When I called the next number three people stood up, two young women in their late twenties and a girl about eleven. They were all dressed in black.
I waited while they weaved their way through the crowded waiting room. It was after three o’clock and the room was still full of people waiting for an interview. Even though I just started the job I knew it was a death benefit interview and, most likely, a survivor’s benefit also.
I had just started working for Social Security. At the time, October 1974, I was thirty-four years old, out of the Navy and starting my career in the civil service. After completing three weeks of classroom training, I was in my first week of on-the-job training at my office in Borough Hall, Brooklyn. The supervisors called it the “Buddy System” where the new employees sit in on some real interviews conducted by experienced claims interviewers.
My buddy was twelve years younger than me and on the job less than a year. Her name was Karen and she reveled in her new buddy responsibilities, especially since it was over someone who was older than her. Her buddy being a male was also a big plus for her.
After my first day Karen allowed me to call numbers and lead people to her desk by myself. I also made copies of documents that she would hand me. I thought that my training was going well so far. Karen said that next week I would be doing some of the easier interviews while she sat by and observed. But for this first week I just watched in silenced.
When the three reached me I said, “Good afternoon. I hope you haven’t been waiting long?” Without waiting for an answer, I started walking, directing them towards Karen’s desk. I heard the little girl behind me say something in Spanish, confirming my belief that they were Hispanic. I thought that they were Puerto Ricans only because most Hispanics in Brooklyn back then were from Puerto Rico.
“We’ve been waiting for about two hours,” the young girl said without emotion and in English as good as mine.
“Yes, we’ve been very busy today,” I said, mostly just to say something.
Again, the girl said my words in Spanish and the two women nodded in reply.
Except for her height and shape the young girl looked and was dressed the same as the women. Their black dresses were similar and fashioned with black lace. Each wore a gold cross hanging from a necklace. And their shoulder-length hair was as black as their dresses. Except for their big brown eyes being unfocused and rimmed in red and the absence of a smile, the three would have been called beautiful.
When we got to the desk there were only two chairs for them. I quickly got a chair from nearby that wasn’t being used and pushed it in line with the others. The three sat down with the girl sitting in the middle.
“This is Ms. Levy. She will be helping you today,” I said and sat down and continued my observing.
The young interpreter spoke Spanish again and they all turned and looked at my buddy. “How can I assist you,” Karen smiled, starting the interview.
As the young girl translated one of the women pulled out a manila envelope from her black pocketbook and started taking out various documents. I saw a Social Security card, a birth certificate, a death certificate, and there were some other papers still in the envelope. The woman handed the Social Security card and birth ceriificte to Ms. Levy. The girl said, “He was killed last week.”
Karen said, “I’m sorry” and started assembling the forms that would be needed for the interview and processing the benefits. She handed me the Social Security card and birth certificate and said, “Tom, would you see if we have his work history on the microfiche?” Our office had copies of the work histories of the people who lived in Brooklyn recorded on microfiche that was updated monthly.
I took the card and certificate and went to one of the nine microfiche machines in the office. Luckily the line waiting to use the machine wasn’t too long. While I was waiting for the machine to print out the copy of the dead man’s work history, I noticed that he was only thirty years old – four years younger than me.
I returned to Karen with the copy in less than five minutes. I noted that she had completed the headings of several of the required forms, filling in the dead man’s name, Social Security number, date of birth, and date of death. The interview was still at the beginning. I gave her the copy of the microfiche and the card and certificate without saying a word. After reviewing the work history, Karen placed it on the pile that already included the man’s death certificate and last pay check. I sat back again and observed.
Karen asked if the man was married. The woman with the envelope handed the marriage certificate to Karen before the young girl finished the translation. Karen copied the name of the bride and the date and place of the marriage in the appropriate blocks of the various forms spread out in front of her. Shortly Karen asked, “Children?”
Before the girl said a word in Spanish, the widow pulled out three birth certificates from the envelope. Again, Karen completed the appropriate blocks and set aside the three certificates. As the blocks were being filled in and documents collected, the man’s short life was starting to take form.
