Forms
"Someone will be out to meet you in a minute. If you could just have a seat over there..." The receptionist sat back down, mostly disappearing behind the high counter. The sliding glass over the window snicked shut, almost catching Angela's fingers. Were employees here so hostile that Human Resources needed to hide behind locked doors and a tiny window?
Angela turned from the high counter to sit down. She felt a tug on her blouse...
"Oh, shit." The word was clipped short, as if it was a less serious curse word that way.
Her expensive silk blouse was ripped. She saw a few threads of it on the edge of the counter.
Angela looked more closely. It was a big rip, at least six inches long, right up the middle.
Nervous knuckles rapped gently on the window; it rattled in its track, much too loud for her effort.
"Yes?" Polite, and yet not.
"Your counter ripped my blouse."
The receptionist stood up and checked out Angela's chest; her lip twitched a little, suppressing a disdainful sneer. Angela noticed the receptionist was flat-chested. Jealousy?
"Guess you should be more careful." Not Our Fault. The receptionist sat back down. Her hand reached for the window, but paused before shutting it. Lip twitched again. "Ms. Douglass won't approve. You better take it off."
Well. Angela wouldn't have expected a helpful tip from the brusque receptionist, but... Angela gave a quick mental appraisal of her wardrobe. The blazer wouldn't cover enough by itself. Maybe she could rearrange it so the rip didn't show...
"Where's the restroom?"
"Back out the way you came, first door on the right."
The restroom was the size of a closet -- a *small* closet. She kept banging her elbows as she tugged the blouse this way and that, but the rip was right in the middle. And getting bigger. It gapped open when she moved her arms; she could see the clasp of her bra.
Maybe backwards.
As she struggled in the confines of the tiny bathroom to get it off, the blouse ripped the rest of the way to the waist, and just held together by the top seam. And turned around, the large circular opening designed to harmlessly expose the wearer's upper back became positively lewd, baring most of her breasts. Frustrated, she ripped it off and tossed it in the wastebasket.
The blazer alone was open all the way to her belly button. The lace edges of her demi bra showed between the lapels, and the front clasp just begged to be unhooked.
Wait, she had that white satin halter top in the car, the one she was going to return. It was better than nothing...
Back to the receptionist.
"Do you think I have time to go get something from the car?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Tell Ms. Douglass I'll be right back."
Just then, the inner door opened. "Miss Barrett?"
Angela froze.
A hugely fat woman filled the doorway. Her eyes ran up and down the young interviewee's body. Somehow her sour expression soured even more. "Come on," she said, turning away.
"Actually, if I could just run out to my car-"
"No time. I've got a conference call with Legal in ten minutes." Ms. Douglass began to walk away. The door began to close. Angela could tell it wouldn't be opened again. She dove for it, catching the doorknob just before it latched.
Ms. Douglass' torso seemed to twist independent of her legs as she looked over her shoulder. "All right, this way."
Angela counted six male office workers roaming the halls. None of them made eye contact with her. At least, not with her eyes. Her cheeks burned crimson.
"Have a seat."
Angela practically fell into the small office chair. Someone had adjusted it too low, even for her 5'4" frame.
Ms. Douglass, in her own high-end-but-not-executive-quality chair, rotated around to face Angela, her wide body looming over the small girl.
"I am the lead Human Resources Technician here at Elsinore Industries. The person hired for this position will be working for me." Her tone implied that Angela would not be that person.
"In the job of Human Resources Technician, you'll be filing, processing, and answering employees' and applicants' questions about our HR forms. Do you have any HR experience?"
Angela swallowed hard. "Um, no, but I'm a pretty fast learner."
The woman's round head seemed to retreat back into her neck; her massive rolled shoulders quivered as she reached for a thick book.
"Well, first you have the Employment Application forms -- the I-9 Verification, our Reference Check, Verification of Education, Interview Summary (I'll be filling out one of those about our chat after you leave), and of course the Application form. You'd be surprised how few applicants for this position are able to complete a simple I-9.
"Then there's the New Employee forms -- for the employee, the Controlled Substance Conviction Statement, Loyalty Oath, Sexual Harassment Policy, Drug Policy, Tuition Policy, Supplemental Checklist, and of course Direct Deposit, Workers' Comp Information Acknowledgement, and the W-4. And for the manager, New Hire Worksheet, Pay Range Exception..."
