mieszko

“Now that’s a unique name,” the clerk replies to the boy in the blue slacks and blue polo with the
embroidered crucifix. “Different. Not even attempting the last name.”
The mother hovers behind Mieszko, her White Diamonds perfume penetrating the plexiglass like
smoke. She does not smile. Her resting deer-in-headlights pout matches the expression on her
Form I-551. No need for verbal verification of identity.
“No English, mom?” tries the clerk anyway, meeting eyes with the powdered woman whose one-
by-one headshot is stapled three times to the benefit renewal packet.
No English.
The mother presses her thumb and index finger into Mieszko’s hairless arm. He winces. She
whispers something to him, demonstrating a kind of paranoia that the clerk has routinely
witnessed in clients who are, she surmises, from that part of Europe. This boy, the clerk senses,
has done this before: the hard-boiled neutrality, the deliberate over-enunciation, the instinctive
spelling of his own name, the innate capacity to construct a cognitive bridge between two worlds
and cross it repeatedly, an ability she both envies and pities. Boys his age should be back-talking
or Tech Decking or making that obscene D-Generation X gesture or at the very least in school on
a Tuesday afternoon, not peering into the depths of their families’ unenviable debt history, the
clerk thinks, typing a sixteen-letter surname with a careful finger.
Mieszko glances at the clerk’s chest and looks away when she meets his gaze. At least that part
translates.
Whatever language they’re speaking sounds to the clerk like breakfast cereal swirled in a glass
bowl.

“Do you have additional proof of residency?” the clerk asks, handing back the green card. More
cereal as the son relays the question to the mother.
“Snap snap snap.”
“Social Security card.”
“Crackle crackle crackle.”
“Now I need the four pay stubs.”
“Pop pop pop.”
The clerk begins entering the YTD figures into the form flickering on her monitor. She stops,
considering the data. Something is off. She knows eligibility thresholds the way her own son
knows Triple H’s wrestling maneuvers. She backspaces twice, slides her finger to the number
pad, substitutes two digits, and presses Enter. The system accepts the form without pause. If
noticed later, it will be categorized as a clerical error.
After a minute passes in silence, the mother digs her two-fingered claw deeper into Mieszko’s
arm. “Okay,” Mieszko says to the clerk or his mother, his voice cracking. “She wants to know
how long until the documents are, like, mailed back and the benefits, um, kick back in?”
“Please explain that they need to reverify everything first, and it takes time. Wait four to six
weeks. Regular mail.”
“Snap, crackle, pop.”
“Okay. She wants to know if it’s business or, um, normal days?”
The clerk says business and slides the photocopies through the slit in the plexiglass. Mieszko
hands them to the mother, who finds a vacant seat in the waiting room and begins inspecting
them. She appears to be crying.

“Young man,” the clerk says, relaxing her shoulders, the mother’s scent slowly dissipating from
her workstation. “Bless you for helping your mother. Must be nice to speak two languages. My
grandfather spoke Italian. Sicily. Me, I never learned. My son speaks Spanish but only knows
three words. What grade are you in?”
“Thanks,” mutters Mieszko, not hearing or ignoring the last part. He turns on the heel of his
Sketcher and rejoins his mother in the waiting room.
Nice boy, the clerk thinks. She sips of her Coffee Coolatta, the dew of the plastic cup cooling the
palm of her hand, and calls the next number in line.