paisleypiper's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- charming the bureaucrats Big and Scary This afternoon, after getting away from a doctor�s appointment without delay, I decided to get my new car registered and licensed. I have not had a car for six years, and this, poses many problems. When I first went to the bureau, I took a number and stood around with a bunch of people who made me feel less scattered in the world than I actually am. While standing around, I got a flashback to going to court for my divorce. If you ever need to feel like a good citizen, and are not actually in a position to get your own contested divorce in family court, you could just observe. My first attempt at the actual divorce, I took off work, got dressed up, put on tights and nice skirt and jacket. I wore shoes that made a noise on the floor other than a squish or squeak. I sat, through the whole session, watching and listening, with perfect posture. But, when my case was finally called, something was out of order on my hopefully-to-be-ex-husband�s end (something other than his whole way of being in the world). While I started the day feeling like complete trash for leaving the big, dumb, prone-to-violence jerk, I ended it amazed at the people in court with me. Where were the people with whom I go through life? I thought I was in another country. And all of the poor, crying children and uncomfortable family negotiations. We did not have children, but because he contested the divorce, we were placed on the family court docket. The second time was much the same as the first, with a whole new set of situations that would drive the youngest generation present into some sort of either constructive or destructive �therapy.� The group at the bureau could easily have been a reunion for my brief foray into family court. After standing around with a fist full of papers � my bureau-acy is low so I bring everything that I can imagine could be needed and often come up deficient in some category � my number was barely called by a clerk, leaning on her hand, letting out a yawn. I told her I needed to license my new car. �I need your paid personal property tax receipt.� �I did not have personal property tax last year.� �Then I need you to prove that you did not owe personal property tax last year.� �How?� �I don�t know.� �What would you consider as proof?� �That would not be up to me.� So I did what all bureaucratic chickens do, I went to AAA. I took out a membership � which I had intended to do anyway, at some point. And I took a number and waited. When my number was called, I approached the desk and handed my fist full of papers to the clerk who was a bit more with it. �You need to go to the county and get on the roll.� This adventure took me downtown. Downtown without any money or change for parking. Because I live in what the Major calls a fool�s paradise, I usually find myself downtown without any change for parking. I drove around by the old bus terminal, which if you are a flake and you live in State City, you just know that this is where to go to find a broken meter or a meter with some time on it. I found a meter with 37 minutes about six blocks away. I ran to the courthouse. I got inside and luckily, since it is not the end of the month, the place was not packed with people in some sort of property tax crisis. I sat down at Shelby�s station. She had her feet up on her desk, the bible open to Luke, passages underlined. We looked at each other for about a minute. Then I told her that I bought a new car, needed to get it licensed and needed proof that I do not owe any property tax. �What did you drive last year?� �I did not have a car last year.� �How is that?� �I just didn�t have one.� �Did you just move here?� �No.� �You�ve never had a car.� �I had a car 6 years ago.� Shelby took all of my papers, fished through them, found what she needed and entered my name in the computer. �Says here you have a Tercel. And you owe $648.00 worth of back property tax.� �I gave the Tercel to my grandmother in 1995.� �You�ll have to prove it.� How does one prove something like that? I panicked. I could not imagine how I would prove that. �My grandmother has moved� into a home of some sort� I don�t know that she is even lucid.� �But you gave her your car?� �In 1995. Seven years is a long time in an aging life.� I told her my whole car story. How my own family took advantage of me. How I drove around in a 1983 Ford Ranger, or rather, how I didn�t. (I strategically ommitted the part about how only the mighty Quinn could parallel park that monster.) She began to feel for me, as I kept asking her how she would prove such a thing� has she ever seen anyone prove something similar? Then she said, �I�m going to believe you. Let�s talk to my manager.� Here is where I get really pathetic. �I appreciate that a great deal. But first, my meter is up, I have no change and I have to go over by the old bus terminal to move my car to another meter with some time on it. I�ll be right back.� I gathered up my fist of papers and moved my tired body as fast as possible over to my car. Drove around, found a meter with 41 minutes this time. Parked, gathered up my fist of papers (a folder would have been far too practical) and hauled myself back to the county courthouse. Where I told the story again. This time, thinking of the circles and arrows, the 8X10 glossy photos, and company of Alice�s Restaurant, for some odd reason. But I did not interject any of that into my story, which I told, from the beginning, without three-part harmony, to the manager. And she believed me. They took the charges off of my record. Clutching my computer printout worth $648.00 and a fistful of papers, I ran back to the car. Hopped in, drove to AAA, took a number, and finally, I got to spread my papers out before the clerk. This time, I had everything. 11:08 p.m. - 2002-09-12 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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