Snitch Factory: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    Why did I always feel like a proctologist doing this, sticking my fingers up the assholes of everyone in the room? And why did my clients take these cupboard and refrigerator searches so personally? It was a small price to pay for food stamps, wasn’t it?
    “Everything okay, Mrs. Hassler?”
    “Seems to be,” I replied. “Can I ask you some questions, and then I’ll be out of your hair?”
    Mary Klein crossed and recrossed her legs under the table. Mrs. Dominguez had a I-will-get-through-this-or-I’llkill-myself look on her face.
    “Now then,” I said, clearing my throat. “Do you have any undeclared income for the last three months?”
    She took a moment before supplying an answer to my question, playing peekaboo with me. Frances made me wait, like she wasn’t sure of what she wanted to say and as though she wanted to test me with it, before admitting, “No.”
    “Very good. Do you have any savings at a bank here in the city or anywhere else, something we should be informed of?”
    “No.”
    “Has anybody else been giving you contributions of money as gifts, to help you pay your bills?”
    “No.”
    A denial to every interrogative was the key to success for most welfare recipients. A plain yes or no was the dividing line between receiving a month’s worth of food stamps, or not getting them. That was the beauty of the English language; its vocabulary led to action.
    “What else should I know about? Donations from charity? Loans from family members?”

    “Absolutely not. My husband, the kids, they’re gone. There is nobody.”
    Another female on her own. I studied Mrs. Dominguez and Mary Klein, how they glanced at each other. Were they lovers? It wasn’t likely. Then I did my mathematics. Adding up the numbers, I saw my client was qualified to receive her benefits for the next month.
    For this, I was glad. I was never happy about denying food stamps or GA to any of the adult women and men on my caseload. This was something most people failed to realize. For example: a policeman didn’t want to arrest people and send them to jail, and the typical eligibility worker didn’t enjoy cutting off social services to needy people. But the rules had to be obeyed.
    “I guess that covers it. Is there anything else I should know about?”
    “No. What else is there?”
    My work limited fraternization with the clientele. I had to stay inscrutable and uninvolved. I had to keep my distance from women like Frances Dominguez or Mary Klein, because there were a million of them in the distance, and they were traveling single file in my direction. The manila folders in my storage cabinets were filled with information about people like them. I stood up, put away my notebook and edged towards the door, saying, “That’s it then. The food stamps and the vouchers will be in the mail.”
    Everyone smiled, and Frances Dominguez showed me out, burbling when I was on her porch. “It’s been great, Mrs. Hassler. Really great. We should do this more often.”

nine
    M y duty done, I cruised north on the Mission’s miracle mile, swishing by Ming’s Garden Restaurant, Lady Seikko’s Japanese Restaurant, Starlight Furniture Co., the Hong Kong Cafe, Saifi Fabric, Marian’s Women’s Apparel and the Wing Tai Sewing Inc.
    Most caseworkers didn’t have access to the DSS vehicle pool. For me, the privilege was a holdover from my earlier days at the complex. Back when Petard had selected me, the eager girl, from the other rank and file social workers who were kissing up to him. It had been an electrifying moment when he’d introduced himself to me at a general meeting.
    “Mother of god, how delicious. You must be Charlene Hassler.”
    “You got it.”
    “How old are you, child?”
    “I’m twenty-two.”
    He chortled from his belly. “Well, don’t be shy about it.”
    I’ll never forget his smile; a dazzling great white shark bite of a smile. He made sure everyone else in the conference room saw how he treated me, and