Tuesday, September 26, 2006
What is it They Say About City Hall Again?
Today I had to go over to City Hall to get some information for work. Having previously spent about six hours there standing in four different lines with three forms of identification just to get one parking permit, I had a feeling that today's more substantive request might be a bit of an ordeal. Sometimes I hate always being right.
Things got off to a somewhat troubling start when I attempted to check in with the receptionist, who interrupted her telephone conversation about cat shampoo only for long enough to tell me that I would have to wait, which seemed fairly self evident, given that I was already in fact waiting. Then, she proceeded to direct me down the hall to what I knew was almost certainly the wrong department, and commenced to filing her nails, something I had felt sure secretaries only did in sitcoms and Archie comics. Upon my inevitable return, she performed a stunning little symphony of sighs before archly informing me that she knew who I really needed to talk to, but that he was out of the office.
Calling her bluff, I asked if I could leave a note for him, the potential exertion of which apparently stirred her to actually check on his presence. Sure enough, he appeared at the counter only moments later, wearing an expression of mixed boredom and annoyance unsurpassed by even the most obviously inbred DMV employees I have encountered in my life. He spent about fifteen minutes trying to convince me I didn't really want the information I wanted before retreating to an implausible story about the "computer being down" and some records being "lost in a flood," apparently believing that two lies would be more convincing than one. They weren't, however, and I persisted.
Several forms in triplicate later, I walked out triumphant. I am, in fact, the greatest of them all.
Today I had to go over to City Hall to get some information for work. Having previously spent about six hours there standing in four different lines with three forms of identification just to get one parking permit, I had a feeling that today's more substantive request might be a bit of an ordeal. Sometimes I hate always being right.
Things got off to a somewhat troubling start when I attempted to check in with the receptionist, who interrupted her telephone conversation about cat shampoo only for long enough to tell me that I would have to wait, which seemed fairly self evident, given that I was already in fact waiting. Then, she proceeded to direct me down the hall to what I knew was almost certainly the wrong department, and commenced to filing her nails, something I had felt sure secretaries only did in sitcoms and Archie comics. Upon my inevitable return, she performed a stunning little symphony of sighs before archly informing me that she knew who I really needed to talk to, but that he was out of the office.
Calling her bluff, I asked if I could leave a note for him, the potential exertion of which apparently stirred her to actually check on his presence. Sure enough, he appeared at the counter only moments later, wearing an expression of mixed boredom and annoyance unsurpassed by even the most obviously inbred DMV employees I have encountered in my life. He spent about fifteen minutes trying to convince me I didn't really want the information I wanted before retreating to an implausible story about the "computer being down" and some records being "lost in a flood," apparently believing that two lies would be more convincing than one. They weren't, however, and I persisted.
Several forms in triplicate later, I walked out triumphant. I am, in fact, the greatest of them all.