The doughey woman seemed to be indulging detail with an aplomb reserved for making others feel inadequate.
Angela's head was already swimming. Clearly this job was not for her. This woman's rapid-fire rundown was just like the County clerk on that first day Angela'd gone to find out about her house -- full of facts but unable to explain anything . . .
< < Angela entered the County Probate office timidly. It wasn't what she'd expected. From the County Offices building's cavernous main entrance and ornate cathedral hallways, she'd thought she'd find herself in a tall-ceilinged tile-floored space, like a big bank. This place was maybe twenty feet square, dark wood paneling above stained reddish industrial carpet, with most of the room filled with file cabinets behind a long low counter. Two people were on the near side of the counter, each tucked into an opposite corner in front of a high writing shelf, head down over a form.
It was a lot like the Principal's Office.
Behind the counter, thumbing through a stack of forms rapid-fire, stood an older woman, slight of frame but with a huge head. Her Hi-Liter-yellow hair with gray roots was exceedingly thin. Eyebrows plucked to non-existence and redrawn with Marks-A-Lot scowled above unshadowed and unlined eyes. Steel-gray rings around giant pupils looked up, and down, and up again. The clerk's robotic stare made Angela feel as if she was being X-rayed as she approached. By the time the girl reached the counter, the attendant's upper lip had curled in distaste.
Angela mentally reviewed her wardrobe -- stretchy white semi-sheer top over a cute lace demicup bra, wrist bangles and matching earrings, chocolate spandex knee-length skirt, and white pumps -- it wasn't anything worth such a sour expression, was it? She thought the skirt made it almost business-like...
Angela came to feel the presence of a draft in the room. She heard a tick-tickle-ticking above her. She looked up to see an air vent; a dangling strip of blue plastic licked back and forth. Angela shivered.
"Can I help you?" the clerk monotoned.
"The insurance company sent me."
"Which company, honey?"
"Oh! Sorry. Acquisitional, Advantage, Mutual." Angela spoke slowly, pausing between each word. It was a mouthful.
"Never heard o' them." The clerk's head and neck seemed to shift back on her neck whenever she started speaking, and shift forward again when she finished. "What do you need?" The shifting head movement made it seem as if opening her mouth vented something at high pressure. Onion breath, judging from the smell.
"I'm not sure what I need exactly," Angela said, hesitantly. Above the clerk's left eye, an eyebrow-mark arched; cracks formed in the heavy cake of her makeup. Angela took a deep breath. "The insurance company said I needed to pursue probate."
"Well, you got it, so now what?"
Angela didn't follow.
The woman tried to explain. "You caught it." Angela still didn't follow. The clerk tried again. "Probate, you caught Probate. Which you were pursuing." The clerk's hand dismissed the lost joke. "So what did they send you here for, specifically?"
Angela was at a loss.
"What case?" the clerk intoned. Her voice had the smoky depth but not the gravel of a pack-a-day smoker.
"Case?"
Those distractingly-large pupils kept dipping down to Angela's chest, the upper lip refreshing its sneer with each glance. It was distracting, and a little disturbing, somehow intensifying the effect of the cool airstream gushing down on her. Angela hoped her nipples weren't showing through her clothes...
"Name," the clerk clarified. "Of the decedent?"
"The...?"
"The decedent. The deceased. Who died?"
"Oh. Gladys Barrett."
The clerk slid sideways along the counter, stepping back to find the right cabinet underneath. Angela heard a drawer open. "Spell it?"
"G-L-A-"
"The *last* name."
"Oh. B-A-R-R-E-T-T."
"Two T's?"
Now Angela was a little frustrated -- she'd just spelled it that way, hadn't she? Why was this clerk giving her such a hard time? "Yes," she answered, shrugging her shoulders at no one.
A moment later the clerk stood in front of her; a slim manila folder lay pinned under a protective bony hand to her left. "So, what do you need out of it?"
"Oh, no, I don't need anything out of it, I'm here to find out what I need to do."
"Well, I'm not your boss, honey." And be glad I'm not, the clerk's smelled-something-bad look seemed to say.
