Compromised Welfare

          Dreading yet another workday ahead of me as I feel the usual nausea resulting from hearing my panic-inducing seven-thirty a.m. alarm, I begrudgingly opted out of pressing the comforting snooze option. Pulling myself from the blissful sanctuary that is my bed, I resented the reality that awaited me and wished I could return to the subconscious state that allowed me to roam free without any crushing accountability or banal routine. Responding to the unimpressed huff that greeted my wife for the past two hundred and fifty mornings or so, Claire reminded me that I had already used every last one of my ten sick days available for the year. Being that it was the end of April and my sick time would not renew for another eight grueling months, I understood my obligation of having to go to work despite the adverse physiological reaction my body had to carrying out the duties of my current position.

           Disregarding Claire’s perpetual attempt at motivating me to fulfill my mundane duties as an adult, I snapped at her with passive aggression by suggesting that she go back to sleep while I get ready for work. Thankful of Claire’s current medical barrier to employment, I was grateful that her anxiety prevented her from obtaining gainful employment as it provided me with sufficient reason to act as a martyr for being the only one in the household with an income. Fixated on the atrocious clientele that awaited me at work, I had little patience for the stress that radiated from my family that morning and avoided them all together. As fast as I could jump out of the shower and throw on the clothes Claire had laid out for me the night before, I fled before my two daughters could ask me for an inevitable favor. Realizing that I wore many hats as the head of my household, it was a fact that the longer I loitered within the confines of my house, the likelier I would be assigned a tedious task.              Apparently it was hardly adequate that I worked full-time and paid all the family’s bills; I was expected to act as a chauffeur to my children and therapist to Claire. As often as I told her that I detested hearing about her personal struggles at home- as I heard enough overexaggerated anecdotes for eight hours a day at work- she still bombarded me with her unhappiness. Knowing that it would send me into a frenzy of impatience and resentment, she persisted until I had to leave the house as if I was escaping from a maximum-security prison. Although I tried my hardest to convey pride in regards to my commendable bi-weekly paycheck and tumultuous position as head of the house, I suffered from the ultimate truth that I was miserable.

          If life at home wasn’t painful enough, it pains me to ruminate on the fact that I once thought of this chosen career as my dream job. What was once idealized as success is now inferred as settling for failure. To think that my pursuit of higher education in hopes of bettering my fellow man would be stunted by the very people I assumed I wanted to help, makes me reconsider my moral caliber and question my disingenuous reasons for exploring this steep declining career path. All through my post-secondary education, I was led to believe that securing a job with the government would be the best case scenario for a graduate with a social sciences degree. Contrary to the skewed guidance from my professors and parents, I soon realized that job security was not synonymous with job satisfaction. Though I am privileged with a superior health plan, ample vacation time, and an above average salary in comparison to other recent university graduates, the cost of these perks is unwavering cynicism. Not only did I immediately become jaded towards the social services program that enables the lowest socioeconomic class to leech off a liberal government, a sense of deep resentment was quickly instilled in me upon my first encounter with a struggling client.

         As if every client who walked up to my drab cubicle was a pathetic clone of the one before, once I reached the office and called the first number of the day, I was met by an unkempt man reeking of spearmint mouthwash. Penetrating the plastic window separating the pungent man from my side of the office, it was apparent that the mouthwash had not been a reflection of dedicated dental hygiene habits. As the man staggered towards the window, nearly tipping over the rickety metal chair beneath a wooden ledge intended to place documents, he leaned on the flimsy shelf for support. Visibly feeling the effects of the nonpalatable beverage he purchased from the pharmacy around the corner, his yellow eyes squinted asymmetrically. Detecting an added scent of regurgitation from the man’s otherwise potent mint breath, I veered my head backwards to allow for some breathing room. Oblivious to my overt repulsion, he started his spiel, explaining why he needed funds to help make ends meet that month. Hoping to hear the man utter an ounce of honesty by confessing his need for government rationed funds to fuel his extreme alcohol addiction, I realized that the process of seeking social assistance had become a derivative art form.

