You ever wonder why the simplest things in life have become complicated as hell? I’m talking about the kind of complications that make you want to pound your head against a wall until the bricks beg for mercy. Here’s a little tale about that exact brand of insanity, starring none other than yours truly.
So, I’m standing in line at the government office, you know, the place where souls go to die. I’m here to reactivate my EBT benefits because—surprise!—life’s unpredictable, and I’ve got to eat. I fill out the usual paperwork, which feels a lot like signing a deal with the devil, only without the benefits of eternal life or rock and roll.
Now, here’s where the fun begins. They ask for a phone number. No problem, right? Except, my phone’s disconnected. That’s right, I’m one of those clever folks who’s figured out that wifi is a thing. So I write down my most recent number, knowing full well it’s as dead as disco. But I figure, hey, I might reactivate it one day if life stops throwing me curveballs long enough to find home plate again. In the meantime, I’ll just indicate my preference for email communication, as any tech-savvy, slightly paranoid individual would. Easy peasy.
I hand in the form, expecting the usual rigmarole, maybe a brief wait while they do whatever it is they do back there—sacrificing chickens, reading tarot cards, consulting the Magic 8-Ball, who the hell knows. But instead of handing me my card and sending me on my way, the clerk looks at me like I just asked her to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded.
“We’ll have to set up a telephone appointment for next week,” she says, with all the enthusiasm of a kid being told they’re getting socks for Christmas.
“Next week?” I ask, trying to keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Why not now?”
“Well,” she begins, and I can tell this explanation is going to be about as satisfying as a sugar-free dessert, “you listed a phone number. So we need to confirm it through a phone appointment.”
Now, here’s the thing: when you’re dealing with bureaucracy, it’s like playing chess with a pigeon. No matter how well you play, the pigeon’s just going to knock over the pieces, shit on the board, and strut around like it won. But I’m no pigeon—I’m a hawk. So I try to explain.
“Look,” I say, “that number’s not in service right now. I just put it down because it’s the one I had before the service got cut. I’m using wifi for everything. No phone, no calls.”
She looks at me like I’ve just confessed to being a flat-earther. The concept of wifi-only communication is apparently as foreign to her as the idea of compassion is to a tax collector. But after a few seconds of mental gymnastics, she decides that my explanation is just close enough to something she might understand, and she adjusts the form.
“Just sign here,” she says, pointing to the place where I’ve struck through the phone number and scrawled the word “OFF” above it like some sort of cryptic warning from the future.
I think it’s over. I think I’ve won. But this is a government office, and winning is a foreign concept here. As I’m waiting for the next step in the process, still fiddling with my phone—on wifi, mind you—the clerk leans in and whispers like she’s sharing state secrets.
“You might want to put that away.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Well, they might wonder why you’re using your phone when you said it was off.”
I look at her, and the absurdity of the situation washes over me like a wave of cold, bitter irony. “It *is* off,” I say, holding up the phone. “I’m using wifi. *Wifi.* It’s a thing.”
But logic and reason have no place here. This is the land of rigid systems, where thinking outside the box gets you thrown in one. So I do as she suggests and slip the phone into my pocket, feeling like I’ve just smuggled contraband past a border patrol agent.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I get to the next attendant. And guess what? They can’t process my application without a working phone number. Turns out, even though I wrote “OFF” in all caps, underlined it, and probably drew a little frowny face next to it, the system doesn’t recognize “OFF” as a valid entry. It’s like trying to feed a vending machine a handwritten IOU instead of a dollar bill.
“We’ll need a valid phone number to proceed,” the attendant says, with the kind of robotic detachment that makes you wonder if they’re just a really advanced version of Siri in a human suit.
So I explain the situation *again.* But the system doesn’t care about my situation. The system doesn’t care about anything except that little box that says “Phone Number.” And if that box isn’t filled with digits that actually work, the system says, “No soup for you!”
And that’s how I end up spending the next week in limbo, trying to get my phone service reactivated just so I can get a damn EBT card, all because I tried to be a little too clever for my own good. I finally get the service turned back on—same number, thank God—and go through the whole process again, like some sort of modern-day Sisyphus, pushing a boulder made of red tape up a hill of bureaucracy.
When the phone appointment finally happens, it lasts all of three minutes. They ask me a couple of questions, confirm that I’m still a human being with a pulse, and that’s it. I could’ve done this a week ago, in person, without the technological torture session. But that’s not how the system works, is it? No, the system is a big, dumb machine, and if you don’t fit neatly into its gears, it chews you up and spits you out, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your sanity.
So the next time you’re filling out a form, and you think you’re being clever by bending the rules just a little, remember this story. Remember that the system doesn’t care how smart you are. The system doesn’t care about your wifi, your disconnected phone, or your ability to think on your feet. The system cares about one thing: the numbers. And if those numbers don’t add up, you’re just another idiot standing in line, wondering why life’s become so complicated.
And that, my friends, is the peril of the phantom phone number.
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