help. This time her expression implied that she questioned my ability to operate an electric can opener, but she sat down in front of the computer and located a Web site for the county assessor. I took the seat with great optimism. It faded into nothingness as I realized that I was required to enter bizarre information about sections, townships, blocks, lots, and subdivisions. About the only thing not required was my favorite color.
Confident that I was more effective with people than with machines, I drove to the courthouse and dutifully followed signs and arrows to the county assessor’s office. An older man, wearing a name tag that identified him as K. Scott, listened to my abbreviated explanation and led me to a room with the ambience of a neglected warehouse. Dauntingly large plat books were piled on tables or on shelves that towered above my head. I sneezed, blinked, and then sneezed again.
“The dust,” I said feebly, fighting back another sneeze without success. My eyes welled with tears as my lungs contracted.
“Allow me to assist you,” K. Scott said, either eager to serve the public or terrified I might die on the spot and require him to remain beyond five o’clock. He asked questions about the route to Hollow Valley, which I answered between sniffs and sneezes, while he peered at a faded county map. He disappeared into the labyrinth of shelves and then emerged with a plat book. After asking more questions, he finally jabbed the pertinent page. “Here it is!” He consulted his wristwatch. “Nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds! I do believe I’ve set a new record. Come along, dear woman.”
I wiped my eyes with a tissue as I followed him back to the main office. He sat down in front of a computer, typed furiously, and then pointed at the screen. “Section seventeen, township nine, the northeast quarter of the southeast quarter and so forth. The owner of record is Terry M. Kennedy. It came to him through joint tenancy with right of survivorship.”
“You found that out from the legal description?”
“Good heavens, no. He’s a polite young man, and he told me when he brought in a modified deed to be filed. He had the necessary forms, all signed, dated, and notarized. I can’t begin to tell you how many people barge in here without any idea how to—” K. Scott caught himself with the agility of an acrobat. “Would you like his address?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention back to the keyboard, scribbled a couple of lines on a notepad, and then ripped off the page and handed it to me.
I felt as though I should kneel to accept the Holy Grail while a choir belted out the “Hallelujah Chorus.” I managed to croak, “Thank you so very, very much, Mr. Scott. I am eternally grateful for your help. If you come by the Book Depot on Thurber Street, I’ll give you an armful of books.”
“It was my duty as a public servant,” he said stiffly. “We are never allowed to receive private compensation.”
I was relieved he hadn’t said that he would prefer not to. I scampered down the hall, waited impatiently as the elevator creaked to the first floor, and barely kept myself from dancing across the parking lot to my car. Terry M. Kennedy lived in Key West, Florida. His house was a thousand miles from Farberville, but my telephone was only one mile from the courthouse.
Once at home, I went immediately to said telephone. I took a gulp of scotch before I picked up the receiver and prompted a cyber-operator to find Terry M. Kennedy’s telephone number. The robotic voice recited the number and offered to dial it for a nominal charge. I wrote down the three-zero-five area code and the number, then put down the receiver before I dropped it on my foot. I tried not to salivate as I envisioned the house, furnishings, French doors, walnut bookcases, swimming pool, orchard, meadow, bucolic setting, elderly trees, and vibrant flowers. The tears that filled my eyes were not caused by an
Confident that I was more effective with people than with machines, I drove to the courthouse and dutifully followed signs and arrows to the county assessor’s office. An older man, wearing a name tag that identified him as K. Scott, listened to my abbreviated explanation and led me to a room with the ambience of a neglected warehouse. Dauntingly large plat books were piled on tables or on shelves that towered above my head. I sneezed, blinked, and then sneezed again.
“The dust,” I said feebly, fighting back another sneeze without success. My eyes welled with tears as my lungs contracted.
“Allow me to assist you,” K. Scott said, either eager to serve the public or terrified I might die on the spot and require him to remain beyond five o’clock. He asked questions about the route to Hollow Valley, which I answered between sniffs and sneezes, while he peered at a faded county map. He disappeared into the labyrinth of shelves and then emerged with a plat book. After asking more questions, he finally jabbed the pertinent page. “Here it is!” He consulted his wristwatch. “Nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds! I do believe I’ve set a new record. Come along, dear woman.”
I wiped my eyes with a tissue as I followed him back to the main office. He sat down in front of a computer, typed furiously, and then pointed at the screen. “Section seventeen, township nine, the northeast quarter of the southeast quarter and so forth. The owner of record is Terry M. Kennedy. It came to him through joint tenancy with right of survivorship.”
“You found that out from the legal description?”
“Good heavens, no. He’s a polite young man, and he told me when he brought in a modified deed to be filed. He had the necessary forms, all signed, dated, and notarized. I can’t begin to tell you how many people barge in here without any idea how to—” K. Scott caught himself with the agility of an acrobat. “Would you like his address?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention back to the keyboard, scribbled a couple of lines on a notepad, and then ripped off the page and handed it to me.
I felt as though I should kneel to accept the Holy Grail while a choir belted out the “Hallelujah Chorus.” I managed to croak, “Thank you so very, very much, Mr. Scott. I am eternally grateful for your help. If you come by the Book Depot on Thurber Street, I’ll give you an armful of books.”
“It was my duty as a public servant,” he said stiffly. “We are never allowed to receive private compensation.”
I was relieved he hadn’t said that he would prefer not to. I scampered down the hall, waited impatiently as the elevator creaked to the first floor, and barely kept myself from dancing across the parking lot to my car. Terry M. Kennedy lived in Key West, Florida. His house was a thousand miles from Farberville, but my telephone was only one mile from the courthouse.
Once at home, I went immediately to said telephone. I took a gulp of scotch before I picked up the receiver and prompted a cyber-operator to find Terry M. Kennedy’s telephone number. The robotic voice recited the number and offered to dial it for a nominal charge. I wrote down the three-zero-five area code and the number, then put down the receiver before I dropped it on my foot. I tried not to salivate as I envisioned the house, furnishings, French doors, walnut bookcases, swimming pool, orchard, meadow, bucolic setting, elderly trees, and vibrant flowers. The tears that filled my eyes were not caused by an
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