Turn Right

The Tax notice came in the morning mail marked "Urgent." The text was even more ominous.

"Your tax liability has been recalculated based on recent unexpected municipal costs. You owe $2,345.34 in tax due three days after receiving this notice. Failure to pay this obligation will lead to condemnation and seizure of your property." The letter, signed by the Deputy Assistant Tax Commissioner Talbot Arnold, even suggested that if I didn't pay now, they would also look back at my records for the last ten years. According to the letter, any questions or complaints should be directed to the Property Tax Resolution Office at the Main Municipal building downtown.

So, I came to the Municipal building this morning to get to the bottom of this harassment.

As I exited the elevator on Floor 6 of the Municipal building, the tax floor, I saw ahead of me a smiling sixtyish-year-old grandmother type sitting behind a small desk with a pot of wilting daises on the lefthand corner of her desk. Her hair was a strange bluish-white, which matched her black horn-rim glasses. Her top and bottom dentures clacked loudly when she talked.

"Good morning. I am looking for the Property Tax Resolution Office, please," I asked politely.

"Go to the end of this hall, take a right, and it's the first door on the left."

I walked quickly to the end of the hall, turned right, and saw an imposing walnut-stained oak door on the left. I opened and entered a large waiting room, sparsely furnished. No signage and no posters, and no instructions. Just a hallway on the right side of the room and the left side, a clerk in a cubicle with a glass window, answering questions for the ten people in line. The clerk appeared to be a balding fifty-year-old man with small beady blue eyes and a thin black mustache. Each person in line took about 3 minutes to be satisfied. Some yelled, "I have been there before, and it's not what I need." Some just threw up their hands in frustration.

I waited patiently.

I finally reached the window and shoved the notice through the little slot. The man stared at the notice for an eternity without comment, but I didn't complain. I finally spoke.

"Good morning. I am looking for the Property Tax Resolution Office, please."

"Go to the end of this hall, take a right, and it's the first door on the left,” I asked politely.

Nothing else. No thank you's or "we're sorry you had to wait." Just go down the hall.

I went down the hall, turned right, and stood before an oversized steel door painted bright red on the left. I walked in quickly to find another sparsely appointed room with a hallway to the right and left, a box with floor-to-ceiling thick bulletproof glass, a small window with a slot, and a line of five people, red-faced and furious. Their grumbling was audible, but I kept my cool. Approximately 20 minutes later, I had my turn.

"Good morning. I am looking for the Property Tax Resolution Office, please," I asked politely.

"Go to the end of this hall, take a right, and it's the first door on the left," answered the fortyish woman with white hair, red glasses, and a silk scarf tied around her neck. She wore a comfortable velvet jacket. If nothing else, she was a fashionista. Again, no small talk, just the instructions.

I headed down the hall and to a new door. Heavy dark mahogany with iron spikes protruding out. I turned the heavy knob and pushed with all my might to enter. Inside, the room was black, with only one window allowing a little sunlight into what felt like a dungeon. On the right was a hall, and on the left was an iron chamber with only a small rectangular opening and a tiny slot to hand something to whoever was behind the wall. I shoved the notice in the slot and looked through the rectangular opening. Peering into the chamber, I could see a thirtyish-year-old man dressed in black with sunglasses and a leather cap. He wore gothic rings on both hands and had a large tattoo of a pitchfork and skull on his neck. He glared at me, pushing the notice back out of the slot.

"Good morning. I am looking for the Property Tax Resolution Office, please," I asked politely.

"Go to the end of this hall, take a right, and it's the first door on the left," he screamed at me like a banshee.

I ran down the hall, totally black, and reached the door, seeing it only because of the red light above it. I pushed the door open and was instantly bathed in sunshine because I was again standing in the elevator lobby, looking at the smiling sixty-year-old grandmother type sitting behind a small desk.

"Ma'am, there must be some mistake. I kept following the directions, but it seems I went in a circle," I said, exasperated.

"Sir, it's a square, not a circle." She spoke directly without a smile this time. "Is this your first go-around?"

"Yes."

"Well, you know what—it is 4:45. We close at 5. So, I won't make you go around again. Just take the elevator down to the first floor. When you get off, turn right. Go to the end of the hall to the closet door marked—Janitor. Then open it and take a big brass key on the right wall. Then exit the closet, turnaround, and you will see a black door on the left marked—Private. Use the key to open it. Go inside, and a clerk will be there till 5 to help you.

"How do I see Commissioner Arnold? I mean, this is ridiculous!"

"Sir, I am trying to do you a favor. Seeing Commissioner Arnold will require you to come back next week, which I suspect is too late, and you must make at least three circuits through the offices you visited today. But, if you hurry and go down right now, you can get this taken care of and keep your home."

I turned around and stomped to the elevator. Down six floors to the first floor, turned right, to the end of the hall, Janitor's closet, and the key, and then I opened the black door on the left. I entered and walked down a long hallway to a door I opened, where I found a small room with a perky twentysomething redhead with yellow glasses. She smiled.

"You made it! Congratulations. Here is your receipt and your NDA. Just sign both."

"NDA?"

"Oh. Non-disclosure agreement. It's twenty-two pages long, and I will give you a copy. It just says that you can never tell anyone about this room, or the deal is off."

"What deal?"

"Well, you made it through all the stations without giving up and paying your bill. So, the Deputy Commissioner authorizes me to cancel your bill and give you a receipt stating you have no debt. That's the deal."

"But I don't know why I owed tax?"

"A new, retroactive law the City Council passed last month. But I emphasize, it gave the Deputy Commissioner some discretion. Also, it exempted all government workers, so we don't have to fret over this silly thing."

"How did the City Council pass such a crazy law?"

"Well, no one goes to the meetings except the council members and some government workers. The public doesn't attend. Rather go to the movie or a baseball game, I guess. So, the council just passed it and made it law."

"But aren't you getting a ton of complaints?"

"Oh no! That's the point. We just put those three stations up, and most people get fed up and pay the bill. You are the first person to make it down all day. I got to watch all my programs—it’s been such a good day?" the clerk said as she pointed to the TV on the other side of the room.

I signed and got a copy of my receipt and NDA.

As I exited the office and went down the hallway, I noticed letters on the black door I had entered. Coming closer, the letters finally came into focus.

"Thank you for visiting Property Tax Resolution Office. We appreciate your dedication to supporting our fine city!"