        Every single person who walked up to me with an application would portray themselves as either inept in a variety of ways- none of which were unique or the least bit creative. The most commonly displayed barriers to employment were depression or social anxiety; symptoms that are easy enough to imitate in front of indifferent medical professionals interested only in writing lucrative prescriptions. My skin crawled while my teeth grinded upon hearing the generic response to my insincere, reflexive inquiry asking how a client was feeling that day- always replying by saying in a sullen voice without fail, “I’ve been better.” This particular client was no different; he chose to underestimate my extraordinary level of cynicism by pleading depression. Unimpressed by the regurgitated claim that spewed out in his slurred speech, I already reached the confident decision that I would not be releasing any funds to him today- or any other day for that matter, even though I am sure he would persistently try again first thing the next morning claiming the same misdiagnosis.

Even though my mind had been made up, consequently withholding this lethally inebriated man’s check, thereby preventing him from acquiring some multi-purpose breath freshener, I entertained his presence. I did not enjoy engaging in incomprehensible conversation with the vagrant, nor was I amused by answering his same rhetorical questions concerning his ability to “get paid,” but I knew very well that if he left my workstation, I would have to call the next client in line and uselessly hear the same woefully dishonest story. Instead, I exacerbated the man’s undeserved sense of entitlement by asking the one question a worker in my position would never dare ask: “What makes you think you deserve a check?”

        After uttering the social assistance faux-pas, it should be noted that I am allotted a maximum of five minutes to meet with each prospective client, which means I am discouraged from asking open-ended questions. Frankly, I choose to respect that strict timeframe by asserting my dominance in the conversation from the initial greeting; cutting the client’s sentence short is usually an effective way of keeping subsequent sentences short and on point. In addition to giving the intoxicated man ample time to spin a web of unoriginal lies, I broke the second rule of social assistance by giving the client a soapbox to present a case for their perceived rights. As soon as I could finish my ill-advised question, the lethargic, unbalanced man came to life. Summoning a great deal of energy at the rare opportunity to prove his right to a check, using whatever tools of persuasion he had at his disposal to earn that standard issue five hundred dollars, he jumped up at the window exclaiming, “I have entitlements!”

Experiencing a multitude of emotions in response to the man’s unexpected outburst, I was first filled with fear that the plastic window’s structural integrity would be compromised from the explosion of raw alcohol-induced emotion. The excited man reiterated his exclamation with passion as his bloody knuckles slammed onto the opaque plastic window. Once the fear subsided at the sight of the surprisingly sturdy window remaining intact, the familiar sense of amusement laced with irritation took the reins of my irritated demeanor. No matter how many times I heard such a frivolously inappropriate use of the concept of entitlement, it had always ended my limited engagement with a client, provoking me to dismiss the delusional person from my cubicle.

        Bordering on disrespectful, yet necessary when dealing with this type of irrational clientele, I cleared my throat and verbalized the most stern, authoritative tone of voice my vocal cords could muster. Unappreciative of my patronizing tone, the man stumbled backwards, tossing the metal chair to the ground as he stood taller than I remembered upon first observation. My stern voice was no match for his belligerent bellowing, cursing my very existence while he adamantly stated that he was entitled to his “paycheck.” Disregarding the loose context with which he referred to social assistance as a paycheck, I was increasingly concentrated on his escalating behavior rather than semantics. Watching the disgruntled man punch vigorously at the air, my heart began racing at an unnerving pace as he removed his soiled hooded sweatshirt, indicating that he was ready for a fight. However many times I’ve witness the telltale sign of a grown man remove an outer layer of clothing to facilitate unrestrictive brawling movements, I have not yet become desensitized to the anxiety of being involved in an intense altercation.

