15/8/97

I Should Be So Lucky

I was ready for a nap but my wife said no, there was too much to do. Just my luck.

    "Breakfast in bed?" I said incredulously.
    My wife smiled. "Brunch, actually. I thought you might like to sleep late." She gave me the newspaper. "By the way, your boss called. You got the promotion."
    The paper was full of the usual stuff. Peace and prosperity. The Palestinian problem was solved. The shekel was up. Shas quit politics.
    I bounded out of bed, ran a comb through my thick black hair and promptly quit smoking. There was enough hot water for a bath.
    There was something on the radio about Spielberg's newest movie, ג€œThe Aridor Years,ג€  and they were desperately searching the country for a car from when Aridor was finance minister. Hell, I thought, they can have mine, I couldn't hope to sell it anyway.
    I stepped outside to get the mail and bumped into the neighbor's kid, who told me a burglar had broken in last night and stolen his drums and amplifier. The mailbox was full of the usual junk. A tax refund, a postcard from the pope, a flyer from the local supermarket announcing a two-for-one sale on frozen duck.
    I was ready for a nap but my wife said no, there was too much to do. Just my luck, I thought. She gave me the list: bank, shopping, Intmin.
    "Intmin?" I asked quizzically.
    "Interior Ministry. You need new ID papers. I lost your wallet yesterday, I forgot to tell you. I suppose you should also get new papers for the car."
    Just my luck.
    "Oh, and while you're out, pop by City Hall, I think our property tax is too high."
    I raced out of the house before things got any worse, drove off and thanked my good fortune that I couldn't afford a car phone because as sure as my name's Donald she'd find more for me to do.
    Strange that I should think my name is Donald.
    Maybe it was wishful thinking, because when the policeman pulled me over I suddenly remembered I had no driver's license, car registration or identification papers.
    He leaned in on my window. "Good morning, sir. Would you like to buy tickets to our annual policeman's ball?"
    "Jeez, I didn't know Israeli cops had balls."
    "It's our first," he said pleasantly.
    I said no.
    I got to the bank and stood in line. But there was no line, just six tellers waiting for something to do. I paid some bills, made a huge cash withdrawal and held my breath as I counted the loot, waiting for the manager to tell me I had some nerve considering my phenomenal overdraft.
    "Uh-oh," the teller said.
    "Problem?" I asked, swiftly pocketing the cash.
    "I think I hit the wrong button. Seems our entire computer system has just been wiped out. I'm afraid we've lost all record of your account."
    I bawled her out. "My millions! I'm ruined!"
    She was really embarrassed. "Was that in shekels or dollars?"
    Over at the supermarket, I checked my wife's shopping list. It was short: "2 frozen duck." There were long lines at all the checkout counters, except the one under the sign "5 items or less." The cashier greeted me sweetly -- it was her first day on the job, only a week after the Miss Universe contest, in which she was the second runnerup. She rang up my purchase. Just my luck: the cash-register tape ran out (doesn't it always happen to me?), and there wasn't another one in the store. We chatted and swapped life stories while someone ran out to get some more tape.
    Over at the Interior Ministry, I took a number and sat down. I looked up at the electronic number display; it said "28." I dared look at my ticket: "697." I groaned.
    The fellow next to me, holding 698, grumbled that he could think of better ways to waste a day. I chuckled good-naturedly and we introduced ourselves.
    "Donald. No, I mean Sam," I said.
    "Folks call me Bibi," he responded.
    I offered to swap tickets because he was, after all, the prime minister. He was very grateful. We chatted, found a lot in common and became fast friends.
    I made it to the Licensing Bureau just in time, to my confounded luck. I hate the place. There's no numbering system, just one interminably long line that never seems to move, and you can usually count on a fight breaking out.
    Sure enough, there were about 80 people in front of me, all looking like they hadn't moved a muscle in hours, and wouldn't you know it, two beefy truck drivers who fell in behind me got into a discussion about who was there first, and it needed about 80 people to keep them apart. I, remaining neutral in the matter, stepped up to the clerk (who happened to be an old classmate of mine), got my new papers and was outta there in under 110 seconds.
    Who could have imagined that I'd be able to fit in a visit to the municipality as well? I found a parking spot right out front and raced in just as they were closing the door.
    I proceeded to the lady at the information booth. "I've been sent to fight City Hall," I announced.
    "You've come to the right place," she informed me.
    I proceeded to an elevator, but it was full. I cursed my luck. I got into the next one. It was empty. As the door closed I heard a man running. "Rega!" he shouted. I was inclined not to share the limited space with some shouting lout, but decided that was not nice and jabbed the "open" button.
    "Thanks," he said, brimming with gratitude.
    "You're welcome, mayor."
    Well, it was that kind of a day: the elevator got stuck between floors. There was nothing to do but wait. And chat.
    "So. What brings you to City Hall?" the mayor asked.
    I felt like such a fool. "My wife seems to think our property tax is too high."
    "Oh?"
    "You see, according to her calculations, we're overpaying compared to services rendered. Last year we used NIS 143.44 worth of roadwork, NIS 78.50 in garbage collection, NIS 11.90 in sewerage. Our share was NIS 2.21 for beautification, upkeep, maintenance, infrastructure, planning, traffic lights, bunting and various other sundry miscellaneousnesses, plus NIS 1.29 for your salary. Add to that an acceptable 10 percent profit for the city and 35 percent for bank charges, and it comes out to NIS 344.14."
    The mayor analyzed my figures and protested. "But what about snow-removal services?"
    "It didn't snow."
    "By God, you're right. We owe you hundreds!" He took out his checkbook.
    When the elevator finally lurched to life, I lost my balance and bumped my head. As the door opened, the mayor begged me not to sue, a remark, unfortunately,  overheard by a huge, jostling press corps that had come to report on the mayor's predicament.
    I got to my car at the same time as a policewoman did. Damn.
    She reached for her stationery. "Damn," she said. "Do you have a pen?"
    I stopped by the gas station and filled up just moments before the price went up, sped home (making every green light) and stepped into the house as a thunderstorm started. "Aw, jeez," my wife said, "I was going to ask you to hang out the laundry."
    She suddenly remembered. "The washing machine! That's where your wallet is!"
    Somehow, it didn't even get wet. My wife felt terrible. "All that running around for nothing, such rotten luck. To think you could have stayed home," she said, "my mother was here all day."