There were a lot of parking spaces on the east side of Western where the welfare office is, and there weren’t many people inside. I had come with a friend to get information on a welfare work program. We took number 52 and sat in the back. There was no sign anywhere to show what number they were on.
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A security guard, sitting half-asleep near the entrance, looked around confused. Then he stretched and yawned. He slowly ambled to the bank of elevators, pressed a button, and leaned against the wall. Suddenly he lurched forward, ran back to where he had been sitting, and retrieved his cup of coffee.
A woman sitting nearby said, “Now watch this. One guard leaves and another takes his place. It’s just like a video game.”
“See,” Dolores said. “We zap one and they send out another.”
The young woman, who was now sitting in the front, began to complain. “When is it my turn?” she asked. Thirty seconds later she repeated the question. Then she stood and began to prance around. The security guard watched her carefully. “When is it my turn?” she yelled.
“Can’t they get to my turn?” she countered.
The young woman walked to the front, faced all of us, and screamed, “I’ve been here an hour already. When is it my turn?”
