Adventures in Pension Land — Round 6

Walking into the office marked "Pensiones" was like walking into Neverland, Not Wonderland, Neverland, because the people working there seemed never to BE there.

Whereas the part of the Sub-Delegation where people go to get problems resolved (but they rarely do, get problems resolved, that is), is always jammed with persons queueing at the information desk, waiting for their number to come up so they can approach one of the fourteen or so desks, and so on, in the Pensions office, there was no one. That should tell you how "efficient" the IMSS is at NOT solving any problems would-be pensioners have. In other words, very few get through the sieve of problems and bureaucratic obstacles, and even fewer reach the Holy Grail of approval of a paid pension.

And the place was empty...

It was already nine o'clock in the morning and there were only two other persons in the place, an unusual occurrence in an official place since most are densely occupied by eight in the morning—even before the doors open.

I went and sat next to my companion survivors. There was a sepulchral silence in the room that was interrupted once in a while by laughter and whoops and shouts that seemed to come from an inner room.

Looking about the room, I spied two interesting things: one was a banner proclaiming that the persons who worked in this office, and indeed the entire IMSS organization, was there to be of service to us, the would-be pensioners and other IMSS users. Well, that WAS news to ME! The other interesting thing was a fellow, barely visible behind two stacks of folders, who from time to time peeked at us from behind the counter. Imagine a soldier in the trenches in World War One, who is afraid of being shot so he barely raises his head above the edge of the trench. That is what this fellow resembled.

He was hidden behind his desk...

"Who the hell is that?" I said to my fellow sufferers (who turned out to be a married couple. It was the man who was seeking his pension.)

"He is the fellow who gives out the numbers," offered the man.

There was not a sign or any other indication that you had to "take a number". Of course, why would they do that? That would put them dangerously close to being helpful.

So, I went up the the guy in hiding and said, "Hey, are you the guy who gives out the numbers?"

A muffled "Yes" came from behind the stack of folders.

"Well, come on! Give me one!"

A hand came out from between the stack of folders. It held a square of cardboard heavily wrapped in clear cellophane tape. On it I saw, written by hand, the number two!

Oh, joy! It meant that only the man with his wife were ahead of me. My agony would soon end. I was near the goal line, about to score!

Well, not quite.

A few stragglers, like shell-schocked soldiers, began to trudge in. Soon there were a dozen or so people waiting. I had to tell people to go get a number from the hidden fellow. They would walk up to the stack of folders, peek in, and ask the fellow for a number, and the hand would come out with a square of cardboard, wrapped in cellophane, with a hand-printed number on it. You'd think that the damned IMSS system, which has spend millions on the empty office space that surrounds the Pensions office, could come up with a few bucks to install a number issuing machine! No, of course not! That would make things easy for the user, and God knows that the IMSS does not want that sort of frivolity going on in their offices.

Well, the hands on the clock now showed ten o'clock and no one, save the fellow in hiding, had come out of the inner office to take care of business. But, the revelry seemed to go on back there, so I got up and went to the fellow in hiding.

...laughter and whoops came from the inner room.

"Hey, what's going on back there? Why are the people not here to take care of our business?"

"It's a birthday party," he mumbled.

"What?" I almost yelled.

"It's the birthday of one of the girls and their having cake and tamales."

If he had come out from behind the counter and kicked me in the...well, in the most noble of my male body parts...I could not have been more annoyed.

I slapped the desk and yelled, "Halooo!" After a couple of rounds of that, a fellow came out. He looked as if I had interrupted an emergency meeting of the President and his Cabinet.

"Yes?" he said frowning.

"If you care to look at the door over there," I said pointing at the glass door of the entrance, "it says that SERVICE is offered from nine in the morning until four o'clock in the afternoon. It is now ten in the morning and no one has offered the dozen people sitting here any sort of service."

The fellow did not say anything to me but rather looked over at the guy hiding behind the folders. He said to him, "Have you got anything?"

"Just three or four possibles," said the man in hiding.

"Ok, give them to me," he said and the man in hiding gave him some folders from one of the stacks. Then he turned to me and asked, "Are you presenting your Request for a Pension?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Please give it to me," he said.

"I will but I am number two," I said waving the cardboard square in his face, "that gentleman over there is number one. You should take care of his first."

