Once upon a time the other day, I had to go to the IRS to get a tax form for Daniel's financial aid.
I went down on my lunch break during the middle of the day, and boy was I ever glad for an excuse to get out of my boring cubicle.
Lately dollars have been tight, what with being newlyweds and with Daniel going to school and all, so my first thought when walking up to the federal building was "Whoa... I bet whoever works here makes lots of money." The whole grounds were so neat and fancy, and the building itself was much shinier than any of the surrounding landscape.
I felt so cool and official going through security. I had to put my keys and stuff in one of those little buckets and walk through the beepy freestanding door. Then they x-rayed my phone and keys. Just to be sure.
At this point, I should add, I was an experienced professional at visiting government offices, as I had been to this very federal building a few weeks before to change my name with the Social Security peeps.
The nice security men gave me a name tag and directed me to Floor 6, for the IRS.
As the elevator arrived and I jumped on, I noticed another woman already in the elevator.
As soon as the elevator doors opened, I was glad to escape the presence of the zombie woman with the dead eyes.
However, the awkward elevator encounter would in no way prepare me for the horror that greeted me on Floor 6.
Loooong, white halls. White walls, white ceiling, white lights, white tile floors. There were no people, just white signs with gold lettering. Waaaaaay down at the end of one of the terrifying halls, I saw a sign that said "IRS" with an arrow.
I hurried to my destination, not wishing to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary in the creepy labyrinth that was Floor 6.
As soon as I entered the door, I was greeted with a fancy touch-screen device that asked me why I was there. Then it spit out a little scrap of paper with a number on it indicating when it would be my turn.
Fortunately, I had warned my boss ahead of time that I might be taking an extra-long lunch.
I took a seat next to a kindly old gentleman who seemed to have been there for a long time. He wasn't very talkative.
There was a sign on the wall asking visitors to be respectful of others. It said something along the lines of:
NO CELL PHONES
NO VIDEO GAMES
NO TALKING
NO JOY
NO HOPE
Eventually, people's numbers started to get called, and a man sitting behind me got his turn to go into one of the unsettling little booths.
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| *true story, that really happened in real life. |
I just needed a copy of my tax return transcript, so about an hour later when I finally got my turn, it took like thirty seconds for the dead-eyed gentleman in the booth to click "Print" and then stamp the thing with the other thing.
As soon as he handed it to me, I shouted "Thank you very much, sir!" and ran out of there as fast as my stubby little legs could carry me.
Down the long white halls I ran, and dove into the nearest elevator, frantically mashing the Floor 1 button until the elevator started to move. I did NOT want to become a federal zombie, no sir. No matter what they paid me.
In my mad dash for freedom, I neglected to realize that the elevator had only gone down one floor when the doors opened, and I stumbled out onto Floor 5, which probably housed another department of government services. I wouldn't know, I was only there for a couple of seconds.
I wasn't about to wait for another elevator, so I stumbled through a crowd of confused and slightly worried bystanders and booked it down the stairs.
I slapped my name tag on the giant wad that the security guards were collecting by the door, wished them a hysterical good day, sirs, and dove into my car.
As I drove back to work, I checked my pulse a couple more times to make sure I was still alive and vowed that if I ever needed something government-y in the future, I would find a way to get it online, or at the very least over the phone.
Never.
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