Today was a day of tromping all over downtown to this government agency and that government agency to do all the paperwork necessary for the coffeehouse. The very very wee coffeehouse.
Agency 1, no problem. Agency 2, piece of cake. And the clerk is a huge Chargers’ fan, so we all blab excitedly — MB, the clerk, and I — about the upcoming game while she types my information into the computer.
Then there was Agency 3, the agency where I need to get my seller’s permit. You know, to sell stuff. I fill out the form and wait for the sad-faced woman in the pink cowl sweater to call my name. Anxiously, I cross and re-cross my legs, wiggle my foot inside my unbusiness-like Converse All-Stars. The pink lady strides by, with her pumps and her papers and her certain gloomy purpose while I huddle with nervous feet in a 1950s overcoat that once belonged to MB’s grandfather. All around us, people fill out paperwork, slouching and sighing irritably in those high school desk-chair combos as if they’re taking some lousy pop quiz. Luckily, we snagged the only real chairs in the room; however bowed and shabby, they’re preferable to the school desks. The whole room glows with that sick, bilious glow of institutional fluorescent lighting, as if the very air were queasy. I sense the Hispanic woman across the room staring at me and sneak a glance her way. She is staring. I look back down and wonder — is it the shoes? the coat? the jaundiced light making my face look jaundiced, too? Thankfully, though, I’m interrupted as the pink lady calls my name and ushers MB and me through the doorway and into the place where things get done, I guess.
We turn a sharp corner into the nearest cubicle.
“Take a seat,” growls a voice from a head that is under a desk. We just stand there, furrow our brows, roll our eyes towards one another. I bite my lip and wonder if we should do something to help the head be where a more business-like head should be. Before I can do anything, though, the head springs back up. It’s a woman with wire glasses and steel-wool hair and a big solid belly. A barrel, really, that bows out past her breasts. As she stands to her full — but short — height, I notice she’s got some kind of cane with pincers on the end. “I can’t get my pen,” she grunts, stabbing the pincers repeatedly at the floor. MB spies a pen on the edge of the desk. “Here’s one,” he offers. She ignores us, grunts and pinces some more, until she finally recovers her wayward pen. It’s the same kind of pen MB had found.
“Sit,” she commands again.
We do. She glares at the paperwork I give her.
“Okay. What kind of business is this? Sole proprietorship, what?”
“Well, sole proprietorship,” MB answers.
She glances down at the papers, up at MB, and barks, “If you are not a signatory, then you DO not answer. If you think you want to talk, go out in the hall.”
Her head is down again. We turn to each other and stare, open-mouthed and silent. She is everyone’s worst grade school teacher.
Ignoring us, she continues to peruse my information. Then, because I answered incompletely on the form regarding what, exactly, I’m going to sell, we suddenly have … a problem.
“So you’re not going to sell pastries, baked goods?”
Oops.
“Uhm, well, I most likely will.”
“Well, it just says ‘espresso, coffee, tea’ here. In that case, you don’t need a seller’s permit. You only need a seller’s permit on taxable items. These are not taxable.”
“Oh, well, what if I end up doing that?”
The bark again. “You’re not listening to me! You don’t need this permit.”
MB is sitting silently. I’m trying to read his mind, ask what he’d want me to ask, but I can’t think straight. She’s old and has pincers and I’m nervous.
“Okaay. What if I just add ‘pastries’ to that information that I put on there?”
“You can’t do that. I have to report what you first put down here.”
“How will anyone know what I first put down there?”
“I’ll know. I can’t do that.”
“Okay. Well, the wholesale coffee bean contract I’m getting requires that I have this permit.”
“No, it doesn’t. You don’t need this. If you’re selling hot pastries, you’d need this.”
“Okay. Define ‘hot pastries.'”
We are now glaring at each other. She openly sighs in my stupid stupid face.
“Okay. If you heat a bagel in a toaster, that’s taxable.”
“And if I don’t, it’s not?”
“That’s right.”
“Isn’t this just a little bit confusing?”
Silence.
“So I can’t just add to my information right now?”
“No.”
“So you won’t give me a permit today?”
“Nope. I can’t. Why are you making your life more difficult?”
Silence.
“So … if I want to serve pastries, I have to change my information, come back another day, and then I can get this permit?”
“That’s right.” She just plays with her rescued pen and stares at me.
MB stands quickly. I jump up. “Fine,” I bark at her, stomping my Converse as I go.
So, I’m wondering, do I need a permit for pincers?
Bureaucracy can be so ridiculous.
