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It Could've Been Me

This morning I got to face the drudge of bureaucracy by heading out to a DHSS (Dept. of Health and Social Services) and obtain what's called a national insurance number. This number is basically like any other kind of number the world over, a number that is automatically assigned for its citizens, be it a social security number, personnummer (in Sweden), what have you. It's the government's way of saying: There's our girl. Now let's get her taxes, eh?

With the exception of tax collection, in England the national insurance number isn't really used. It's not like the social security number in the U.S., which you need for things like credit cards, hooking up utilities, school, etc. Or in Sweden, where you need a personnummer just to cross the street. But until now, I've had a temporary national insurance number, meaning I am giving Tony Blair and his cronies an extraordinary amount of extra tax money.

And that's just not on.

So I had to book an interview. That's right. An interview to sign up and give away my money for taxes. And not only did I have to interview, but I had to go armed with a mountain of paperwork validating who I am, where I live, where I'm from, where I work, my blood type, my star sign, and if I prefer my Slushees cherry-coke or blue-raspberry flavored (cherry-coke, please).

I've gone through this in Sweden, as well. I remember my visa was due to expire and I had to wait in the immigration office to try to renew my new visa. It was November 2001, and I was not only the only Westerner in there, but I was also uncomfortably aware of the "special treatment" I got as a Westerner. It was an unwritten rule that Americans, U.K. citizens, Canadians and Australians had a much easier time of getting a visa than other countries, say in the Middle East or Eastern Europe. When they jumped me in the queue and asked me almost no questions, I hid my American passport in the files on my lap in order not to piss everyone else off. It should be noted: I don't get special treatment here due to my shiny American passport.

So I head to the social security offices, armed to the teeth with documents (note: if you are ever, in any way, remotely even half-toying with the idea of moving? Gather up documents. Keep them in a box. Throw nothing away. That second grade report card where Mrs. Pringle signed that you are "smart but hyper-active" and gave you an "S" in finger painting? Yeah, you're going to need that. Better hope you've kept a sample of the finger painting in question, too), my passport, and a will to survive the interview. The good news is, I interview well. The bad news is, I panic at the thought of these official meetings.

I head into London, as the office I am interviewing in is one tube stop from where I work. It's taken me forever to get this interview, I don't want to be late lest I have to go through the enormous paper trail and phone call nightmare or trying to procure another appointment. I get to the neighborhood, a bright beautiful area with a lovely garden called Russell Square, and there is the the building. Unmistakable. Not only does it have a sign saying: "Social Security Offices" but the front doors are slung in people. Homeless people, beer cans at their feet and yelling at the doors.

Oh Jesus.

So this is where I am going.

I walk in, and there are CCTV camera everywhere. Security is sealed up within the entry vestibule, staffed with men that look like ex-Navy SEALS gone wrong, thick beefy guys with pinky rings, gold chains and swaggers. Inside the office are signs everywhere that say "Do Not Lay On the Floor Or On The Seats". The wallpaper is sliding off the walls. Staff man the interview booths behind bulletproof glass.

Clearly, obtaining a national insurance number is something not done by the crusty upper echelons.

There is another man, in a suit, clutching his briefcase and looking grim. He struck me as looking very Swedish, and he smiled grimly at me, in some form of "get me the fuck out of here with my national insurance number" comraderie. There is a quiet Muslim family sat by the doors, trying to keep to themselves. One lone Asian man waits with a London Street Map wadded in his hands.

And the rest are a group of about 10 transients, staging a revolt.

One of them is yelling that the government is cheating him, this isn't the amount of money he should be getting on unemployment. He is accompanied by a few thin men with "Love" and "Hate" tattooed on their fingers, and they are seriously pissed off. A few women sit wearily on the iron chairs, chairs which are bolted to the ground. One of the women has about 5 teeth. The other woman nervously twirls her short purple hair. The men take turns screaming at one of the interview booths and going outside for a drink. One guy turns to another.

"Hey mate." he snarls in a stage whisper. "Clean yerself up. You're dripping skin onto the floor." he says, pointing to the guy's leg.