My boss? "Oh no," Angela corrected, "I don't work for the insurance company. That's my mom."
"I see." Angela expected the clerk to soften, but instead the older woman seemed even more disdainful. "Checking up on them?"
"Huh?"
"I wouldn't trust them either."
Oh, the insurance company, Angela assumed. "I just want to know when I'll get the money." Angela realized from the clerk's Tsk that she'd come across as insensitive and selfish; she tried to explain. "I'm completely broke. Everything's gone. I've been living with my-" Angela corrected herself; she didn't want anything to sound untoward- "with a friend. I even had to borrow money just to buy clothes."
Again the black pupils darted down; this time, the clerk's nose crinkled. "I hope your 'friend' felt it was money well spent."
Angela thought it might have been an insult, but let it slide. "I'd like to pay him back as soon as possible," the girl affirmed.
"I'm sure that won't be a problem." Before Angela could protest, the bony hand slid the file to front and center and the clerk started rifling through the contents. "Let's see, D-86, HO-N3 open, CAR-54, THC-1038..."
"What *is* all that?"
The woman flipped back to the beginning, feeling put-out. She rattled off form names as she flipped to them. "D-86: Death Certificate. HO-N3: Homicide Investigation Notice. C-A-R 54: County Assessors' Request for title and valuation, THC-1038 -- that's from the insurance company, acknowledging receipt of change of disposition of asset notice and... uh-oh..." she stopped her acronymic assault, clicking her tongue and then shaking her head.
"What's wrong?"
"There's no beneficiary."
Angela felt her chest tighten. "What does that mean?" she said, barely above a whisper.
"That's why they sent you here. Cowards."
"I don't understand."
"Just so they wouldn't have to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"You have to wait until the county settles the estate. They can't pay you anything until probate is closed out. And you can't legally occupy the house until then either."
As if that mattered. "There is no house," Angela said, brooding.
"How can there be no house there? Of course there's a house. The 1038 says the insurance policy is for a single family dwelling. The lot is zoned R-S..." she checked a colored chart on the wall behind her "R-S3, there has to be a house there. Unless someone engaged in construction without filing for the proper permits, in which case-"
"The house blew up," Angela said evenly.
"Oh, well in that case your insurance company should have submitted-" Swhack! From out of nowhere, her machine-like hand slammed a form on the counter, "a Form TH-*X* *11*38. No wonder the file went on hold. They'll need to do that before a hearing can be scheduled."
"Then what?"
"Then a hearing will be scheduled, and a judge will review all the facts. He may request additional information from any claimants and other involved parties. Eventually he'll make a judgement on final disposition, estate taxes will be settled with the county assessor's office, and assets will be disbursed."
"What do I need to do?"
"You need to get a lawyer." Again with the eyes, and the dirty look. Angela reflexively bent down to tug on her skirt; the motion planted her left breast on the counter and pushed it up lewdly; her distended nipple popped free of her bra.
The clerk positively leered; Angela awkwardly pulled at her clothes to cover up -- as much as she could be covered by such slight fabrics.
"You know, I don't *have* to tell you anything -- I can't believe you don't have a lawyer -- but you seem like such a *nice* girl..." -- was that sarcasm? "When you come to the hearing, have your birth certificate, notarized letter and [Swhack!] form Six from a bonded title search firm, and if you can, the IRS 706C [Swhack!] and 1041T [Swhack!] worksheets. If you can't get those last two completed for some reason -- does your accountant have all of your mother's financial records?"
"We didn't have an accountant. Everything was destroyed in the explosion."
The clerk grimaced, but not really. "In that case, we can still move forward, but it'll put you at the end of the queue, which right now is running at about three and a half."
Angela thought her head would implode. She latched on to the only thing she thought she could understand. "Three and a half weeks?"
The old prune erupted with frightening, cackling laughter, causing the two form-fillers in the corners to snap heads toward Angela. One looked hostile, the other immediately softened, eyes slithering up her curves and looking entirely too friendly.
Finally the clerk's laughter died down. "Heavens, no, child! Three and a half *years*."
Angela felt the blood leave her extremities.