As the interview continued, Karen would read questions from the forms; the girl would repeat the questions; the widow would answer, sometimes after conferring with the other woman in Spanish; and the girl would give the answers in English.
The dead man’s story was short like his life. The man moved to Brooklyn from Puerto Rico five years before with his brother and their young families. The brothers opened a small grocery market in Brooklyn. One of the brothers took a job in a factory to earn extra money, but still worked at the grocery store in the evenings and on the weekends. The other brother worked full time at the grocery and members of both families helped out.
Three months before, the grocery store was robbed and the brother who worked full time there was killed. The brother who worked at the factory quit that job to work full time at the family store. Last week that brother was killed during another robbery. This interview was for the Social Security benefits to which his wife and children were entitled.
The two women were sisters-in-law, wearing black for their dead husbands. The young girl was wearing black for her father, but I never figured out which brother was her father. This must have been the second time that the three went through an interview at our office in the last few months.
Throughout the interview Karen continued to fill in the blocks with the information provided by the three in black. The name and address of the factory the dead man worked at was recorded. The dates that he started and quit were also noted in the appropriate blocks.
Various other documents were collected – W-2 forms, pay stubs – and were added to the pile. Eventually and without a word, but with a slight smile on her face, Karen handed me the stack of documents. I took them and went to the nearest Xerox machine to continue my training in copying documents.
On my way back to Karen’s desk I noticed that there were still people in the waiting room. It was little before four o’clock now; time enough for one more interview. But I really didn’t want to sit through another one; I had enough training and observing for one day.
I handed Karen the original documents and the copies in separate piles. She quickly made sure that all the originals were copied and readable. They were and she handed the originals back to the widow with the envelope.
Karen reviewed all the forms to make sure that all the appropriate blocks were filled in, and then marked all the signature blocks with red check marks. Turning and pushing the forms to the more recent widow, Karen said to the young girl, “Please review these with her and have her sign her full name by the red check marks. If there are any questions, please let me know.”
While the three were looking over the forms, Karen calculated the estimated the monthly benefits that the widow and her three children would be receiving. After the young widow signed the forms, Karen stated the amount of the monthly survivors’ benefits. In addition there would be a one-time check for death benefits. The widow should be receiving both checks within two months. The young girl explained in Spanish.
Collecting all the forms that more than outlined the young man’s life, Karen glanced through them one last time to make sure that they were all signed. Then she asked, “Are there any further questions?”
The young girl translated and the two women responded by shaking their heads no. Then looking at the widow of the first brother who was killed Karen inquired, “Have you started receiving your Social Security checks?”
The young girl asked the widow, who was either her mother or her aunt, the question in Spanish. The young widow responded that she did. I was relieved; these women didn’t need any silly bureaucratic problems.
I knew that the interview was almost over when Karen took out a brochure that provided the general information on Social Security survivors’ benefits. She handed it to the girl and said that they should take it home and look it over. Karen added that if there are any changes, such as moving, that they should notify us. Karen pointed to the office phone number on the brochure.
The young girl repeated Karen’s comments. The young widows conferred, and the young girl replied, “We are planning to move back to Puerto Rico. Maybe next year.”
“Well, if you do, make sure you call us to give us the new address. Also call us if you do not receive the first check within two months,” Karen said rising from chair.
With the young girl translating, the three stood up. Karen shook hands with the three of them and closed by saying, “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.” All three nodded their heads, smiling slightly. This time there was no translation; there was no need for one.
I walked them back to the waiting room and nodded my goodbye. The three, with the girl in the middle, walked towards the elevator holding hands. The young girl seemed to be giving as much strength as she was receiving from her mother and aunt.
When I got back to the desk Karen was busy puffing on a cigarette. After she finished stapling all the forms and copies of the documents together, my buddy looked up at me she said, “Why don’t we take a five minute break? I have to go to the little girl’s room.”
I decided not to tease her about the little girl’s room reference and sat down on my observation perch and waited. Five minutes later she came back to her desk and I went to the waiting room. There were about a dozen people still waiting. I called the next number.