After lunch, I took the 87 Bus down to Davis Square. That was accidental, I shoud’ve gotten off at Elm & Cutter St. Mistakes aside, I eventually found the Social Security Office.
A sign hanging over a computer welcomed you to the Social Security Office, the computer demanded you press “0” - if you had an appointment, “1” - if you had lost your card and needed a replacement, or “2” - if you needed a new card for some other reason… More signs through out the office said “take a number, take seat, we will be with you as soon as possible” (when the next ice age hits).
The “waiting area” was filled with squeaky uncomfortable ugly gray plastic chairs, and a quiet grumbling of discontent people filled the room. There were quite a few discontent people there, many claimed they “had appointments” and then were forced to “take a number” and wait with the unappointed rabble. More than once, an annoyed individual would take their complaint to the window, where they would be asked “Did you take a number?” They would return to their seat defeated and even more annoyed.
Although there were three women behind the counter there were only two processing people. “A” was for those who had pressed “1”, “B” was for those who pressed “2”. Occasionally poorly dressed assistants would call someone’s name and they would be taken into the back room.
You would think “Take a number stand in line” “People with appointments will be helped first” “A” and “B” and “1” and “2” would be straightforward. Not in this context. A167 went to A185 in the same hour and a half+ it took B243 to get to B249. This annoyed people. The annoyance was compounded by the “rude” woman who appeared to be doing nothing at the third window, and the hassled looking woman under the “reception” sign. The sign says “reception,” people are accustomed to going to the RECEPTION to get numbers and questions answered.
Adding to the ambiance of the place was a very round very tattooed police officer who would stroll/waddle around the waiting area looking very important if the mummerings happened to crescendo. They frequently did, especially after they had been waiting for an hour, or longer.
It was a very international scene: two well padded women with thick northern-european accents sat and talked with an elderly woman about beaurocracy. A group of traditionally dressed Indian women added color, several nerdy asian men compared things on PalmPilots. I think I was the only white female in my early twenties in the entire group, the only other person anywhere near that demographic was a guy with multiple tattoos and a 6 month old girl in a snugly pack. Everyone else was either a minority, over 50, or both.
After my hour and a half+ wait, my number “B249” was finally called.
“I’m here to change my last name, I got married last month,” I explained.
“I need a copy of your marriage license and a photo ID,” the little woman snapped.
I handed her the documents.
Five minutes later she said “I need you to double check the information and sign with your new name here and date it here,” she drew Xs by “name” and “date.” “Your new card will be in the mail in about 10 business days.”
For $1.90 in busfare and two hours of my life, I got a new last name. That was anticlimactic.
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