I was at work texting with a friend back home and he let it be known our other friend’s in a bad way. He has some kind of complication related to his Lyme disease medication, a neuropathy, a numbness in the arms and legs. The cure is worse than the disease. And plus his dad is dying. I got in a group chat with some others, what’s going on? It was unclear to me whether he was waiting to take steroids that would cure him or getting off of steroids that would kill him. There was talk of a special diet and botanicals. He may be in the hands of hippie witch doctors, I don’t know. I sighed and returned to my workflow dashboard.

The Social Security Place

I love the long, zigzagging hallway, the barren decor. The beige linoleum floor and the outlets saying do not use. Each number called starts with a frightening burst of feedback. I was 987. 

The man on the other side of the window looked so bored I thought he was going to turn me down and send me home. For no reason. Only that it was the only appropriate gesture for someone so radically detached from what he’s doing. He asked me for this, he asked for that. Jackie’s passport. Mine. I sat at the edge of the chair and wondered if this was a mistake. I need to recalibrate my posture, my speech, I thought, to better match his affect. I eased back an inch or two.

“Here’s your receipt,” he said suddenly. “I suggest you keep it. You’ll get the card in seven to ten business days.”

I thanked him, what’s the word. Not warmly. Emphatically. I gathered up my things, the birth certificate, the passports. Trying not to linger. And then I turned around and walked away.