I kinda want to punch that lady. There is no need to talk to you and MB as though you are tantrum-y 3 year olds.
that’s someone with a bad case of big head syndrome! Taking out her bad day/bad life on you guys is so pathetic! Shooting her to put her out of her misery would be too nice of a thing to do!
Stab her with her pen! Not good advice, I know, but it’s what I’m tempted to do with those people. She’s clearly in love with her own power, and not clear on the purpose of the rules–or else she’d see how ridiculous she was. Good luck in the next round.
Wow, that’s like a scene out of a movie.
Unfortunately, my usual response to people like that is to burst into tears. Which is kind of one of the reactions they want.
I hate it when there are people who are drunk on their own (largely illusory) power.
What an unpleasant experience, made worse by knowing you have to go back, ugh! Ricki, the first movie I thought of was “Uncle Buck”–the scene with Maisie’s nasty old teacher? Ew.
Very frustrating. Sounds like a woman who’s been stuck in a job that she hates for many, many years. It’s sad that it’s brought her to the point of dealing with people in such a terrible way.
Kate P – YES!!! That is exactly what I was thinking as I read this post. John Candy’s characters response was “Here’s a quarter, why don’t you go downtown and have a rat knaw that thing off your face!?” Refering to the huge-A$$-mole on her face. If only we could all be so bold.
Yuck! Government offices are like death on a cracker!
I hope you have better luck the next time!
oh. nuh-uh. i would have looked her in her ugly Dolores Umbridge face, grabbed the ugly pen out of her ugly hand, and written “pastries and other glutenous edibles” next to coffees and teas, tossed the pen back on the floor, THEN stood up and walked out.
or at least that’s what Evil Sarah would have done. the Christian side of me would have been telling me to not do that. i’m not sure who would have won out.
and you’re heating up the coffee. why is that different from heating up the bagel in the toaster?
Tracey – there’s a place to discuss this woman’s behavior. Now, it’s not very wholesome, but it’s quite cathartic.
More usefully, you may wish to discuss her behavior with a supervisor – not that I expect that anything can be done, but stranger things have happened. (I know that it seems harsh if she’s disciplined or fired, but what’s worse, getting her in trouble for something she shouldn’t be doing, or letting other unsuspecting permit-seekers get scalded by “I have 7,000 pens and 28 cats” Lady?)
It’s like a scene from Brazil:
“Listen, this old system of yours could be on fire and I couldn’t even turn on the kitchen tap without filling out a 27b stroke 6.”
What a horrid old hag, but she gave you a great story. I think you ought to go back every day and add another item to your list until you grind her to wood pulp with your worrisomeness.
Be sure to ask her every day if you HAVE to charge tax on hot or cold coffee!
//I think you ought to go back every day and add another item to your list until you grind her to wood pulp with your worrisomeness. //
hahahaha I love that!
UPDATE: We just got back from Round 2. At the window, I asked the lady — the pink lady from yesterday — for someone other than the woman we had yesterday, then I described her. Oh, and bummer! Pincey McWoolHair was at lunch! Pink lady asked me, “Oh, why did you want someone else? Was there a problem?”
I said, “Yes, uhm …. she was very rude, spoke to us like we were children, and we walked away empty-handed.”
“Oh. Okay. I’m so sorry that happened.”
Which is nice of her, but it’s not HER fault.
We ended up with this little old man, talked him up about his new granddaughter, and walked out PERMIT IN HAND, PEOPLE!!
Pincey McWoolHair walked by at one point and we both just glared at her, really hard and narrow.
And she was scared, too.
Hahaha.
Wow. Miss a week around here and you miss a lot, huh? 🙂
I think giving you a permit would have actually meant work for her. Work she was trying to avoid by bullying you out of her office.
That was such a wonderfully well written story, Tracey. I just loved it. Your powers of description are …awesome.
Horrible, Horrible Woman. Wow. To be that angry and mean. I can’t imagine.
Good for you on getting your permit. I would have glared at her too.
I love that she is not only hopelessly bureaucratic, but that she insists YOU’RE the one making things difficult.
Sigh. People with a little power and a lot of attitude are very, very dangerous.
Ya know, as I get older and crankier, I’m less and less inclined to let this kind of stuff go. I complain everytime to someone. I complain to the manager at Sam’s club, because they are out of toilet paper. I mean come on. How can the biggest company in the world be out of toilet paper? An why did the “sales associate” I asked shrug his shoulders, make no eye contact and say “guess we’re out”. Oh no I feel a rant coming on. I better go. And another thing…………..