Today I went to the City of Los Angeles Department of Building and Safety in Downtown Los Angeles. This draconian bureau holds – or withholds – many treasures for contractors. My employer, Tim, invited me to explore the myriad levels of this steel and glass castle. We had to acquire three items from their vaults: a business license, a stamp of approval for the blueprints of a bathroom remodel, and a building permit.
First, we had to find a parking place for the truck. The city streets we all metered; no spaces were available anyway. The parking garage charged $2.75 for every fifteen minutes, up to a maximum of $27.50.
“Wow! That’s pricey,” I said.
“I already know we’ll be paying twenty-seven dollars,” Tim replied. “Just watch.”
***
It was 11:25 a.m. when we parked. There was one elevator from the garage to the lobby; another from the lobby to the fourth floor, which was where we would go to find all of our building needs met.
“It’s not on this floor,” Tim said, walking fast toward the stairs.
“What’s not?” I asked.
“We have to go to the third floor to renew my business license first.” It’s good I was with Tim: I would have been stuck waiting in line to talk with the person at the information desk. I looked at the clock when we reached the bottom of the staircase – it was already 11:45.
This is Enos. He is in charge of providing legitimate contractors with business licenses. Three times he told us to sit down, but there weren’t any chairs. “This is why I have these signs – take a seat.” Tim and I just stood there. Enos was the first and only capable bureaucrat that we met today. He explained to a father and daughter that they needed to go upstairs to the cashier and then come back. Enos told another man “everything’s fine, we just gotta fix that wrong address.” He was very good at his job, helping us in no time. It was about Noon when we were off to the cashier.
The first time we went to the cashier there were ten people in line. When we arrived at the front, Tim swiped his card for the balance. We looked again at the bankcard: Enos had pointed out that they misspelled Tim’s name – it had read “Tomothy.” We had a good chuckle.
We returned to Enos to get the license, and that was our first victory.
***
Back on the fourth floor, we now had to get a number from the information desk, number 36. We then would wait for our number to be called. That took about twenty five minutes. The whole time, Tim was guessing which person would be handling the business plans and wondering whether or not they would give us approval: “Would it be the Latino guy? Or one of the two Asian girls? Maybe the Indian guy? I am hoping for that bearded guy.”
“You mean ‘young Santa’?” I replied.
We had another chuckle. It would be our last.
The skinny girl called “number thirty-six” and we sat down in front of her desk. Tim had told me earlier that he didn’t want her to handle the plans. He could tell she was just out of college, and would probably just try to block us from getting the blueprints approved. Sure enough, she did. THEY ALL DID.
“Where is the closet in this bedroom?” she asked. “All bedrooms must have a closet.”
Thinking quickly, Tim said, “The room is being repurposed – that’s just a typo.” She seemed ready to complete the transaction when – suddenly – a handsome young man walked up behind us and got her undivided attention.
“You haven’t answered your cell,” the handsome youth said, smiling. She smiled back. Then she looked at us.
“I have to double check to make sure that you are approved for building in this part of Los Angeles,” she said. “I will put your number back into the system, and we’ll call you in a moment.” And it was time to wait again.
Curiously, the young man sat right down where we had been sitting, right in front of her desk. He had no number and she immediately started to help him with his building plans. They were smiling and laughing – flirting. I caught a picture of them in the act.
After we had waited another twenty minutes – it was well after One o’clock now – she called over to us.
“Haven’t they called your number yet?”
“No,” I said.
“Weren’t you number thirty-three?” the young girl asked.
“Nope!” I said, sorta loudly, perturbed. “We’re thirty-six.”
“Oh!” she replied. “Well, go over to the information desk – you’ll have to get a new number. Once you have a new number in the system, we will call you momentarily.”
***
The other Asian called our number this time.
“Eighty-eight!”
Tim and I walked over to where she was seated. She looked over the building plans, and then she said: “the plot plans need to be on this sheet.”
“Oh, really?” Tim said.
“Yes,” she replied. “You can go down to the parking structure to get a copy of the plot plan. When you come back, we’ll enter your number into the system again.” The parking structure? What the fuck?
