. In the row behind, Mr. Punk growled and grimaced at all. The thirty-something Mr. Punk had a three-inch mohawk haircut, died pink, and sported the obligatory chains, piercings, keds, and cammo, to identify him as bad to the bone. Do you have a problem with that? The lady two rows up, we’ll call her Ms. Trailer, was called up to the window and leaned down to place her elbows languidly onto the frame. She spent her entire “interview” with the agent pushing onto her tiptoes and wiggling her hind-quarters for the whole waiting room to watch.

As I enjoyed the great American spectacle, I began to realize that my brand new sneakers rested in something really gooey on the floor. Right about as I decided to take another seat, a family of seven slid into the five seats beside me, pinning me in place. My new next-door neighbor was a guy about my age. He looked over at me with a benign, pleasant smile and nodded. I downshifted into small talk: “Well, at this rate, we can expect to be here over an hour,” I vouchsafed. Mr. Nextdoor smiled his pleasant smile and replied, “Man, mmmngln nglmnm blgtln ftlgltn!” and bobbed his head approvingly. I nodded what I hoped was an comprehending smile, and offered, “Well, you know government waiting rooms.” His face lit up again and he replied, “Snuglntm tflwoftnm mmmgln grftnum,” once again beaming at me. At that moment, I knew my wait would be fulfilling. From then on, whenever I got bored, I would smile and seed him a line, just to bask in the utter lack of communication we enjoyed.

Some hour and a half later my number came up and the fun had to end. I approached the unsmiling agent and cracked a joke about rescuing my identity, receiving her snicker with relish. I explained my situation and showed her my original Social Security papers from the early sixties with my proper information. She didn’t recognize the original stub and issuance papers (am I that old?) but immediately took the point, stating, “I can see how things could have gotten confused. Your nickname and legal first name are very close.” I pulled out my birth certificate to prove my citizenship, and she said, “Oh, you didn’t need to bring THAT.”

"All I need to see is your Drivers License.”

Bob

[Pvee]

I can relate to that.

When I applied for Social security I had an appointment, but when I walked in, there was about 50 people in the waiting room doing the take a number game.

What really shocked me was that out of the 50 waiting, only about 10 were my age (retirement age), and many looked 16 - 30 years old to me so they must be getting some kind of benefit that never heard about.

Anyway, my appointment was only about 10 minutes late and I was really impressed with the lady that signed me up. She was really on the ball, informative and seemed to really like her job.

[lotech]

After Katrina, when we learned from listening to a battery powered police-scanner that a FEMA office had been set up in our town, we burned precious irreplaceable gasoline to get there, only to be told we had to have a FEMA registration number in order for them to talk to us about anything at all. "It's easy", they said, "Just call this 800 number, or go online at WWW.FEMA.GOV."
Wow, piece-of-cake, all we have to do is utilize the communications infrastructure that has been rendered totally null and void by the disaster, in order to get a number that identifies us as being affected by the disaster, before the disaster relief agency's representatives are allowed to listen to us tell them, by word-of-mouth that all communications with the outside world have been cut off by the disaster.
. . .and the rest is history.

[anothersmith]

Originally Posted by Bob Womack

She didn’t recognize the original stub and issuance papers (am I that old?) but immediately took the point, stating, “I can see how things could have gotten confused. Your nickname and legal first name are very close.”

So your legal name is Bobert?

[SouthernCelt]

Well, Bob, looks as though your signature quote may also be apt for the Social Security Admin.

[Bern]

You are always going to be THE Bob Womack to us. I don't care what anybody says.

[preston]

"Fear not, Mister Womack . . . we're from the government and we're here to help you !"

[cominghome419]

Mr. Nextdoor smiled his pleasant smile and replied, “Man, mmmngln nglmnm blgtln ftlgltn!” and bobbed his head approvingly. I nodded what I hoped was an comprehending smile, and offered, “Well, you know government waiting rooms.” His face lit up again and he replied, “Snuglntm tflwoftnm mmmgln grftnum,” once again beaming at me. At that moment, I knew my wait would be fulfilling. From then on, whenever I got bored, I would smile and seed him a line, just to bask in the utter lack of communication we enjoyed.

HAHA. This was my favorite part, and I can relate very very much. Both my brother and one of my co-workers mumble like crazy. Oh, youre one very entertaining fellow, Mr. Womack.

[barkley_01007]

Great story!

[Bluepoet]

Enjoyable story, Bob...now I know what to look forward to, when I go to the SSA with my wife, to try to get her on disability...can't wait...

Actually, I was there a couple of years ago, when I lost my original SS card...I still have the scars.

Yes, now I can remember...I filled out the form, that I thoughtfully printed from their online site, and went on down there, to find people standing in the wrong line, with a woman who periodically would come out from the back and inform everyone that the line was for getting or replacing SS cards, only...(No, don't bother to post a sign or anything, that would probably negate the lady's job description, and confuse everyone even more!). Oh, and don't let anyone know about the application form until they've waited through the line, and now must go sit and fill out the form, and get back in line!!! That anger management perk gives the Security guard something to do, alright...if he wakes up, that is...

I remember they took great pains to remind me to not laminate my card, when I got it...(six to eight weeks, naturally)...

I don't care...it accidentally got covered with some clear plastic, somehow...I don't want to go back, to prove that I ultimately exist, as a societal drone.

Oh, and the jibe about the government taking over the health care system? I sympathize, but, they couldn't screw it up any worse than it is, anyway...run by insurance companies...just ask my wife about that nightmare!
...but, I digress...

Actually, I think it would be a good idea to put SSA offices right inside hospitals...mutual business generation...!