The man's sweatpants are unravelling, and it shows skin literally shedding itself off of his shin. He embarrassingly wipes at it, making it worse, and it drifts down to the floor.

The woman with 5 teeth is talking to one of the guys next to her.

"If I get me check today, then by next Tuesday it'll be gone and I'll enter detox. That'll take me through to me next check." She says, grinning her gaping grin.

"Yeah, but detox's hard work." the man replies, scratching his chin.

My name is called to interview for the national insurance number and I get razzed by the waiting homeless, who shout that the social security office has better things to do than give people national insurance numbers, things like giving them their pay and helping to find new jobs.

And it makes me think. Last winter, when it was so cold and so dark, I too had no job. My money would run out in May this year, and if I hadn't had a job by then, what would I do? I would've definitely left Sweden, but to go where? To what? And do what? When the money would've run out, the Swedish government would've kicked in...but for how long? How much? And with the marriage deteriorating, where would I have gone?

That could've been me.

It could've been any of us out there. So many people are one paycheck away from being homeless. So many people struggle in despair, out of hope, out of feeling, and so many jobs have been lost. What keeps us all from tumbling onto the street? What keeps us from falling apart, falling down, falling out?

I too have had my share of alcohol dependencies. Years ago when Kim and I split up, I was the type of chick who rarely drank. A glass of white wine a few times a year. Maybe one or two margaritas a few times a month. It just didn't appeal.

Sitting in my new flat in Arlington, Texas, with our Rottweiler Alexi my only company, the flat done up in crappy new carpeting and with roaches in the kitchen, I lived a miserable life. I cried constantly over Kim, and I had absolutely no money, working in a job that I hated and with no one to turn to. So one night, I made some dinner out of the only things I had in the house-some orange juice, some raspberry sorbet, and some vodka.

And that night I went to bed, dreamless, tearless, and worry-free. In the morning, I woke up hangover free and looking forward to the next drink. I was also depressed beyond belief, a gift that alcohol gives the people it temporarily makes feel better.

It became a nightly routine. Vodka mixed with something. When the vodka ran out, I would go for anything else. Sherry. Cognac. Tequila. Rum. And when the something I mixed with the alcohol ran out? I drank the liquor straight. I drank it from an enormous magenta-colored plastic mug. And I drank it until I passed out.

Nightly.

And thinking of back then...I was one paycheck from being on the street. It was inches away. I had absolutely no extra cash in my paycheck after bills and booze. I had no savings. I had credit card debt bleeding out of my ears and student loans dripping down the walls. I would've been lost. What would've kept me from being on the street? Alexi? Hope? My innate fear of germs?

I was saved when I discovered all that drinking made me gain masses of weight. Just like that-snap. I quit drinking that night. I lost the weight. And although I drink now, I am aware of what it felt like to need something to make me sleep, to make me forget, to make the reality easier to deal with. I know where that boundary lays. I don't want to leap that cliff.

I look at the group in the waiting room there, angry and full of vinegar, and I think...It could've been me. I have been on the edge of losing it all a few times. I could've wound up on the street, homeless, alcoholic, scared, bitter. It could've been me.

And after my interview-which I pass and am awarded a number from-I get up to leave and look at the motley group. One man has ignored the signs and passed out on the floor by the door. The 5 toothed woman looks away from me when I pass her, not meeting my gaze. The truth is, I don't think I am better than them, I don't look down on anyone, I don't think they are sick or sad or lazy. I think they've been dealt a bum rap in life, and simply haven't had the luck or ability to get past it.

Maybe, because each time I've had a complete shake-up of everything I know I've been able to pull myself out of it, maybe because I have someone in my life that hopefully wouldn't drop me, maybe because I keep fighting even when the fighting is killing me, maybe because I've looked at hell in the mouth and backed away...maybe that wouldn't be me.

Or maybe I am just telling myself that, fooling myself to think that I am stronger than I really am.

I exit into the sunlight and slip my sunglasses on.

-H.

PS-Good work. Jim may be saved :)

Posted by Everydaystranger at August 11, 2004 12:15 PM .

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