        Feeling my chest clench in fear, almost certain that patches of my brown hair were quickly turning a cowardly shade of gray, I sat back in my desk chair without the ambition to de-escalate the rising aggravation. Fortunately, the elevated sound of slurred, rambling speech triggered the intervention of the security guard from in the office lobby. Confident in the calming techniques of Carol- the young lady who acted as the building’s security liaison- I had seen her escort men significantly larger than the one I was currently enraging. Deceptively intimidating for a woman of her small stature and unassertive body frame, I believe it is the cold stare from her vacant black eyes that instill discomfort in the most uncontrollable of men. As she sauntered over to ask the disoriented gentlemen to stop berating yours truly, she placed her hand on the man’s shoulder, which was at least a foot over her own head. Seeming as though they had encountered one another in the past- presumably due to a similar situation of diffusing a public outburst- his anger subsided and began to mumble inaudible excuses. As my blood pressure began to lower to a less rapid current, I watched as Carol inexplicably escorted the man away from my desk.

        Beginning to compose myself before calling another client to my desk- expecting an equally hostile person in search of unearned money- I was unexpectedly startled as a sickly, thin woman bolted up to my client. Berating the poor man for not securing funds for whatever substance she recently had her eye on, I finally felt a bit of sympathy for the man. Still not enough sympathy or even compassion to reconsider my decision to deny his request for social assistance, but it did lessen my skepticism towards the stranger. As Carol stood between the furious woman and my client, I was impressed at the sight of how the mystery woman could simultaneously attempt to throw a punch while holding onto a stroller. Granted the stroller looked as big as one a toddler would push around while playing pretend and I am not positive that there was even a child in it, instead looking like there was a torn blanket wrapped around shopping bags filled with empty beer and soda bottles, it was still quite the feat.

         Initially responding to the unannounced woman’s attacks passively, merely whispering ineffective promises regarding his ability to get her some cash, his temperament changed before I could comprehend the volatility of what I was witnessing. I gasped as I realized how the man had previously scratched his knuckles, then jumped to my feet to see if the woman was alright. Safely looking down over the partition from my side of the cubicle, I could see that the woman was squirming following the swift backhand to the cheek. Having flipped over the stroller on her way down, I was relieved to see that there was an absence of a child crying; partially because inflicting harm on a child was something I was unable to bear, but mostly because the visible indicators that this unfit couple having a child were scarce. Before Carol could reach the radio connected to the corner of her protruding vest, the man staggered out of sight. Focusing on the beaten woman, Carol allowed the man to venture into the city where the police would be more equipped to take him down if need be. She gently lifted the woman and the stroller filled with recyclables, then slowly turned the woman to the exit with her supportive hand guiding her until she regained balance.

         Once all three parties involved were out of my sight and at a safe distance from my workstation, I nervously lowered myself into my chair. Absent mindedly shuffling papers from one stack to another in hopes of distracting myself from the chaos that had just ensued, I tried to steady my shaking hand. Exceedingly thankful for that union mandated piece of plastic protecting me from the dangers of humanity only inches away, I could not fathom how I could work with peace of mind without it. Looking at the time on my computer monitor, I was disheartened to see that only forty-five minutes had passed since imprisoning myself in this cubicle. Regardless of the time, I felt as though I deserved a break after that escapade, so I put up my break sign and swiveled my chair around to avoid making accidental eye contact with a passerby.

          Looking arbitrarily at the door, wishing it was later in the day so I could go home, but also relieved that I had time before having to recount the day’s events with my family, I rolled closer to the right cubicle wall as I could faintly hear my work neighbor, Elise, greet her own client on the other side. I rarely eavesdropped on Elise’s client interactions due to the severity of the stories that would discussed, but I found this day to be a special exception as I could not survive another meeting with a client of my own. In addition to the difficulty I experienced as I listened to the spine chilling subject matter being discussed between Elise and her clients fleeing abuse, it was literally hard to hear since the drywall was quite thick.