“I’ll do it,” I said, as I grabbed the plans and ran down the stairs to get a copy made.
***
Sure enough, there was a copy room in the parking garage. Tim came in to meet me.
“It’s $3.82 for an eight-by-ten copy,” I said, a bit astounded at the price.
“I’ll give her a tip,” Tim said sarcastically, leaving four dollars on the table.
***
Once we returned, they were calling our number in short order.
“Eighty-eight!”
Second Asian girl. She once again looked over the plans, and then she said: “are you the owner?”
“No. I’m the contractor.” Tim didn’t seem that annoyed, really.
“You can’t get a permit for this property unless you have the ‘grant deed’,” she said.
“Let me call the owner.” And Tim was on his phone straightaway.
“Actually, I don’t have time,” the young girl said. “I have to go to another department. We’ll call your number.”
***
“Number eighty-eight.” It was the Indian guy now. His name was Amkit.
Looking over the plans, he had a great deal of questions about the roof jacks. Amkit was stalling. It was well after Two o’clock now. Finally, he informed us that we could take the blueprint to “Planning Express” – what a misnomer – absolutely nothing about this place was “express”!
“She said we need a grant deed,” Tim said.
“Contractors don’t need a grant deed to pull a permit,” Amkit replied nonchalantly. Don’t these people know how to do their jobs? I thought to myself.
***
At Planning Express, Mindy told us that we were not allowed to build in that part of Los Angeles because it is a “Historic Preservation Overlay Zone.”
“That’s only if we do exterior work,” Tim said. “This is a bathroom remodel.”
“Oh.” The woman typed furiously, walked over to a printer entitled “BOBA FETT,” and toyed with it for a few more minutes. Mindy looked to a colleague nearby and said, “I’m just gonna use Skywalker instead, Boba’s been acting up all day.” It was not funny.
And finally we had permission for a permit. “Go to the cashier, once you purchase the permit, get another number and then you can get the plans approved.”
***
As we waited in the cashier line for the cashier the second time, I noticed a payment sign.
Under the heading for Credit Cards: Discover had been struckthrough, and the letters E-B-T were inscribed after it. EBT? Foodstamps? This place is ludicrous!
***
New number: five-hundred-who-the-fuck-cares. It’s Three o’clock.
We get called by yet another department: Plan Check. They look at the plans for *literally* thirty seconds and then tell you for your number to get called. AGAIN.
***
“Number Five-Hundred-And-Something-Something.”
(That’s how I remember it.)
It was Amkit again. He looked over the plans with his Latino pal, and they asked more questions to kill time. The brought up the roof jacks again, asked about weight-bearing walls, and piled on the general bullshit.
Meanwhile to our right, a woman swooped in at another desk and flirted with a younger male bureaucrat. No number, no problem! If I learned one thing today, it’s that sex appeal goes a long, long way in this hellhole.
Finally Amkit acquiesced. That meant that we had to stand in the cashier line ONE MORE TIME to pay for the plans to get stamped.
***
3:30. Theo helped us the final time. Our final hurdle: Tim didn’t have a tax ID.
“Why do I need a tax ID? I’m not a business owner,” Tim said, now furious.
“It’s asking for a tax ID,” Theo said, referring to the computer.
“What, do you mean a business license number?”
“Well, it says Business ID number…” Theo trailed off.
“That’s not a tax ID – here’s my Business License.” Tim flung the document at him, and then turned to me. “Chris, remember this: A republican is a democrat that had to apply for a building permit.” He was not smiling.
***
On our way out, I snapped one last picture of a piece of artwork depicting some beautiful architecture on the wall. The second placard from the right reads:
PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH.
YOUR ATTENTION TO THE ARTWORK IS APPRECIATED.
Something about the phrasing of it struck me. Nothing about this place made me feel appreciated. In fact, the only objects appreciating here were the contents of the city vaults. At the very least, we left at Four o’clock with the items we intended to procure, but not without a few battle scars.
Needless to say, we ended up paying the full $27.50 on our way out of the parking garage.
Draw your own conclusions.
The Enthusiatic Observer 
