Food stamped

My adventure getting food assistance

By Bob Colby

For a while, really not that long ago, I had it all: a house in the suburbs, a pretty good job, a wife, two cars, cable TV with HBO, a cell phone and a land line, washer and dryer, lawnmower, gas grill, a fridge stocked with food, and dignity. One by one, they all went away.

Within the span of about a year, I was living with a roommate in a two-bedroom apartment downtown and struggling to pay rent on a meager unemployment check — no decent
job prospects in sight. The cupboard was bare.

My roommate had been getting food stamps (actually a card with a password these days) for a couple months, but when she landed a dishwashing job at a hotel, her benefits got cut off. It was my turn to apply.

So one day I sucked it up and trudged down to Marginal Way, where the Maine Department of Health and Human Services has a district office. I’d never been there before. The imposing brick-and-concrete building, constructed early this decade in government style, is set back from the street and has plenty of parking (apparently to accommodate all the hungry people still feeding a gas tank).

I entered the ground floor lobby and was struck by how much it resembled the Department of Motor Vehicles — rows of seats all facing the same direction, the atmosphere a mix of drudgery and dread. I went up to the receptionist’s desk, where a young, amiable woman sat. I told her I was there to apply for food stamps, and that I’d never done this before, so could she please walk me through the procedure?

She was very helpful, not at all condescending. She handed me a clipboard with a few forms attached and gave me a number on a ticket like you get at the deli. I still remember my number. It was 83.

I sat down and filled out the forms. They were fairly simple, not unlike a job application. When I returned them to the receptionist she was pleasantly surprised that I brought the clipboard back. She said it was her last one. (I guess a lot of food stamp applicants also need a clipboard.)

When I returned to my seat, I realized I hadn’t heard any numbers called yet. Then one came over the speaker: “68?”

I regretted not having brought something to read. I picked up a few brochures, an employment circular — anything to pass the time, which passed extraordinarily slowly.

There was a small, glassed-in child-care area to my left, with books and toys, a couple mothers with kids inside. I noticed most of the people waiting were women, about half of them with at least one kid. I saw Somali moms in native dress with kids wearing American-style clothes. Many languages were being spoken.

Finally, about two hours after I’d arrived, they called my number. I was directed to meet with a dour woman, 60-ish, dressed in business-casual, who looked like she’d been doing this job way too long. I’ll never forget her expression when she saw me approach, a face that said everything she thought about me: a middle aged, white male, seemingly healthy, seemingly employable, applying to be another in an endless line of vacuums sucking the system dry.

She shuttled me into some sort of holding or interrogation cubicle — not her own — and asked me a series of questions.

“Are you employed?”

“No.”

“Do you have any possibilities for employment?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Do you have any assets?”

I thought for a minute. No house, no car, no savings… I figured maybe I could lighten the moment. “I have a great sense of humor.”

No smile. No response. Then came, “What is your source of income?”

“Unemployment,” I replied.

“And how much is that?”

“Two hundred and thirty-one dollars a week.”

“Oh, that’s way too much,” she said sourly. “I don’t think you’ll qualify.”

I just sat there, nonplussed. After several more moments, she said, “Would you like me to run it through, just to make sure?” I thought, No. I just spent two hours of my life waiting for this, so why don’t you just send me away without even checking to see if I qualify, you miserable hag. I said, “Yes, if that’s not too much trouble.”

Apparently, it almost was. We had to move to a different cube. She ran my numbers with a look like she was taking a particularly uncomfortable shit. At last she said, sounding rather disappointed, “Yes, you qualify for food stamps. Thirty-one dollars a month.”

Thirty-one dollars a month. A buck a day. What can one actually eat for a buck a day? I took it, though. At Paul’s Food Center on Congress Street, $31 will get you a pound of hamburger, half a chicken, pasta, sauce, a few vegetables, some frozen fish sticks, coffee, milk, half ’n’ half, a couple cans of soup, a loaf of bread, two cans of tuna, bologna, mustard and mayonnaise. If there’s any credit left on your food-stamp card, maybe a couple pork chops, too.

After a couple months, I came into some money through a very fortunate personal loan. A letter came from DHHS telling me I had to report any income I’d received or I’d lose my benefits.

I didn’t write back.