He ignored my request and said, "All those with Requests for Pensions, please give them to me."

A few persons stood up and handed him the papers he requested. As this was happening, other men and women from the inner room started drifting out and occupying their posts under the various signs of "services": clarifications, request for pension cards, and so on. People started queuing before each one of the "service" stations.

Once the man had reviewed all the "Request for Pension" papers and asked us for individual identification, and copies of those, he announced, "I will check these with the system and I will be back shortly to give you your resolutions." And, off he went into the inner office.

I have a feeling that there is no "checking with the system". This going to "inner rooms" by service people seems rather shady to me. What do they do back there and why can't they do it in plain sight? I think they just go out for a smoke in the back garden and then after a while they come back and tell us whatever the Hell they want to tell us.

...tell them we are busy consulting the system.

After about an hour, the man came back with the papers. He started calling out names, stamping the paper, having the person called sign the paper, and then he would explain the "Resolution": Pension granted, go to your AFORE and they will start the payments in a week or two; pension denied, you don't have the proper blah, blah. This went on for fifteen minutes or so. I was the last one, of course.

He said, "Pension denied, you don't have the proper amount of weeks."

"What do you mean I don't have the proper amount of weeks?"

"You have not paid or your employers did not pay for more than 500 weeks. You only have 402 weeks paid."

"How can that be," I protested, "I have been working since 1967. Surely I have been in the system more than 400 weeks."

"Ah," he said, "the system only records weeks after 1982. Weeks that were worked before that are in paper and you have to request a recount so that someone in Mexico City goes to the paper files and extracts any weeks you might have worked from those files and makes an official report to that effect."

"Ok, where do I do to request a recount?"

"Oh, you can go to the Sub-Delegation. You can request it there but for all intents and purposes, your request for a pension is denied." He stamped my paper, signed it, gave it to me, and said, "Next."

...the damned guy was smiling when he gave me my denial.

I can't even being to describe how furious I felt. Had I had a flamethrower, I would have burned the place down. Like Al Pacino in "Scent of a Woman", I would have "burrrrnnned the place"!

But, I didn't. Off I went to the Sub-Delegation. I was not in the mood to take any guff from anyone so I went directly to the information desk without queuing and said, "I need a recount of my weeks. I don't have time to fool around with your number and crap so who do I talk to and where is he or she?"

The girl at the information desk gulped and said, "You should talk to Samuel. He is at desk number 13."

Off I went to desk 13. No one was there. A couple of guys were at a near-by desk behind the counter. I  gathered from their animated conversation that they were busy talking about where the best deal on new tires for their cars could be had.

"Excuse me," I said, "who is Samuel."

"I am," said one of the fellows.

"I need to talk to you about a recount of weeks," I said, and before he could protests, I added, "now!"

Samuel got up from his desk and sauntered over.

I put my Request for a Pension with the "denied" stamp on it before him. I said, "I have been denied a pension because I do not have 500 weeks of paid Social Security. They say I only have 402. So, I am here to request a recount. I have worked and paid SS or my employers have paid since 1967. I must have much more than 402 weeks."

He looked at my paper and said, "When was the last time you or your employer paid for your Social Security?"

"Oh, maybe 2002 or 2003."

"Ah," he said, "then you have been dropped from the system. If you fail to pay for Social Security for more than six years, you are dropped."

"And?"

"And if you want a recount, you have to be reinstated."

"How can I be reinstated?"

"You would have to work for a year, paying Social Security for that year...52 weeks, at least. Then you can come back and ask for a recount."

"Ok, what if I pay voluntary Social Security,"

"No, it has to be by a legal employer."

"I am 65 years old. Who in the Hell is going to employ me for a year and pay for my Social Security?"

He shrugged.

...I could have burned the place down!

"You mean," I said, "that just because I have been 'out of the system' for more than six years, the Social Security can ignore all of the work and all of the payments I have done, and what my employers have paid in my behalf? They can just keep the money and deny me everything?"

"Yes, that is what I am saying. You see, the Social Security system is not in the business of GRANTING pensions; it is in the business of DENYING pensions."

Again, I could have burned the place down.

And that, dear folks, was that. All that was left was for me to drown my sorrows.

