Social Insecurity

Somehow I lost my social security card, which, according to the government’s site for such things, I’m allowed to do ten times a year before it gets to be a problem. Regardless of the lenient replacement policy, there are hoops to jump through with this sort of thing, and you definitely don’t want to be without that piece of paper, let alone the number itself. Even a very brief visit to a local Social Security office will introduce you to people who seem to be flickering around the edge of official person-hood, if not off that radar entirely.

Speaking of which, the tiny object in the center of the picture is actually a person in one of those Hoveround motorized mobility things for people who have trouble walking. He or she is being met by the Portland police while begging on the 205 exit ramp.

This was going on as I waiting my turn at Taco Bell, a location as well known for photo-journalistic opportunities as it is meat-shaped food products. While I tend not to believe in magical signs and symbols (except for that one dog’s ass that totally looks like Jesus), watching someone being carried off an exit ramp–a second police car seemed to be necessary to remove the Hoveround–tended to affect my otherwise cheerful “I’m about to enjoy meat-shaped food products” mood.

I’d been thinking about happiness a bit lately. In particular, I’d been trying to cope with liking the work I’m doing these days, even if there is quite a bit of it. I’d joked that yesterday I’d expected a piano to fall on me or something, because things were actually going pretty well for me after a pretty bad patch, and I just can’t seem to trust anything outside my default state of mildly comic gloom. No piano today, though this image certainly had an effect. There but for the grace of a rapidly fading Subaru Outback and some luck on the job front, go I. I worry about these sorts of things, probably more than is healthy. “Maybe my mortal fear of this new kind of happiness is how I’ll be miserable from now on,” I found myself writing in an email to my sister. And that seemed about right.

I think a lot of us are a little on edge these days, a little unsure of where things might be headed next–a kind of end-of-the-world Mayan-xiety or something–and watching someone who can’t walk get removed by the police for begging sums up all of that fear better than almost anything. But really it wasn’t just the scene that got to me.

What seems to have affected me the most was the flag.

If you look very closely, you’ll be able to see it, one of those orange, triangular “please don’t kill me” flags parents sometimes install on first bicycles before sending us out into the streets all knees and elbows, wobbly and unsure. At some point, it had occurred to this individual that his or her–I can’t be certain–personal mobility scooter required one of these flags, and of course enough people for whom walking is difficult are out begging on our off ramps, that Hoveround offers the safety flag as an accessory for only $17.95 (on sale from $19.95 right now). According to Hoveround:

Our wheelchair safety flag is a great accessory for increasing your visibility while using your power wheelchair in busy areas. The bright orange color and extended height of this safety flag gets you noticed and helps to keep you safe. Made from strong vinyl material, our power mobility flag is designed to last for a long time.”

I have to call bullshit on that one, though, because this person’s safety flag had ripped badly, so that instead of being shaped like a triangle, it floated out into two points, more like the flag of a castle. It was the flag that kind of brought it home to me, because I imagined this individual at some point working through the following simple thought process:

I’m probably going to be doing some begging, so I’d better get the flag.

The helpless tend to have the kind of ruthless logic that can’t be questioned, like this note my equally cautious and deliberate six year-old son wrote, and that I took with me on my drive across the country.

In the most literal sense, Taco Bell might not have “food,” but it never hurts to ask them for water, even if you just end up giving it to someone else.