It’s Like a Soviet Nightmare. (A true story.)
“Are you here for a new claim?”
“I have an interview at 11:15.”
“Did you bring your forms?”
“I did it over the phone.”
“Okay. Fill this in,” she gave me a large form, “over there.” She was pointing to a large blue and red sofa.
“Do you have a pen?” She said.
“Yes,” I said, realising immediately that I didn’t.
“Actually, I don’t have a pen. Could I have one please?”
“Bring it back. No, over there,” She said pointing the opposite way to where I was going. “If you go there they wont see you’re here and forget you.”
I felt eighteen again, surrounded by people who could see through me with their official eyes and name badges but this time wasn’t lying about anything. I had just lost my job, I was a student, and I was willing to work. God was I willing to work. I had bills and rent. My old work had changed hands and the new boss had brought a whole new gang of chefs from Bolivia who would do what ever he wanted. The old crew and me were surplus, were an annoyance, so we left. I was at the job centre to sign on until I found new work. Just a few weeks, I was figuring, and then I’d be in a new job and out in the world again. I just needed some help until then. So I filled my forms, got all my payslips, and all the other papers they had asked for and went to the higher powers that dispensed wisdom and money.
Sitting on the blue and red sofa filling in the forms, feet tapping, I looked around me. There were women and men like me filling in forms or arguing with the interviewers at desks, but I didn’t feel any solidarity with them. Maybe because I felt like I was using the system correctly I had the feeling that nobody else was. I saw them as cheats and scroungers. Look how much better I was, I thought. I had even brought a neat folder with all the correct papers in it.
The women at the desk answered my greeting with a cold reply. All the good feelings I had about my self vanished into the soles of my shoes. I tapped my feet trying to hide my nerves under the desk.
“Do you have any I.D.?”
“I have my student card.”
“Give it to me.”
I gave it to her and pretended to organise all the papers in my folder.
“Let me see your college timetable.”
I gave her the timetable with all of the lessons I attended highlighted.
“I go on Monday, Tuesday and a small part of Thursday,” I said realising how stupid that sounded. ‘A small part of Thursday.’ What does that mean?
“And Friday,” she said, looking at the timetable.
“No, no, I marked that wrong. I only go on Monday, Tuesday and a small part of Thursday.”
“I’m going to have to check this. You seem to be doing to much.” She left the desk and disappeared to talk with someone about my timetable. When she returned she laid the timetable on the desk.
“This is a full time course involving lots of study and you will not have enough time to work. You will not be able to take jobs we give you. This is what I have been told. This claim is terminated.”
“But I worked before,” I said.
“This claim is terminated.”
“I’m willing to work.”
“I’m sure you are willing to work all the hours God sends but I have been told that this is the situation.” With that she started to put all the papers on her desk in order not looking up at me. Her manner suggested: this interview is over. I stared at her in a kind of numb wonder.
“So what do I do now? How do I fund myself?” I asked.
“You will have to find work. We cannot give you money because your course is full time.”
“But you said I couldn’t sign on because I didn’t have the time to work. I don’t understand. How can that make sense? Its like Catch-22.” A security guard behind us folded and unfolded his arms.
“So, I can’t get help. You say I can’t work, because of my course. I ask you what do I do. You say, find work.” The security guard was looking directly at me now. The interviewer was ignoring me and gathering the papers for the next client. I couldn’t move. I was staring at her but she was busy preparing for the next case.