In the last installment I will describe what I was able to rescue from the disaster that is our Social Security system.

Adventures in Pension Land — Round 5

If both of you readers remember, in my last blog, I had been told that I could not proceed with my "Request for a Pension" because I did not have a bank account into which my pension would be deposited, if approved , that is.

Having been told this by the girl in the little window, I had to wait until the next day to deal with the requested bank account.

So, I arrived in the Banamex office and went straight to the manager's desk. I was not in a mood to be trifled with. There were other people waiting patiently in a sofa for the manager to be done with the customer that was before her, but I ignored all of that and said to her,

"I need to open an account right away. I need it to request my damned pension and I am sick and tired of all the running around that your bank in cahoots with the Social Security system have had me do. So, sign me up, fill in whatever the damned forms have to be filled up and give me my damned bank account contract so I can get on with this!"

There was a silence in the bank as if I had said, "This is a hold up."

The manager blinked and said, "Please take a seat, sir. The executive that opens bank accounts for pensioners is at lunch."

"Don't your executives ever do anything else but go out to lunch?" I asked testily.

The manager looked up at the clock and said, "Oh, she will be here in five or ten minutes. Please take a seat over there by her desk."

I went off grumpily; I could hear the other customers mumble and some even breath a sigh of relief like when the dog catcher removes a rabid dog from the street.

Of course, the "executive" did not arrive in five or ten minutes. She sauntered in thirty minutes later. The manager called her over and whispered something. Probably warning her that she had a mad (as in crazy and irate) customer to deal with.

The "pensioner's bank account" executive came over, without a word to me she took of her coat, sat down, clicked and clacked at her computer's keyboard, and when she was done turned to me,

"I understand you need a bank account for your pension's deposit."

"You understand correctly, but it is for my POSSIBLE pension's deposit," I said and heads turned at the emphasis of the word.

"Your name and social security number," said the girl executive without being fazed at my exclamation.

I gave her the data she requested. After a moment, she left her desk and went into that mysterious back room that all of these bank's offices seem to have. She came back with a sheaf of papers. She stamped them, signed them, and got up again. This time she came back with an envelope.

As she opened it, I said, "And the winner of the Best Picture oscar goes to..."

She didn't think my remark was funny. In fact, she frowned and gave me a harsh look.

"This is your card," she said taking a debit card out of the envelope. "You will not be able to use it until the Social Security system deposits your first payment. At that time, you will activate it by putting it into an ATM machine and typing the generic code which is here on this printed letter. It will then ask you to type in another code which will be your secret code. Be sure to type in and confirm your new code. After that it will give you your current balance and you may withdraw money if you wish."

She shuffled the sheaf of papers and said, "Please sign these."

Again I asked, "Why?"

She was taking no guff from me and said, "This is your contract. If you don't sign it you will not be able to complete your pension request."

Well, that trumped me so I signed without further ado.

It was well past four o'clock when I left the bank with my card and my contract. There was nothing to do but go home and go back the next day to the girl in the little window.

The following day, bright and early, I called for yet another taxi and went to the Family clinic. As per her orders, I went directly to the little window without queuing. There was another person at the window but the girl recognized me, asked the person at the window to wait a minute, and said to me,

"Have you got the contract?"

"Yes, yes I have," I answered eagerly.

I gave it to her and she stapled it to the other papers that she had put aside on her "in" basket.  She then took a printed sheet which had a little paper stapled to it. She said,

"I will send your request for a pension to the Social Security Pensions office." She gave me the printed paper. "This explains what you have to do now."

"When do I go to the Pensions Office? Can I go now?"

"No," she said. "It will take five days for them to register your request. Take this paper with you. It is a copy of your request for a pension. And, take your voter's card with you and a copy of your card."

Five days! Five days it would take them to process my request. Damn! I sighed. There was nothing for it. I would have to go home, watch television for five days and then go to the Pensions Office, wherever that was.

For five days I watched television, answered email, went to have drinks with my friends, and generally wasted my time. On the fifth day of my revelry I called the magic "800" number and asked where the Pensions Office was. The boy who answered my call said that my "assigned" Pensions Office would be where my "assigned" sub-delegations was.

