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PRE-DAWN IN ARMOUR Square. A magic hour when the addicts nodded over their needles, and dreaming ganstahs rode the Scarface Express to the top o’ da world. Morning sun bled into the sky, its ruby light sparkling on streets salted with broken glass. Dew frosted rows of silent cars parked in lonely rows, and feral dogs boldly roamed the sidewalks, baring their teeth in reflexive hatred at any challenger. Football-sized vermin rattled through overflowing dumpsters. A growling mongrel crouched over a fur-and-blood... something... in the doorway of an abandoned office building.
A chilly, cloudless morning found me huddled in my peacoat, yawning and shuffling my way the hell down Michigan Avenue, north of 13th Street. Having missed the five a.m. No. 24 bus, I had hoofed it all the way from the apartment, working loose the kinks from a night of half-sleep and bad dreams.
Window reflections showed me a face painted with bruises and contusions. My jaw was sore and flared with pain every time I yawned, which was, like, twice a minute.
I waited in line for an hour to hit up the kind folks at Mission Mondrigal for breakfast—powdered eggs, toast, and weak coffee—for which I was appropriately thankful. I asked for some takeout for Chelle, but they didn’t have to-go boxes.
After that, I made the epic trek to the Office of Benefits and Welfare on Roosevelt. It didn’t open until eight, but when I turned the corner, I found the line stretched the entire block between Michigan and Wabash.
The wind off the lake made me shiver, despite the sun crawling higher, and it whipped empty paper cups and fast-food wrappers around my ankles. I joined the line behind a woman in an ankle-length granny skirt made of sheer white lace. Underneath the skirt, she wore a thong and goose pimples, and had her arms wrapped around herself, chafing her biceps. I pictured Chelle and decided to withhold from this frozen waif the warmth of my embrace.
The OBW office opened at eight fifteen instead of the promised eight o’clock, and I followed the line through the security scanner—the Homeland guys ran a wand over Ms. Thong but ignored me—into the waiting room, took my number, and hung out until they called me to Room 2, Cube 502. I found 502 in a maze of cube walls, in Row 5, believe it or not, between cubes 501 and 504. No sign of 503.
Bureaucrat 502 was an eager puppy named R. Killingsworth—it said so in magic marker written on a masking-tape label under the cube number placard. He pumped my hand like he wanted top billing in my Last Will and Testament, and told me the R stood for Rogair. He spelled it for me, in case I missed the nuance of pronunciation.
“So what brings you in today, Mr....?”
“Warren. Joseph Warren.”
“Mr. Warren, how can we help?” He used the royal “we” to indicate he and the rest of the federal government, I supposed. Rogair was my age, or thereabouts, somewhere between twenty-four and twenty-eight, with a flattop and long sideburns, a bright-pink shirt, and a complexion of innocent happiness. He had a thin, perfect nose and a delicate jaw and the most hazel eyes of any human I’d ever met. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to hate him or date him.
“I, uh, I...” Now that I was here, my brain slogged to a halt. “I’ve never done this before, Rogair. I mean, gone on the dole, so to speak. I’ve got, uh, you know, food stamps and unemployment on account of losing my job, and all, but...”
“There’s no shame in coming to the OBW for help, Mr. Warren.” Rogair’s expression of sympathetic caring could have cured cancer. “Millions of people need help these days, and that’s what your tax dollars are for, yes?”
“Uh. Yeah, I guess so.” Seeing as how my income had been so low, I hadn’t paid taxes in two years, I had to admit the rationale tasted a little flat. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“No problem, no problem. Think of me as your coach, Joseph. May I call you Joseph? I’ll be showing you the ropes and getting you hooked up with all the services to which you’re entitled. Before we begin, place your thumb here.” Rogair held out a wireless biopad the size of a cube of pool chalk. The finger spot was worn from hundreds—thousands—of previous applicants for federal assistance. I touched it briefly, and a green light indicated a solid read.
“Awesome.” Rogair beamed. “Just awesome.”
I rubbernecked while my coach fiddled with his computer screen. The inside of Room 2 had the charm of a cell block. Institutional, featureless walls painted a dull white and hung with motivational posters and government edicts, the room was filled with a warren of identical gray cubicles. Rogair had decorated the inside of Cube 502 with wall-mounted pictures of his (I assumed) parents and girlfriend, and, in a desktop viewer, a 3D shot of him and a tabby cat held near his face. The cat looked highly pissed.
I occupied one of two straight-back chairs designed by a sadist for maximum butt pain, whereas Rogair wobbled back and forth in a squeaky roller chair. In addition to the aforementioned portrait of Rogair and Cat Killingsworth, the desk sported a healthy potted ivy, a desktop monitor, and a basket of pens and styluses—styli? A squeezy stress ball hid under the ivy.
