The Little Martin tax office from hell
I had yet another encounter with the dark side of local officialdom last week and after I explained what happened to my friend Randy, he wouldn't believe me. So I whipped out the official extortion letter I received and waved it in front of his disbelieving puss...
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Folks, you just can't make this stuff up. Even my twisted imagination is woefully inadequate to conjure up something as nonsensical as this.
The gathering storm
There I was, wallowing in the snug cocoon that is my pathetic life, minding my own business. The sun was shining, birds were singing, all was right with the world...and then I ambled out to the mailbox and found -- a letter from the county tax office. A cold north wind began to blow. Storm clouds blotted out the sun. Avian flu wiped out the bird song. My grass turned brown and died.
Now normally, when I receive a letter from the office of the Right Honorable Larry C. O'Steen, Official Little Martin Tax Collector, it doesn't bother me at all. It doesn't bother me because it is usually my vehicle or boat registration or annual property tax statement, items that I am prepared for and budget to pay each year. However, I was finished with those things for the year -- so immediately little alarm bells started reverberating throughout my cavernous, over-calcified skull.
I broke out in a cold sweat and the hairs stood up on my neck because on December 5, I registered for a county occupational license and it was granted. This letter just had to be about that, so it naturally had to be something bad. Sure enough, as I ripped into the envelope the first thing I saw, emblazoned in OSHA Danger Day-glo Red and Safety Yellow on the letterhead was: FINAL NOTICE! What the...? I just paid my fee for the upcoming year, for Christ's sake, and I have my license safely tucked away in a filing cabinet ensconced deep within the junk-impacted bowels of my rat-infested, bug-infested hovel.
The storm erupts
Well. The notice stated that I was being fined $35 each month for nonpayment and/or nonrenewal during the months of September, October, November, and December. It also stated that I had 36.02 minutes to either contact "The Office" or magically teleport my hard-earned Yankee dollars to "The Office" to satisfy the fine or my house would be blown up (I wish -- I wouldn't have to deal with any more flooding). I was shocked, dismayed, dumbstruck, and dare I say horrified...but only because I was now certain that once again, Ol' B2 was dealing with yet another variety of brain surgeons, this one an exotic tax-gobbling specie I had never before encountered (brighter plumage and longer beaks than the air conditioning brain surgeons). I called "The Office."
Now mind you, I have been there and I know with whom I'm dealing. "The Office" is approximately 25 feet square, with four female-type tax denizens sitting in a bullpen area out front. They sit there and look at one another, chat, and generally have a good time whilst scourging Little Martin.
The deluge continues
So B2 calls "The Office" at 3:50 p.m., and a Stepford Wives-like receptionist with one of those cutesy names like Heather, Brooke, or Stacey asks why. I explain the whole sordid mess, about ten minutes' worth of babble. Heather/Brooke/Stacey then cuts me off in mid-whine and informs me that I must speak to a second-level tax bureaucrat -- meaning that I have to spout all of this crap all over again to someone who cares about as much as Heather/Brooke/Stacey. I say fine. She says I'm transferring you to (for the purposes of this rant, let's call her) Latisha now. At this point let me again remind you that these people are sitting within whispering, spitting, cat-fighting, and back-scratching distance of one another.
What happens? I get an answering machine message! A facsimile of Latisha, a digitized vocal wraith that soothingly oozes she can't help me right now, but if I left a sickeningly detailed and excruciatingly long message, she would promptly return my call. Folks, it is during times such as these when you really find out the stuff of which you are made.
After the recorded voice of Latisha assured me that I could expect a prompt reply, I wiped the drool from my chin and began "the wait." You all are familiar with the wait -- you know, waiting for a promised call that you know will never be forthcoming. I waited. And I waited. At ten minutes before "The Office" closed, I called back, again connecting with Heather/Brooke/Stacey. I pounced, cutting her off in mid-syrup. "Don't transfer me back to Latisha!" I raved, the veins in my neck and forehead throbbing and doing a fair rendition of the drum part in Steppenwolf's 'Born To Be Wild,' "And don't transfer me to someone who is taking a break! I need to speak with a supervisor right now!"
B2 survives ... barely
Enter the supervisor. Let's call her Mabel. Calm, sure of herself, detached, a veritable rock of tax-leeching authority. I explained the mess, she looks in the computer then says as only one certain of her position in the Universe can say, "B2, I'm afraid what you're telling me is quite impossible -- it says right here that you're paid for 2006." After I vomited up the tongue I swallowed earlier so I could once again speak, I rattled the FINAL NOTICE! paper so she could here it over the phone and informed her that mais non, cherie, all things are possible if you try hard enough.
After listening to me whiningly describe the obvious error, Mabel assured me that I could throw the FINAL NOTICE! away because didn't I remember that I just registered on December 5 and paid in full for the upcoming year? Like somehow I'm the one with the brain infarction, somehow forgot, and she has to speak slowly so that I can comprehend the situation. Gee, thanks for that, Mabel. I kept the FINAL NOTICE! because, when dealing with bureaucrats, you just never know...
Epilogue: The next day I came home from work to an awaiting phone message from Latisha. She encouraged me to call her back so that she could help me with my problem.
Sigh...you just can't make this stuff up.