         As I listened to Elise’s raspy, tar stained voice practically yell a summary of what her client had just disclosed, it was evident that chain smoking, a hearing impairment, and a job that required strict confidentiality, was a poor combination for social services work. Growing frustrated from only being able to hear Elise shouting the personal details of her client, while remaining deaf to the client’s end of the conversation, it was like listening to a coworker have a psychotic break. Unable to detect the client’s age and gender- although sadly I could assume it was a young woman due to the pattern of clients seeking funds to flee an abusive relationship- I tried to piece together an identity. Struggling to follow along with the one-sided conversation, all I could conclude was that the abusive partner was continuously intimidating the client and began fearing for her safety. Unsure as to the imminent threat of the abusive partner, Elise hoarsely urged the client to find a safe place immediately.

         For once I was elated to be in the position of refusing hot tempered clients financial assistance, since I could not imagine having to intervene in complex and life threatening situations. Although Elise had questionable attributes for her devastating line of work, she nevertheless had a pragmatic way of maneuvering exit strategies for unspeakable living arrangements. Hearing Elise assure her client that she would be happy to release the necessary funds to afford first month’s rent and security deposit on an apartment, I was perplexed to hear an undertone of satisfaction in her voice as she was so quick to give her client money.

         I am fully aware that the money we allocate to the individuals of our choosing does not belong to us, nor do we get a raise if we withhold more funds each month, but it is the principle of handing out tax dollars after hearing a traumatizing, albeit rehearsed, summary of a stranger’s life. As much as my own financial state in not influenced by the amount of money we release to clients, I believe it to be irresponsible to donate money to people without discretion. Not only in a work environment, but at home as well. If I were to start handing out money to Claire and the girls every time they asked for new clothes or name brand snacks, I would lose credibility and subsequently be undeserving of my hard earned paycheck. Apparently Elise holds the opposite opinion of my own as the sound of indistinct tears appear to be ones of joy from behind the wall. I truly question the recruitment standards of the government’s social sector; I would assume that potential candidates would be screened for susceptibility when it comes to manipulation, but Elise appears to have grown naïve in her old age.

        Wishing I had the power to clean house and replace some of the weak-willed staff that surrounded me, I am assured that a change in frontline workers would deter dependent clients from selfishly stealing from unsuspecting taxpayers. Lost in thought, fantasizing about a system where staff and clients could have enough mutual respect to rise above dishonesty and pity, I passed the time stewing in the overwhelming disdain I hold for the flawed machine in which I am a cog. Unwilling to meet with another common beggar today, I am left with no choice but to tell my supervisor that I must go home due to personal reasons. The most significant of the personal reasons being that I am sickened by the indiscriminate doling out of funds to undeserving citizens. However unpleasant the greed I will surely face at home, it is unbearable to watch crime transpire with such ease under the blind eye of trusting liberals.

        Speaking to Martin, my oblivious supervisor, I already know that he will encourage me to go home for some self-care, a mental health day, or whatever poor excuse to ditch work without regard for the repercussions of being one staff member short. If I barely put any effort into pulling the wool over Martin’s eyes, it is now understandable how easy it is for his subordinates and clients to take advantage of him and his power as a superior. Solidifying my stance on how to run a household, it is exponentially more effective to rule with stringent discretion and skepticism than blind trust. My family is an example of this managerial approach, which is why when I get home, I will be feared rather than underestimated. Claire especially knows how to conduct herself in my presence and will happily continue to do so.

        Despite my immunity to deceitfulness, I cannot ignore the downfall of society right in front of me, everywhere I go. Almost as if I enjoy torturing myself, I can never seem to remember to park my car at the rear entrance, away from huddled clients awaiting their unearned payday. Unfortunately, I’ll have to walk through the pungent smell of desperation and insincerity cast through the waiting room before I can leave this place behind until tomorrow. Looking at the dozens of citizens sitting idly by, waiting to be taken care of without anyone in their lives to knock some sense into them, I can’t help but loathe these faces. The excessive greed and self-absorption reminds me of— “Claire?”