by Scott Creighton
Seated across the desk in the intake assessment office of Binder and Binder, the large eyed woman was cheerful and pleasant while she proficiently processed my claim. We had gone thru the small talk and the statistics and the “personal” story that she related to me about a friend who found themselves in the same position I was in. We talked about my first job, at 14, and hers as well, and how it was a shame that when one finds one’s self in a situation like this after nearly 30 years of paying into SSI, it is almost impossible to get the help they need. Her friend’s case was finally accepted after 3 years of litigation. It was only her family that kept her from starving to death in the mean time.
As we chatted, we were busy signing papers, and I was speed reading as best I could because I knew, in the end, this was a business for Binder and Binder and her performance evaluation wouldn’t be based on my personal feelings about her or the situation. I gathered that from the completely blank walls and the empty desk. Just the facts.
But overall, she had a pleasant demeanor about the process and I felt a little better about having to file for disability at the tender age of 41. Hell, you might even say I liked her.
She rose and asked me to wait while she got the notary for the last two forms.
When they returned, the tightly built, 44 year old notary breezed past me as if she had something else scheduled. We made eye contact as she sat across from me. She smiled. Kind of.
As she inspected my id and looked up at me again, I couldn’t resist and told her it wasn’t me. I was in disguise. She smiled that same little, non-committal smirk and suggested I should be careful who I make comments like that to these days. Now I was intrigued.
As she went on with the process, honed to a criminally efficient routine, she related a quick story about a 57 year old woman who had been detained by airport security someplace for having a book in her carry on that detailed differences between Christianity and Islam.
She glanced back up at me. Smirked.
Her fingers carried at least one ring each and her dress, though not original, wasn’t nearly off the rack. Apparently the disability trade is better for some than others.
Not one to take subtle innuendo lightly, I responded.
Without breaking eye contact and with a mirrored smirk I told her “it is a funny world we live in now. But you know what’s even funnier? They’ll go after that woman for having a book. Information. Yet when asked about the tens of thousands of dollars wired from Pakistan by Ahmad Sheikh to the head of the 9/11 hijackers, Muhammad Atta, the 911 Commission responded by saying “ultimately who financed the attacks is of little consequence”.
Her smirk went away.
She put her head down, and went back to her task. With her gleaming fingers she dutifully stamped the two pages of my intake forms, spun them around on the desk, and pushed them my way. She no longer maintained the slightest effort to hide her feelings toward me.
Now, at this point, I am sure she expected some other response than the one I was to give her, and, to be honest, I don’t know why I didn’t let it go. Maybe it was that she expected me to cow or something. Maybe it was the real disdain she felt for me, that made me just wonder if I could push for more.
Maybe I was just bored with her vapid arrogance.
I reached out and put my hand on the pages to slide them over and sign them, but I waited till she looked up at me and saw the same smirk she had greeted me with.
“But funniest of all is that after 40 million dollars of our money, we can’t even feel comfortable talking about the investigation into the biggest crime in US history. Isn’t that odd?”
I signed the papers and she signed the stamp and left with out uttering a word. Our business together had become as barren and clinical as the walls around us. I wonder if this was the effect the business model had calculated for the room.
Maybe next week they’ll get a plant.
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