“Ah!” Rogair made a noise like he’d discovered masturbation, his eyes lit by the glowing screen. His chair cried out when he moved. Squeak-squeak. “Here we are. Joseph Adam Warren, age twenty-six, Caucasian male, one-point-seven-five meters, seventy-three kilos. Born to Denise and Ross Warren at Mercy Clinic in Napier, Illinois. Completed two years of college at Northwestern before quitting. Why was that, I wonder? Test scores in high school, college prep exams, all in the 97th percentile, so you were certainly bright enough. Hmm.” Rogair seemed lost in the digital me, having forgotten the real me sitting across from him. Squeak-squeak. He crossed his arms and tapped his cheek with one finger. “Super-high scores on aptitude and achievement tests... last employed as a, oh my, at SteelWerks CNC here in Chicago, operating a High-Output 3D Tool & Die Printer. Laid off—what?—two years ago and a bit? Unemployment drawn biweekly since that time. Enrolled in SNAP. That’s okay, Joseph, no shame in food stamps. We all have to eat. What else do we see here...? Appendix removed, age twelve. Living with Michelle Schweitzer, government housing project on 23rd Place, for the last six-plus years. Phone disconnected July of last year. No TV, no Internet. Good gracious, how do you live, Joe? That sounds like hell on earth.”
He contemplated me for the first time in his long soliloquy and blinked, maybe surprised I was still there. Squeak-squeak-squeakle.
“Library,” I said. “I spend a lot of time at the library.”
“My goodness, I’ll bet you do. Have you tried submitting a 2214-C? You can get a free netphone if you meet the requirements. Are you bi-gendered in any way? A victim of attempted denial of entry into this country? No? Pity.” Squeak-squick. “Let’s see here... High school disciplinary action for behavioral issues... altercations with police one, two, three... good gosh, how many times? Eight times, Joseph? My you have been a bad boy.”
“I have a big mouth and issues with authority.” I shifted and cleared my throat. “Two things that don’t go over well, huh?”
“No, I would say not.” Rogair pursed his lips and ooched forward in his chair. Screech-squawk. He tapped his touchscreen monitor a few times. “Your record shows both parents deceased, and you have a sibling, Marissa, age twenty-two. Does she still live with you?”
“No, she’s married. Lives in Baltimore.”
“Too bad,” my coach mused. “You might have qualified under the Americans with Dependent Siblings Act. I don’t suppose you have any children?”
I hated to dash Rogair’s hopes. “No, sorry.”
“Any children you can claim as yours not living with you?”
“Huh-uh.”
“Oh, well. Can’t be helped.” Squeak-squawk. “Okay, then, this all looks good. Let me run your income tax returns.”
Ah. Shit. “Um, do you have to?”
Coach Rogair frowned. A ray of darkness had pierced his silver cloud. “Of course we do. Sub-section C of Chapter 22 of the Federal Code of Managed Benefits. We need to establish your earning history and your fiscal standing in order to assess what benefits might apply.” He tapped and squeaked without looking up. “Why? Is there some—oh, my.”
“Okay, that’s not me. I had my identity stolen when I was sixteen and—”
“This says you have earned in excess of twelve million dollars last year.”
“—and when the Social Security Administration fixed it, they got my records—”
“And nine million the year before that. Why would you be applying for government assistance with that kind of wealth at your disposal, Mr. Warren?”
“—crossed up with a pharmacy chain out of Dearborn called Warren’s. It’s in the IRS database now, and I can’t—”
“Fraudulent claims for benefits is a serious crime, Mr. Warren. Do you know how many people try and scam us every day?”
“—get the IRS to fix it. I’ve been down to their office in person like eighteen times in the last ten years. I keep—”
“Dozens, Mr. Warren. Dozens of people try and scam us every day.” Rogair practically vibrated with disapproval. His arms were crossed, and his mouth crimped into a thin line. Two red spots glowed on his cheeks, and more red flushed his neck.
“But I’m not one of them, Rogair,” I maintained. How many times would I have to tell this story? Every time, apparently. “Not a scammer, I mean. Literally, I’m telling you, the IRS database is screwed up. I can email you my W2’s... well I could if I had a netphone—but I can bring them to you. Today. Look, you said it yourself, I was employed as a CNC Printer. How much do you think that pays?”
“I don’t need your W2’s,” Rogair said with a sniff. He twirled his monitor around to show me the screen. “It shows your earnings records right here. That’s your name, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“It was your fingerprint ID that pulled up these records, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“And that’s your income, right there on Line 16. Twelve million, four hundred and sixty-one thousand, eight hundred and eight dollars.” He sniffed again and leaned back. Squeakle-squark. “And fifty-two cents.”
“None of which is mine. I’m telling you, the IRS database is wrong.”
“The IRS?”
“Yes.”
“Is wrong?”
“Yes, exactly. I had my social security number stolen and—”
“I think you’d better leave now, Mr. Warren.”
“—when I tried to get it fixed, the lady at—”
“You need to leave, Mr. Warren.”
“—the IRS office got in a hurry or something, you know how these things go—”
“Mr. Warren! Leave! Now! Before I call Homeland and have you arrested for fraud.” Coach Rogair’s face had gone beet red. People in other cubes were craning their heads out, like turtles with square shells. The only sound in the office was the ringing of desk phones going unanswered.
Humiliation flourished.
I left.
Squeak-squeak. Not Rogair’s office chair—that was the sound of my ass puckering up as I walked.
I clattered down the stairs rather than wait on an elevator, crossed the lobby past the homeland cops screening and patting down the supplicants, and shouldered through the glass doors onto Roosevelt.
And stumbled smack into a street riot.