Flickering Rights

WARNING: Language

“Do you want to drive, honey? Your driver’s exam is in a week, so you can use all the extra practice you can get.”

Maureen Donovan’s twenty-six-year-old son, Nathan, entered the kitchen. “Sure!” he replied. “Do you trust me to drive us all the way there…?”

He walked over to the coffee pot, assembling the usual suspects for his perfect cup: hemp filters (washable), water (distilled), Star Trek mug (might as well be a bowl with a handle) and Italian roast (tar-grade).

“Of course! You’ve driven wonderfully up until now. I have no reason that you won’t get us there safe and sound. Even Dad mentioned how well you’ve been doing on your practice runs.”

Nathan turned around and walked towards her, opened bag of coffee grounds in one hand and metal scooper in another. Two inches taller, he gave Maureen a bear hug. “I can even parallel park!” he said, squeezing her tightly. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate you.”

Tears filled her eyes. He’s come so far. What a precious, precious shiny soul.

Before long, their cozy kitchen smelled like a coffeehouse right after rush hour—the rich, earthy scent promising clarity and energy to face the day.

Although caffeine counteracted with her anxiety meds, she decided to take Nathan up on his offer to pour her a cup.

The “there” that they’d be going to was a Social Security office forty-five minutes away in Kellyville. Maureen was still irked that the snail mail letter insisted that she’d be there in person—or risk losing Nathan’s health insurance.

Assholes.

Why didn’t they schedule an appointment at the office a mere ten minutes from their house? It was bad enough that they denied Nathan monetary benefits based on a five-minute memory test given by a “psychologist” with greasy black hair, wearing a gray baggy pantsuit three sizes too big for her.

A memory test. For Autism. And no appeal—unless she wanted to get a lawyer involved and argue against Nathan’s capabilities.

Fucking incompetent bureaucrats.

She sighed, quickly wiping away a tear before Nathan spotted it. She didn’t want to upset him. He felt things so deeply…

Maureen drained the rest of her cup. Delicious as always.

And much better than Charbucks.

When he gets his license—crossing fingers—maybe he could fulfill his dream of becoming a barista.

She slid into the passenger side of the red Chevy Cruze, a birthday gift for Nathan from his grandmother, and called up the GPS info for the Kellyville office. Nathan got behind the wheel, adjusting the seat and all the mirrors. His pre-drive check usually took several minutes, and today was no different.

“See, buddy, I told you that you could do it!” Nathan’s bright blue eyes lit up, a huge smile spreading across his face.

“I did do it!” he exclaimed.

Maureen smiled back, gathering her purse and the sheaf of papers that SSI had sent.

“Do you want me to go in with you Mom?”

“Nah. I should only be in there for a few minutes. I still can’t figure out why they would put us through the trouble of coming all the way here…”

“OK, I’ll play Wordle, Connections, Strands, Spelling Bee and the Mini Crossword Puzzle. Love you!” Nathan got out his phone.

At the entrance, she yanked at one of the heavy glass doors, the threshold of capriciousness, callousness and cluelessness. Several rows of scarred gray plastic chairs stood empty in the waiting room, even though the stagnant air smelled like the unwashed masses—rancid armpits, stale cigarette smoke and OMG a blast from the past…is that chemical odor Aqua Net?

What’s next, Emeraude? Tabu? Chanel #5?

Ewww. Gross.

Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed, reminding her of bug zappers. The walls and drop ceiling were aiming for white, but instead pulled off depressed cream corn.

Let’s get this over with.

Maureen walked up to the Plexiglas window.

An unsmiling woman with her hair pulled back in a tight red bun looked up from a clipboard, quickly turning her name tag backwards.

“My name is Maureen Donovan. I have an appointment for 2 PM.” The aftertaste of Nathan’s coffee now soured in her throat.

Red Bun turned towards a bank of lighted buttons and pushed a large yellow one in the center.

“Dr. Sacco will see you in a minute. Please have a seat”.

Doctor? Since when does Social Security employ doctors?

Could it be that someone finally realized how unfair it was that Nathan wasn’t properly evaluated for benefits? That they would finally perform real psychological tests, instead of a quickie that could be found in a glossy magazine?

In that case, she should go out to the car to get Nathan…

“Mrs. Donovan!” A man in a white coat emerged from a side door. With his curly black hair and Mario Brothers’ moustache, he looked more like a pizza joint owner than a doctor.

Or Gabe Kaplan, the actor who played Mr. Kotter.

Maureen was about to ask if she needed to go get Nathan when Dr. Sacco put his hand under her arm and gently steered her down a hallway. The door snicked closed behind her. She turned to look at it.

It appeared to have a handprint security feature.

Weird.

Dr. Sacco turned right and motioned her into a bare office with only a desk and a chair. Maureen sat down as yet another door closed behind her. She turned around.

The doctor wasn’t there.

Oh come on. Incompetence at every level!

To the right, she noticed a window. Dr. Sacco was on the other side. He spoke into the microphone: “Mrs. Donovan, I just have a few questions to ask you before we get down to business. Would that be OK?”

Maureen snorted. Time-wasting bureaucrats.

“Yeah, go ahead. But my son is in the car and I told him this would only take a few minutes.”

Dr. Sacco looked down at a clipboard. She thought she heard him say “That’s unfortunate…”

Probably bemoaning his own set of screwed up interoffice paperwork, she guessed.

“First question: When did you start feeling out of control?”

Her breath froze in her throat. What the hell…?

“Excuse me? What are you talking about?” Her green eyes narrowed at him. He didn’t look up.

“Onto question two”, he droned. “Why do you feel that you can’t take care of your son?”

Fury ran from her stomach and fisted its way to her mouth. That motherfucker. How dare he…

She stood up.

The door behind her opened. Two bald meatheads wearing snot-green scrubs stood at the threshold.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Donovan”, he nasaled. “You’ll feel better soon. So very soon…”

He had a three-inch needle in his hand.