The friendly serpentine form-filler offered a suggestion. "Don't let her scare you. I went through the same thing when my dad died. You can get a copy of your mom's bank records and tax returns, and that'll be enough. When I'm done here I'll be glad to help you with that," he smiled, taking a step toward her. Angela jumped back like a frightened rabbit; his smile vanished, and he harrumphed and returned to his form.
Angela turned back to the sour clerk. "I-If I can get all of that done, what then? How long will probate take?"
"It depends, but the fastest is probably close to two months. More likely six."
Angela blinked in disbelief. "I can't believe that all this paperwork happens in a few days, but it takes six months to recognize me as my mom's daughter. Can't I just show you my birth certificate? They told me I'd need to get a copy; I just came from County Records. Here..." Angela fished in her little white vinyl backpack; her hands were shaking.
"It's not that simple. The county has to announce the probate hearing, then allow thirty days for claims to be filed, then if no other claims are filed, it takes at least two weeks to process summary judgement. It takes another thirty days for the paperwork on the title to any real estate, but the judge's order is generally enough for insurance companies and real estate agents to get started. If your mom's Aquiescent Mutual or whatever-it-is policy includes an advance clause, you could have a check by Halloween; otherwise, probably by Spring. Assuming probate takes two months instead of six, which it won't." She said it as if it was up to her. And it probably was.
The room started to spin; Angela grabbed the edge of the counter.
The clerk continued. "If your mom had named you beneficiary, or the house had been in a trust, your insurance company could just file a Form R2D2, it goes through expedited processing, and it's all done in two to three weeks. In the meantime they'd usually advance you. Too bad."
"Maybe I can still get an advance."
"Fat chance. You're not on the policy. But that's between you and them. Maybe you can convince them," the clerk said dryly, her dilated pupils again sliding down... Why did she keep doing that? It made Angela's skin crawl.
"So what now?" Angela said, despair creeping into her voice.
"I suggest you get professional help," the clerk said with a dismissive sneer.
"Excuse me? I don't think that's any of your business."
"A lawyer." Though a shrink would certainly have a lot of work to do with you, the clerk's look seemed to say. "People don't try to do this themselves."
"I can't afford one."
"You can't afford *not* to have one. If the insurance company didn't recommend someone, the mortuary should have."
"Well, can you at least help me get started?"
"Honey," the word dripped with condescention, "it's already started." The clerk shook the file in her hand. "The government doesn't need your permission to settle the estate. Fill out Form IQ-9 [Swhack!] and you'll be notified by mail of the initial hearing." The clerk's eyes again shifted down what she could see of Angela's form. "And I suggest you wear something more appropriate. Judge Pearson doesn't think much of people in your line of work."
Angela looked down at herself, her brow furrowing. Just what line of work did this old hag think she was in? Sure, the top was a little sheer, and her bra was a little racy, but it's not like she was in actual court... And if it was so repulsive, why did she keep looking?
But Angela let it go; if things were going to be this complicated, it was best not to ruffle anyone's feathers.
"What happens at the hearing?" she asked.
The woman rolled her eyes. "Look, this is not a free legal clinic on how to straighten out the mess your mother made. If you have a form to submit, or you need a form to fill out, I'll be *happy* to help." Angela got the impression that this woman was never *happy* to do anything.
"You're not very nice," Angela observed as tactfully as she could.
Swhack! Another form appeared on the counter.
"Form CSI -- for Customer Service Incidents. Fill it out, mail it to the address at the bottom." The woman made a show of looking at the clock. "Time for my break. Have a nice day."
Angela stood in stunned silence as the woman disappeared through the door behind her.
> > Angela blinked rapidly, coming back to the present. The interviewer looked cross.
"Well, I can tell from your glazed expression that this is not the best match for you. You're welcome to check back in the future to see if we have any openings that don't require any experience." The portly woman crossed her arms at this, her flabby forearms jiggling. Clearly the comment was meant to belittle.
Angela shook her head clear. How long had she been sitting here, spaced out? She tried to steal a glance at the clock on the wall, but Jabba the HRT noticed and rolled her eyes. Angela stood and extended her hand, but after an uncomfortable pause it became clear she would get neither a handshake nor a standing acknowledgement; she withdrew to the edge of the cubicle.
"One more thing. For your next interview, I suggest you dress more appropriately. No one will take you seriously in that outfit."