Well, I was Johnny-on-the-spot now. I knew where my assigned sub-delegation was; it was number four. I took a taxi and was there in a jiffy. Being "Social Security wise" I did not go to the information desk where the usual queue was formed. I asked the woman cop standing idly by the door where the fabled office was.

"Go down this alley," she said pointing to a gate next door, "and turn to the right when you get to the end of it. You will see and entrance that has a sign over it that says 'Pensions'."

Of course, it was just like the Social Security to hide its most important office in some obscure alleyway. But, undeterred, I went down the alley.

I came upon an open court. It was surrounded by empty office buildings which belonged to the Social Security. I wondered why they had spent so much money building all of this if it was not going to be used; or better yet, why not use it to alleviate the crowding in the sub-delegation or the fact that the girl in the little window needed more space and more people to help her or do the job she did. But, no, the only people in the entire space were two women who were selling pumpkin seeds and potato chips.

I turned to my right at the end of the court and there it was, the promised land. Over a glass door was a sign, "Pensiones".

Tomorrow, and I DO mean tomorrow. I will write the next part, the resolution of my "Request for a Pension". I promise, just as the Social Security promised me!

Adventures in Pension Land - Round 4

Here is where things stood on December 22, 2012:

Christmas was coming and I had promised I would spend it with my son the doctor (that sounds like something a Jewish mother would say) who is working on his specialization in Mexico City. He was recently married so his lovely wife (also a doctor) and he would be hosting our immediate family in their first ever apartment as a married couple.

On the other hand, the Social Security people had demanded an account statement of my retirement funds, and the bank which kept my retirement funds said they could not provide the statement until I was registered in their system, something that would take 8 working days.

So, for the next two days I did nothing but watch television and eat tamales.

Several kilos later, I flew to Mexico City for the above mentioned Christmas dinner. I knew that nothing would happen between Christmas and New Year's so I hung around Mexico City, spent New Year's Eve with friends getting properly blotto, and then flew back to Monterrey to continue my quest for a pension.

As soon as I was back in the "Sultan of the North", as they used to call Monterrey because of it prominent Lebanese/Arab population, I called the magic 800 number and--oh surprise!--I was registered in the Social Security/Banamex/Pension system.

Off I went in a little green taxi to the Banamex office to get my Account Statement!

Taxis are small in Monterrey!

When I got to the Banamex office, horror of horrors--it was far from being empty! I suppose that word had got out that the downtown office was always crowded and that this one was always empty, so it was empty no more.

With a heavy heart, I took a number--sigh!

Of course, the number on the counter was 20!

To make matters worse, I had assumed that the so-called executives would be there during lunch hour, as they had been the time before, but this day it was not the case. All but one had gone to lunch! And, the guy who was there had a customer/relative who took his visit to his relative/friend/executive as a time to catch up on all the news, gossip, personal stories, family history, and sundry subject matter of the last two or three years.

As they spoke of football, the customer's mother's ills, the executive's vacation, the customer's car trouble, something that made them both laugh heartily, and so on, they seemed oblivious to the fact that there were dozens of people waiting for service.

Blah...blah...football...blah...my mother... blah...my trip to Europe

I think that anyone who has read my blogs will have come to understand that I am not a man of infinite patience, and the I tend to be brash, impulsive, and outspoken when the little patience I do have is tried to the limit.

Mexicans, as a people, tend to be docile, and contain any anger they might feel when faced with an "authority" that might do them harm if said "authority" is rankled. I, on the other hand, might have inherited genes from rampaging vikings, hoodlum Spanish conquistadors, raiding Chichimecas, or charging hoards of Genghis Khan or all of the above, because I am not docile and do not contain my anger when said "authority" rankles ME!

I got up from my chair and went into the executive's office.

"Hey," I said, "you two guys might have a lot to talk about, what with this guy (I pointed to the customer) having gone to the Football World Cup and his mother being in a poor state of health, and you, Mr. Executive, having had lots of car trouble, but there are people waiting out here. So, how about if you continue your personal conversation on your own time?"

They looked at me as if I had just told them something ugly about their respective mothers, kicked their dog, and said their children were ugly. But, they said nothing. After a moment, the executive recovered and ignoring me said to the customer, "OK, so I will send you the papers tomorrow."

I went back to my seat and the customer left the office, head down, sheepishly avoiding looking at the persons he had kept waiting.

