Episode Six & Seven – Dealing with Beaurocracies

I finally get to my destination but the delay in arriving has fouled up my plan to beat out expected long lines at the City’s building department.  I need a signature from an inspector for an alteration, though I am not moving any walls, moving or adding electrical or plumbing fixtures or changing the floor area ratio or some such, just simply upgrading my existing space.  However, my condo board requires a sign-off statement from the building’s department inspector or an engineer. It’s a mild filing fee of about thirty dollars for the inspector and about two thousand dollars less costly than for a Registered Engineer, but it will take all day.  Fortunately in my wisdom I have arranged for my boyfriend to meet me at one o’clock in order to avoid a subway ride home.  He’s got a car. 

Having gotten to the front of the line around noon, I am famished but not willing to step off, even to get to the nearby concession stand, and chance losing my place.  My stomach and I, speaking in a full growl, finally meets the inspector.  “What do you have?” he opens.  I explain my reason for coming as he begins to review the floor plans I have sketched and brought along.  “Are you taking down the above cabinets at the pass-through?” he asks.  “Yes,” I nervously reply.  “You have to file these forms for that change,” I am notified. With quick understanding the slight difference is going to cost me thousands of dollars and lots of time and aggravation.  I immediately modify my plans by crossing out the word “remove” and replacing it with “to remain as is”.  I ask why such a minor change would require numerous filings (and also create extra expense).  The inspector brings up on his computer screen seven codes which have to be complied with since the formation of those cabinets, as is, I am informed, is treated the same as a wall.  Goodbye full renovation, it’ll have to be the next owner’s headache and expense. All of this over the word “remove”.  I leave the inspector’s office basically happy that I have accomplished my basic goal sans new upper cabinets especially since it was now a little past one o’clock. 

Nearly on cue, my cell phone rings; it’s my boyfriend.  We meet and eat at nearby little Italy and then make our way to the meter where he has parked his car. Instead we find an empty spot and no car.  “The sign says commercial vehicles until 6PM. One has to read,” I say making him feel worse than he already does.  “These signs upon other signs are put here to confuse people,” he retorts attempting to find a reasonable alibi.  No matter, half an hour later after having walked a mile to the pound, his vehicle is located, but not released. After another hour wait on the information line where we prove ownership in the form of a current registration, we are asked to step onto another line.  “Why did we have to stand on this line only to be sent to the next line when in fact we did not need any information?” I ask thinking I am speaking with someone who is functioning in any decision making capacity. “Next,” is his only response. At the next window we show the registration card and told to have a seat.  “What are we waiting for?” I further naively inquire.  “There are people ahead of you,” is the given reply, said as if it’s ok that there are still about sixty people we had noted in the waiting room when we first arrived.  Only five have left.  Seems the computer age somehow passed over the pound. Apparantly violators will be punished greater than just simply fined. Trapped again.  I have to contemplate how clever I was to ask my boyfriend to simply pick me up.