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I am the welfare man. That's what I do. Yup. That's me.The following is a daily journal of mostly what I do at work. Of course, the names have been changed; however, scarily enough, the rest remains factual.
It's the only job where you know the acceptable exchange rate in food stamps for beer (generally,$10 food stamps for a sixer.)
Had a headache all day. Still do. Awww, to hellwidit!
No work today.
You know, the closer I get to the holidays, the less I feel like thinking about this page. Must be all of the goddamn jingle bells reverbrating through my head. Like a mantra from a Perry Como cult: Chestnuts roasting...chestnuts roasting...chestnuts roasting. Meanwhile, all of the people who didn't show up for their appointments last month are now calling me up, complaining about their cases being discontinued. Now I can't get any Christmas presents, they say.
Well, who the hell gives out food stamps for Christmas presents anyway? What king of stupid gift is that? "Here's $10 in food stamps, Bobby. Go get yourself a nice package of weiners or something."
Lousy day. As soon as I get to work, I notice a single thread dangling from my shirt. I gently tug the thread and the button pops off, lands in the bathroom sink. I had no idea the buttons on my shirt were spaced so far apart. Suddenly, my shirt is wide open and I look like some swinging single guy from the 1970s.
Dec. 1, 1999
I am interviewing a client, a young girl. Suddenly, her cell phone starts ringing. She looks down, unlatches it from her belt loop, and looks up at me.
"Is that mine or yours?" she asks me.
Dec. 7, 1999
Dec. 8-10, 1999
Dec. 2, 1999
I quickly chew a peice of gum, then use a bit of it to stick my shirt together. Didn't work. Damn sugary crap. Only now I not only have my shirt hanging wide open, but there is also a smear of gum down it.
Suddenly, getting this shirt closed has become crucial. I go back to my desk and get a stapler. A maintainence woman watches me as I head to the bathroom with it. Inside the bathroom, I try to staple my shirt shut, but I can't get enough pressure on it at this awkward angle. It only staples one side of my shirt. It is the same side as the gum.
I grab the folds of my shirt with one hand as I rush back to my desk. I chunk the stapler in a drawer and this time grab the tape dispenser. I head back to the bathroom, again passing the maintainence woman.
"Did you move your desk to the bathroom?" she says as I pass by.
I finally get my shirt taped shut. It acutally looks pretty good. Only problem is, about three hours later the tape loosened during an interview. My shirt popped open, revealing a staple, some gum and strips of tape.
I sheepishly look at my client and say, "I am in charge of keeping the office supplies."
"It's not mine," I say. "I'm too poor to have a cell phone."