Well, my outburst did clear the log jam but it did me little good. I had number 85 this time and the counter showed number 20!

Fortunately, the other three executive soon came back from lunch (looking well-fed and in dire need of some Alka-Seltzers), so things started to move rather briskly. Within only two hours number 85 came up on the counter and I jauntily sauntered into one of the girl-executive's office.

I think word had got around that I was a "difficult" customer because she was very curt and lacking the faux smile proper of an account executive. Without looking away from her computer screen, she asked, "How can I help you, sir?"

"I was here about 10 days ago asking for an account statement which I will need to request a pension from the Social Security," I answered. "One of your colleges put my information into your system and registered me, so I am here to collect my statement."

"Your social security number," she said without looking at me. I gave it to her. She typed on her keyboard, hmmed, and hawed, and typed some more. Without a word, she got up and left the office. She came back a few minutes later with some printed sheets of paper. From such bizarre actions I deduced that these "executives" do not have individual printers but must go to the back office to get printouts. Real efficient.

"Please sign this," she said putting a pen next to the print out.

"Why?" I asked.

She blinked and stared at me with a puzzled and hurt look as if I had just said, "I am NOT the father of your baby!"

"Because, because it's the, I mean, this is your statement," she stammered.

"Ah, you had not said so. Can you please explain what is on the statement? I want to know what I am signing."

She sighed a sigh that said, "Why do I always get these lunatics?"  But, she gamely took the pen and started to point out and underline the figures on the first sheet.

"This is how much you have saved," she said circling a number, "this is what the Social Security has provided, this is what you have saved in the Infonavit system as a provision for you to use in buying a house, and this is the amount of interest that the money has accrued this year to date."

"OK, I get it; but why do I have to sign it?"

"Well, well, you must, because, it means you have received it."

"The money?" I said surprised.

"No, of course not. I mean the statement."

"Ah, OK. Than I'll sign." She breathed a sigh of relief as I signed all six copies of my statement. "OK, what's next?" I asked.

"Well, you will have to go back to "them" and present this so you can request your pension."

It was my turn to sigh. "Them" was the Social Security bureaucrats. It meant I had to go back to square one, that is, the little window in the Family Clinic. There was nothing for it. I took my statement, bid adieu to the girl and the other chumps waiting their turn to have an "executive" maltreat them, and left the bank's office. Outside, I waved down one of the innumerable taxis I was to use during my saga. Reflecting on how much I spent on public transport, I might was well have bought a car.

I arrived at the Family Clinic around 2:00 PM. I knew they closed shop at 4:00 PM so I figured I had time to get something done. I went straight to the little window. Of course, there was a queue. The usual men in walkers, ladies in crutches, sundry pensioners and would.be pensioners were sitting or standing, waiting for their turn at the little window.

To my surprise, things went quickly and just minutes before the closing bell rang (there is no bell, that is just a metaphor, folks), I got to the window. I gave the girl the papers she had clipped together along with my newly issued savings statement.

"Very good," she said and my heart sang. "Where is your bank contract," she added and my heart sank.

"Contract? What contract?" I asked panicking.

"You are supposed to have a bank contract with a bank account number where your pension will be deposited when and if it is approved," she said.

My mind raced back to the fat girl, the so-called executive who had not mentioned the damned bank account and contract. Agh! she had trounced me. I could imagine her laughing at my present trouble.

"You have to go to a bank of your choice," the girl in the little window said, "and open an account for this purpose. Tell them what it is for. They will know what to do. I will keep your papers until you bring me your bank account contract."

Now I felt as if the girl had said to me, "We did everything we could, sir, but your dog died on the operating table." I went away from the little window, slump-shouldered and feeling more dejected than ever.

Dejected and rejected, I left (notice the tamale paunch I had developed)

But, outside, the sun was shining, the air was cool, and there was yet another trip in a taxi to be taken, so, chin up, shoulders squared, I marched to a taxi and ordered, "Take me to the Banamex bank on Americas Avenue."

Next installment: Triumph over Adversity. I finally get my "Request for a Pension" done in "Adventures in Pension Land - Round 5. But, will that be the end of that? Tune in tomorrow when the caped avenger...no wait that's another story.