my surprise. It's not like the DMV where I never have what I need on the first visit.

My license and passport card are copied while a nose-picker next to me is registering his fingerprint in the new scanning system. Takes five scans of one finger, I hear. My turn. It doesn't look like they clean the scanner between nasal cultures. I'm hoping the incipient swine flu brouhaha will engender a change in the procedure.

I learn my finger is now my key to check in and out each time I visit the Senior Employment Center. So, I've got to additionally worry that someone is going to cut off my finger to gain access and rob the place. Of what, I think. The furniture? Perhaps not. Well, fooled them anyway. I didn't use the standard-procedure right index finger. I used a different one, I guess through sleight-of-hand, as it were. The bad guys will need to amputate a sampling of my fingers.

I'm told to fill out what feels like five or six double-sided sheets of paper with my name and formerly quite private SS number at the top of each, just in case the front of the sheet of paper somehow gets separated from the back, I suppose.

All this information minus the SS number is on my resume, but they ask for a resume only as an optional attachment, not in place of writing all the tedious longhand.

There's no place to sit to fill this out, by the way. I guess that's reasonable, really. Even in the private sector, the room would be built for the average capacity needed, not that needed for a peak time like now. In any case, there is one curious thing: a desk in the middle of the room with a guy sitting there. This guy isn't doing anything at all, just sitting, though it is obviously his desk. After I've looked around the corner a couple of times, scanned the room some more, perhaps sighed loudly, he asks how he can help, perhaps I'm looking for a place to write, to fill out my double-sided forms? Yes, I say and he says that I can use his desk. Great, that's so nice I say and use the desk. His job then becomes to stand up and do nothing.

Apropos of nothing, and I hesitate to include this, he's maybe 5 feet tall and wearing a brown pinstripe zoot suit. I don't know if I've got the term right, but here's what it looks like: it's way oversized, with the bottom of the wide-lapeled jacket reaching his knees; the pants are really big with pegged cuffs; and, it looks brand new. He's zooted up with a tie as well. A tie for doing nothing, though the seat was warm.

I write away, then we're eventually ushered upstairs, a group of about twenty of us. Have a seat and I'll be with you in about five minutes says the lady upstairs. By this point, I need the bathroom. Hey, it's a Senior Center, isn't it? She points to the wall, where two keys with oversized don't-steal-me fobs hang, one color-coded yellow and one a greenish-brown. Perplexed, I think this telegraphs way too much information. Turns out yellow identifies the ladies' room and brown the men's room. My proctor didn't seem to get my color commentary.

Back in the gathering place we're still unoccupied. So, I whip out my informational forms and prepare to finish the task. Our leader walks in, says good afternoon and remarks how she's so very happy to be there and looks forward to helping us.

I'm writing my last line on the formssignature, date, etc.and I immediately hear, "Sir, please put down your pen while I'm speaking."

I haven't heard that said to me, especially in such a commanding tone, since about third grade. The teacher didn't use "sir" that time, so I guess this could be a slight upgrade for me.

This is going to be a long thirty hours. Bring on the buzzards.

Learn more about this author, Bruce Corson.
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