Check, Please!

Time to file.

No not file things in drawers.  File for Unemployment Compensation. My employer put in writing that they would not contest my claim, so I can claim away without the threat of having it questioned or inviting a hearing. We all know that no one wants a tell-all hearing where all the ugliness gets trotted out before the eyes and ears of the State.  That reputation, however much a house of cards, must be protected. I am free to file with confidence.  Yay me.

So I go on line and I file. It is a little more challenging than I thought it would be. And it assumes that the filer has at least a) a computer, and b) a telephone, and c) a drivers license, and d) at least a 6th grade reading/comprehension level.  It requires some serious concentration. And several cups of coffee. I am sure half the people give up and go traipsing into the office to file in person where their academic skills and abilities do not become such a bitter reminder of their troubles. Or don't file at all.  I think I've answered the poverty question about the neighborhood where I worked.

Moments later, I get a note back from my friends at the Office of the Unwashed Masses. I did not present a drivers license number on my application and have to prove my identity before they will approve my claim. God knows I could be some very well employed top earning citizen who got the bright idea to pad their savings account by bilking the State out of what amounts to lunch money by filing a bogus claim.

I should think the sheer humiliation of it would derail any nefarious ideas about that. 

But all I keep thinking is "Of course I did not present one, morons! The site asked for a license from their State only and I live in a neighboring State. An unverifiable State license would have gotten me rejected. And now, it seems I have been anyway. Who's in charge here?  I need a word in private, please."

Turns out I am going to get my word, but not necessarily in private.

It seems like the only solution is to get into my car and drive across the bridge and present my foreign license to someone with the authority to look at it competently and say something reassuring like, "Oh of course that's you. Approved!" 

I put the address of the Office of the Unwashed Masses into my phone's Google Maps app and press "start."

I am on my way. I am not sure what I've started.