The Fifth Floor

Paying taxes makes you more intimate with your city than you might wish to be. This morning I went to the Municipal Services Building to pick up some tax forms. I waited in line for two hours, which isn't as bad as it sounds, since Philadelphia is blessed with colorful people to watch.

But then it turned out they didn't have the forms. "Go up to the fifth floor; they can help you."
So I went to the front desk and asked them for directions. "You need a special form to go up to the fifth floor." I explained my instructions to ask for tax forms on the fifth floor. The woman shrugged and said she needed ID. After I gave her my license, she took my photo and printed out a security clearance label. "Stick that on your lapel."

So I went through the security turnstile, labeled with my full legal name and a picture of myself, and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

"Can I help you?" a woman on the fifth floor said, with a slightly concerned expression. I explained that I was looking for such and such tax forms. "Oh. You should have been able to get those on the first floor. But you can get help on the fourth floor."

I went to the fourth floor.

"You need a special form from the first floor to get help here."

"Isn't there some way I can get my tax forms?"

"I believe they're available on the Net. Lou, is that true? Yes, just get them online."

This experience was a small price to pay, really, for the snazzy security clearance label I got.