Having trumped the Immigration Service yesterday, I felt my loins sufficiently girded to have another tilt at the Social Security Administration. Having one of their numbers in my possession will greatly facilitate closing out my bank accounts.
My last foray in that direction was way back in Montana, where a nice young lady had taken the trouble to find out how to give me a number, and was about to do the deed when we discovered I'd sent the essential document to Immigration. (I had noted the number, but, surprisingly for the SSA, they didn't want the number, they wanted the object.)
But now my documentation is complete, so I dropped into the local office. It was a small office, so, although they had the mandatory man-with-a-gun, he declined to look up my bottom (to be absolutely honest, he seemed a little surprised at the offer) He told me to take a number; from a little dispensing machine. This, I thought, is easier than I expected. But it turned out only to be a queueing number.
When I got to see the clerk, she was all brusque and business-like. I'm very sympathetic to social security staff. They sometimes have to deal with people who are sometimes very stressed. She looked at my documents. No, she couldn't help, I was the wrong status. So how was the young lady in Montana going to do it, eh? Quick as a flash, the clerk pointed out that she (Montana) hadn't seen the document. If she had, she'd have known I was (chorus) the wrong status.
She suggested I go and see the Internal Revenue, but that is a circle aound which I decline to go again. They never do anything to help, anyway, but they collect information as they do (or rather, don't do) it. My father told me to keep away from the IRS. He was always threatening to shoot them (well, not always, just on Saturday nights).
Still, I suppose it's better to have a government that doesn't know what it's doing: I don't think we'd like the alternative. I shall just have to stick to cash.
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