April 17th, 2012
I'm using my body like a springboard as I bounce off the Social Security Office building wall. I'm here due to the passing of my wife. I may be able to get early benefits for my boys.
Earlier, when I arrived for my 9:05am appointment, I had to park my car in the overpacked parking lot and walk a reasonable distance to the front entrance. I had to bring my youngest son, Christopher, with me since I didn't have a babysitter. My son is very independent, so I let him walk with me rather than grab the bulky double stroller.
We began our journey down the long stretch of roadway that coming cars drive up and down in their quest for the best parking space. The cars circle the parking lot like vultures, sensing death in the air. Yet, the drivers of those cars are glued to their cell phones, oblivious to the sight of life walking around them. I made sure Christopher stayed close to my right leg, keeping him away from traffic.
I placed my right hand on his left shoulder and walked slightly bent because of our considerable height distance. I couldn't hold his hand since I allowed him to bring in his toy fire truck, and he wasn't about to let it go.
As we approached the building, the sight of it gave our senses all of the warmth of a state prison. The building needed to be more boxy with architectural charm. The exterior was bland, and the outside walls were painted a dreary gray, reflecting the mood of the early, overcast morning. I dreaded walking inside. As we approached the entrance, we began walking through the building entrance's double doors. We were met by a rush of people acting as a blockade thwarting our advancement. With the rush of people greeting us at the entrance/exit, I had to stand outside the doors and hold my son by both shoulders. He was oblivious to what was going on. My son's only worry this morning was not dropping his Tonka Fire Truck.
He was clutching the red toy ladder truck with both hands. As he pressed the top part of it into his body, trying to squirm out of my grasp, the sound of the white rotating ladder affixed to the top of it could be heard "clicking" as he squeezed it against him. He stared down at the red lights as they flashed. His little fingers activated them as he held it tight. For some reason, through all the commotion, the only sound I could hear was the muffled siren emanating from his chest area that was coming out of the fire truck. As I listened to the whaling sound, I stared at the people as they walked out.
Everyone had smiling faces as they exited the building. "Maybe this won't be too bad. Just maybe the inside isn't as dreary as the vibe the outside gave?" I thought to myself with a sense of optimism.
As the hoard of people cleared out with the speed of a cattle stampede. I place my right hand flat on my son's back and lightly push him forward through the thick double doors. The doors were tall. At least 9 feet in height. Steel with thick, long rectangular glass. The doors were painted an ugly maroon color and appeared very heavy-looking. They were automatic, so thankfully, I didn't have to find out. I startled him with the shove, but without hesitation, he walked forward without looking up at me.
As he went through the hellish gates, I followed close behind. "Yep, prison," I said as we entered the doors.
I shook my head as I stood in the front of the lobby, surveying the mundane looks on everyone's faces. No wonder people were smiling as they walked out. They had just gotten paroled. The waiting area is packed. There were people here for different purposes. But everyone has one thing in common. Everyone looks miserable. It's probably because the wait looks un-Godly. Maybe they, too, were claiming death benefits.
On either side of this large waiting area are 2 huge 50" flat-screen TVs mounted to the wall. The government would flash information on the screen for you to read as you waited for your number to be called. It looked like some indoctrination material to keep you, the reader, in check.
The only interesting thing that caught my eye was a message in the screen's lower right-hand corner that read: " IF YOU SEE SOMEONE CALLED BEFORE YOU, IT IS BECAUSE THEY HAVE AN APPOINTMENT..." Thankfully, I am that someone.
So how do I keep my son in his terrible 2's occupied until that happens? I'm holding my son. He's straddling my waist. His little legs wrapped around the small of my back. He refuses to let go of the fire truck and sounds off with a resounding "grunt" when I ask for it. I'm trying to keep him occupied for 15 minutes. Exactly 15 long minutes until 9:05am.
I choose to stand at the back of the very crowded lobby. I was not interested in putting on a show for the masses, and I did not want to see the frustrated faces transplanted to their faces due to the long wait. Besides, I had 15 minutes to kill. But I knew my son would only last 15 seconds.
Well, here I am, using my body as a springboard as I bounce my body off the interior wall. All the while, I'm making silly noises at my son. As I fall back, my shoulder blades touch the wall. I thrust my butt back against the wall springing my shoulders forward, "Waaaaaa," I say as goofy as any children's television show. Christopher giggles with delight.
The sounds of the intercom voice blasting from the ceiling drowned me out a little. "Now serving C26, C26."
