am the child of a middlebrow family. A few months ago I applied for a permit to practice medicine; doctors make a good living. The caseworker advised that, as long as I was there, I might as well apply for everything else.
"How about AFDC? Got any kids?"
"No. But I could get some."
"Medicaid? Gotta have a health problem."
I nodded. "I have a hang-over." I get them a lot but I won't let it control my life.
"How 'bout a free pack o' food stamps? Comes with condiments."
"Ohh ... okay." Gal's gotta eat.
"Crime-Victims Compensation?"
Say ... that would include Hate Crimes. "Make it a double."
"Medicinal marijuana?"
Sheesh. What kind of loser does he think I am? "Non-medicinal. Next?"
"Housing Allowance? As well, this month only we're offering a Housing Disallowance. Helps you attain homelessness. Then you qualify for extra Housing Allowance."
My head started to spin. "I'll put you down for work-related stress assistance," he said, apparently noticing.
So, at age 26, I became an Official Federally-Endowed Shopper. And I kind of wondered: why would the government pay me to be a welfare recipient? Seems it would drive a proud country into bankruptcy. Well, there're two ways one must look at it. Just as you can't have the good without the bad, you can't have jobs without the jobless: every job I do not have is a job another person can have, if that is their life-style choice. Or you could look at it this way: just as the feds pay certain lucky farmers not to grow food, they pay me not to be poor. Because the poor soak up valuable resources.
Entering the Welfare Force made me feel better about myself as a person financially. I joined the Federal Unemployees Union; even helped organize a strike and potluck out at Marymoor Park. I gave some of my extra Housing Allowance to my parents, and finally I have the house to myself. I get a military pension, HBO, even federal sperm vouchers to help me with my childlessness. All free. Makes me hate America a little less.
But I found myself perplexed by pangs of doubt. Did I feel guilty, forcing the industrious to feed, clothe and clean up after me? Did I feel like a hypocrite, when I told beggars to "get a job" as I drove past? Was it ... was it shame? I'm not sure ... that I understand the questions.
No, despite my best liberal posturing, I felt the need to somehow work for my benefits, as long as they would still be free. Why? Well, firstly, the unemployed do not qualify for Federal Sick Leave. Also, as a jobless person, there is no one I can sue for sexual harassment in case I have to. It is very discriminating.
I actually went down to the Job Clinic and spoke to a therapist. He asked, "Can you work with your hands?"
"No."
"Any other part of your body?"
Referring to what?! My vagina? Pig! "Don't I wish."
"Can you write?" I smiled and showed him some of my free-lance stuff.
"Can you flip a burger?" He handed me a spatula and I gave it try. Seemed I could not.
He checked his files. "Genex Nurseries needs someone to come down and work the night shift at the greenhouse. You'd be exhaling nutrient-rich carbon dioxide." And you just have to shake your head and laugh at a man who has onion slices and secret sauce all over him.
I considered the job. Dignified labor that helped plants. Quiet, easily-influenced coworkers. A benefits package that included a cot, fluids and wafers. Hmmm. Time to go down to Eddie Bauer and browse away my angst, so I paid a visit to a local Municipal Outlet.
I marched up to the counter. "I'll take $200 in NEA Compensation, a Metro pass, and one of your cigarettes."
The old fodge apparently didn't understand. "No, dear. This is a polling place. It's voting day."
A polling place? I looked about in wonderment. Most of you have probably never had to descend into the bowels of the democratic process: believe me, it is not pleasant. Milling pockets of deadbeats with nothing better to do than stare at their ballots in disbelief and despair. Floor strewn with children or whatever. Security goon suspiciously eyeing my breast implants. Noises of some kind. The entire place reeked of politics. The voting attendants were all old and incontinent, for all I knew.
I had an idea! Indicating the ballots, I tossed down a crumpled sawbuck and barked, "One, please."
The old fossil laughed at me and said, "No, dear. They're free."
Oh yeah. Free. What isn't. "I'll take 20."
He smiled, handed me one, and directed me to a filthy, graffiti-covered booth, where I considered my ballot. Hmm. Ron Sims for governor. That's a no-brainer. I then wrote in Sims for the other positions on the ballot, and then wrote in some extra positions.
I looked up. That's it? I'm a workaholic. I went back to the attendant; his breath stank of Fixadent. "I need another ballot. Guess I'm just an incompetent woman."
"I'm sorry, what?"
Sigh. I plucked out his hearing aid and spoke directly into it. "I forgot to vote against Medicare." I grabbed one and went back to the booth. This time, because I am a complex person, I voted for Slade Gorton. Now, before you march off in disgust, please note: I changed the R by his name to a D. This will force him to govern like a human being for a change. The rest of the ballot positions I just crossed out.
I went back to the counter. "Oops. I accidentally recycled it. Gimme another."
"Say, you're not doin' anything illegal with those ballots, are ya?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye ... a twinkle of senility.
I smiled warmly. "You remind me of my dead grandpa." Dumb old fart. Alright, alright: dumb old fart-challenged. "I'm ... writing a novel about ballots." Maybe I appealed to the artist in him: he smiled and gave me a stack of them. I don't care. On the first one I voted him out of a job.
As time went by I seemed to improve as a voter, and as a person. I helped out around the country: Cuomo, Richards; I chipped in a long-overdue vote for the late Governor Alben Barkley. On one ballot I streamlined the process by just marking it D, please. On another: See previous. Then: You know damn well. The people who count these things aren't idiots.
Incidentally, you'll be pleased to know I've officially cast the first five votes for the '96 Clintons, though in a footnote I recommended they dump that awful Chelsea.
I thought it would be fun to cancel out my Dad's votes: you know, vote opposite him on everything. Then you just give the attendants his name. When he comes by, they tell him it's already been taken care of, and he can be on his way. Wouldn't that be a treat! But I didn't know what the opposite of a Libertarian was.
The last ten ballots I sold. They were mine and I had every right to. Bought some pot.
Now, every two weeks, when the courier comes by with my stipend, I look him pleasingly in the eye and smile as if to say: make it snappy, bub: I work for the government now. I save lives ... no. I affirm those lives. For example, I voted for Forrest Gump, Best Picture. I have employees -- legislators -- who pay me handsomely to keep them gainfully employed: so I help the economy.
Voting: would I recommend it? Of course: for myself. But it's not a game for amateurs. Back in '94, a bunch of civic types thought they'd give it a whirl. Out of curiosity, maybe. And a whole lot of innocent people -- the infirm, the needy, the unemployable -- ended up getting hurt feelings, bad. Maybe next time you'll mind your own business.

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Kristeen Winc would like to be a free-lance writer.

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