FLAMING HOOPS OF BULLSHIT

** Another older post that never really had much of a reading audience. It was July in Manhattan. I was hot, I was cranky and I really in no mood for corporate nonsense. This is the blog where I vent my frustrations yet redeem myself with a renewed appreciation for the kindness of others. Yeah, that lasted.**


The request was simple enough. There was some writing to be done, some other person's attempts to craft a biography needed to be overhauled as a deadline for the national TV and online campaign loomed near.
Would I do it? Sure.
Could I do it on deadline? Of course.
Would I get paid? Absolutely - the bulk covered by the large advertising agency handling the campaign; the balance by those who enlisted me to bat clean-up and save the day.

Three weeks later, the check from the subject of the biography is in hand, waiting to be deposited.

The check from the advertising agency? I can't even say "it's in the mail." It's not.
I am a freelance writer. I suppose it's an accurate term though I always envisioned someone saying "I'm a freelance writer" as a suntanned, weathered man of the world in khakis and hiking boots, sporting a scruffy beard and holding an awesome camera with crazy zoom lenses as he moved through life with a 'been-there-seen-that-I-know-more-than-anyone-should' aura. (Yes, apparently, they all look like Peter Horton circa the Thirtysomething/Singles era but with with a New Zealand accent. Yeah, I watch too many movies. )

But I'm a freelance writer at the moment. I write for money. When and if a request for my talents is solicited. I'm not a company. I'm not incorporated. I am an individual. So, when I was sought after by the subject to renovate the content someone else attempted to write (they didn't do a bad job... but didn't have any more of a true handle on the subject than a sixth grader who researched all night on Wikipedia and turned in a paper the following morning) I knew I'd be dealing with third parties in order to see my money. I filled out all the paperwork I was asked to, submitted my invoice and waited. Patiently.

And then the email came in telling me, "oh, yeah, wait - sorry, we so totally told you to fill out all this paperwork and we'd pay you, and yes, we got it but, um, yeah... this is all the wrong paperwork and we can't pay you. Unless you jump through these massive flaming hoops of bullshit."

Dance for your paycheck, bitch. Dance.

I am told I need to fill out a whole different set of forms that will set me up as a temporary/freelance employee of, not the advertising agency, but the multi-national worldwide conglomerate of which the ad agency is one tiny division. W-9. I-9. NY State and NYC withholding tax forms. The employment contract with the international juggernaut of industry. And proof I am who I say I am. A driver's license was necessary, as was a passport but I absolutely needed a copy of my Social Security card.

Now, I know my Social Security number by heart. It was my student I.D. my four years at University at Albany. I can recite it. It is tattooed permanently on my brain. I never needed to whip out the card, not once in my life. Which is good, because I haven't actually had a hard copy since I was 23 and my wallet was pickpocketed from my winter coat while I stood in a crowd of lunchtime women looking at cheap costume jewelry being hawked from a folding table at Lexington & 48th. Nice scam.

Surely these nice suits didn't need my real Social Security card in order to process my paperwork and cut me my check for work already rendered (and live on the internet already.) But they were adamant. It was policy. It was the rule. It was the law in their own little world of bureaucracy, red tape, cubicle jockeys and corporate speak. So with no other option, I spent Monday morning at the Office of Social Security.

Let me at least say this. It was easy to find. It was air conditioned. The security guard was VERY helpful when I walked off the elevator with a 'what the fuck do I do now?' look he'd no doubt seen on the masses who trek in and out of the space day in and day out. When he asked what I was there for and I said I needed a new Social Security card, he showed me to the stack of forms I needed to fill out. I'm not sure but I think I saw a small smile and heard a slight sigh of relief when I told him (in English) I'd already downloaded the forms from the website and had completed them already. He gave me a number and even showed directed me to a seat in the rows and rows of already filled. So I sat. On a very uncomfortable plastic chair against the back wall. Waiting for my number to be called. It felt a little like a hospital waiting room. Or the principal's office. It was packed with people. Mostly on the older side, many holding forms showing they'd recently lost a parent or spouse and wanted to claim benefits. Many were not Americans by birth. The cacophony of languages spoken in softened tones was fascinating. It was Zabar's on a Sunday morning but with paperwork.

It was American government and social services in all it's glory. Dirty tiled floors, dirty gray walls covered in memos and posters and informational pamphlets taped up. Sliding plexiglass windows with federal employees kept safe from potentially irate people they were required to assist despite abuse. God bless the Woman In The Middle window who spent no more than 15 minutes attempting to calmly explain to the irate Russian woman and her silent husband that while had they actually shown up at the office on time for their appointment that, yes, they could have met with a Russian speaking employee but the fact that they're an hour late meant that employee was not available. They could come back next week for a different appointment with that Russian-speaking employee or they could wait and see someone else, who didn't speak Russian, today. Easy concept you'd think. But 15 minutes of trying to explain this someone who opted to take no personal responsibility for her role in this dilemma is more than I personally could have handled. I'd have been reprimanded, likely fired and quite possibly arrested for the verbal assault I'd have laid on that duo.

The stereotype is that employees at state and federal governmental offices aren't going to be helpful. When's the last time you sent a thank you basket of Mrs. Beasley's muffins to the people who helped you at DMV? Or fawned over the person who handles your insurance and billing issues at the dentist? That's what I thought. But this woman, this beacon of patience, this saint behind the plexiglass -- she gave me hope. She set a shining example. Goddamnit, if this woman could withstand the spittle-riddled, Russian accented, broken-English abuse doled out Tatiana The Terrible, I was sure I could survive another day of living in New York City, the nation's melting pot.

**Wait, Sidebar - we're not a melting pot anymore! did you KNOW this? apparently, this melting pot metaphor implies everyone just jumps into this steaming vat of immigration chowder and all the flavors blend together to create this one kettle of deliciousness known as America. And that's insensitive to people from other countries who come here and want to retain their own identity yet assimmilate into American culture. So now (all you teachers have already been briefed on the metaphor du jour) we're a SALAD. All different types of vegetables tossed into one big bowl and mixed around - all blending together to create one scrumptious delicacy but each piece clearly identifiable and individual flavors still bursting through. I am not making this shit up. Really, I'm not.**

So, I can survive another sickly hot, humid, putrid, stifling, smelly summer in the Baked Apple.

When I'm tempted to cold clock an obnoxious bridge & tunneler onto the subway tracks as they push me back into the car forgetting to let passengers off before you climb on... I'll think of The Woman At The Middle Window.

Or when I see the piece of trash in a wifebeater and denim shorts that barely hang off his ass hock a thick, mucous loogey onto the sidewalk marking his territorial phlegm perimeter, and I feel the urge to run up to him and demand to know if he's in competition for the most revolting human in Manhattan and, if so, what the website is for online voting so I can flood the site and secure him the trophy... I'll think of The Woman At The Middle Window.

Or if ever again I witness the octogenarian who marched into Social Security yesterday morning, angrily pushing her metal shopping cart-cum-walker, donning a rain coat and hat in 90-degree sunny weather, bark at the minimum-wage security guard who dared to politely ask what she was there for so he could help her with paperwork and finding a seat only to be screamed with 200 more patient customers as witness... and when I secretly wish the 37 cats with whom I'm sure she cohabits claw her to death and pick her bones for lunch... I will calmly think of the wonderful woman behind plexiglass window number three who faced the brutality and onslaught of the nasty Russian Retirees from Hell with a patient smile...

I will hide my inner desire to beat the snot out of them all.