The people in the front can't hear me, but those in the back row with whom I am closest to can. "Waaaaa."
"A13, last call A13."
An older black lady peers over her left shoulder at me, but she doesn't look pleased. I give her a half-crooked smile as if to say, "What can I do?" She looks forward, trying her hardest to hear the following number.
"C27, C27," the voice blares, "pay attention, people."
My makeshift springboard lasted all about, let's see, 8:52am. 2 minutes. My son doesn't care. He thrusts his legs against my hips. He throws his body side to side and attempts to smack me in the face. I laugh as I block it. I then give him a stern talking-to.
"A12,A12."
So he wins this round. I put him down on the ground, and as soon as his toddler-size 7 shoes touch the ground, he drops the fire truck and runs towards the big 9-foot jail doors. I give chase down the isle. He may be small, but he's quick. I don't run after him because I don't want others in the lobby to think I'm not in control of my son. However, I do not think I'm covering it well. As soon as he can see his reflection in the large glass embedded in the double large doors, I can snag his left sleeve, hook my finger inside, and reel him in. I pick him up by his left arm, swing his body to my right hand, and, with his momentum, bring him into my body. "ahhhhhh," he screams as he kicks and thrusts his arms. He places his hands on my chest, trying to push away.
I turn towards the lobby, and rows of people turn into spectators. They're all looking at me. Their tedious wait turned interesting. In a room of about 100 people, it's quiet.
"C28, C28." Silence.
I look away and just walk towards the back as Christopher cries loudly. I walk over to the fire truck and pick it up. As soon as I gave it to him, he calmed down. The older black lady in the back row looks over her shoulder again. I raise my eyebrows and shrug my shoulders as if to say, "What can I do?" I place him on the ground, and he walks calmly down the hall by the bathroom.
"Whew," I think, he's confined there. I can breathe at 8:56. 9 minutes to go. I can do this.
"Okay, people," a voice over the loudspeakers said, "If you miss your number, you can't cut anyone off. You'll have to re-check in line and sit and wait again; thank you, C31."
I look at my number, C35. Okay soon. When Christopher is in his world, an elderly male walks towards the bathroom. He has a cane, and he slowly walks towards him.
"Shit. 9:01" almost 9:05."
Just my luck; the moment he's calm playing with his fire truck, I'm going to have to move him. He's going to throw another tantrum. I walk over to him ahead of the elderly guy with the cane and take Christopher by the arm.
"Let's go over here and play," I said in the softest spoken voice that I could muster to mitigate his anger. It didn't work.
He flares around like a fish that has just landed in a boat. My grips the fishing line, and I'm holding it tight so it won't break.
"C34,C34."
He breaks my grip and falls to the ground. "Ugh," I think, "Why couldn't I find a babysitter." I am so frustrated.
Heads are turning towards me, and I'm giving the show to the masses that I didn't want to give. He's just 2, I'm thinking. Terrible 2. I stand over him and allow him to work it out. He barrel rolls on the floor until he meets the same wall I used to spring my body on. He hides his face along the baseboard and lays there.
"He's tired," I said to a passerby." it's true, though.
Our sleep has been lousy, and we've been up early. I took Nico to school this morning, and we didn't eat breakfast. It's not like I didn't try, though. I went to Burger King, but Christopher didn't want to go.
"Christopher Fusaro, Christopher Fusaro window 11." "My name?" Okay, so much for C35.
I glance at the time. 9:05 exactly. "Wow," I think. I don't even get that service when I make a doctor's appointment. I bend down and pick Christopher up from the ground. He places his head on my shoulder, and I wander around until I find window 11.
I sit down and face the man who is going to evaluate my situation and determine if I can obtain any death benefits.
"Good morning," he says as he looks at his computer.
"Good morning, sir," I reply back.
"Do you have your information with you, Mr. Fusaro?"
"Yes, sir, I do." I hold Christopher tight to reassure him everything is going to be okay.
"Sir, may I ask you how long this will take?" I ask in the most respectful tone. He is fixated on his computer.
He is working the mouse feverishly, then stops. He finally pulls his eyes away from the computer screen and looks at me.
"Well. About 15 minutes."
"Okay," I say. Well, I tried and failed. Overwhelmed and turned, I sucked in my lips and glanced at my son. He presents me his Tonka toy and says, "fire truck." I press the button, and the sirens wail.
"C36,C36"
1,917 words
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Christopher Fusaro. The author of Captain Imperfecto.
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