The Welfare Office was packed. Wall to wall people, crying babies, whole lotta pensive faces. There's a window where you check in first, to state your business. I tell the friendly young guy that I'm just there to submit one more piece of paper, for my pending application. Peering into the computer screen, he says, his face brightening, "I'm gonna cheat here...I'm gonna sneak you in. Have a seat and a woman will call you in just a minute." I can tell that most of these people are waiting more than just a minute. If this were my first visit I'd protest, of course. But since I already went through the interview last week, and since I'm here between working two jobs, I go along. Besides, it looks like it made his day to play with the system just a bit.
The woman who calls me into an office is Native American. She's quite nice, and professional. Gets the papers in order quick. I can't help having this thought, though: does she, somewhere, feel just a little satisfaction at me, a struggling white person, coming to ask the government, via her, for help? I hope it's not rude of me to wonder this. It actually seems kinda cool. My minute contribution to the national karmic/historic debt.
After a few minutes of paper-shuffling, she gives me a verdict. Using a complex system of points, percentages, income levels, algorithms, star charts, augury and divination, the Department of Human Services has decided that it can pay half my gas bill. And they wish me the best on plea-bargaining with the company for the other half. I thank her and say that I'm grateful for whatever assistance I can get.
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