Paperwork

The city hall building was considered modern, in comparison to most of the rest of the town’s structures.  Though it was built in the seventies, it was much more recently built than any other major building.

The city had seen substantial growth in the late sixties.  The interstate system throughout the state of Ohio had been upgraded and expanded.  Part of the expansion brought more access to more jobs, cementing Hilliard as a bona fide suburb of Columbus.

The growth had been steady through the nineties but stagnated in the new millennium.  Many of the jobs were lost, as some of the major employers moved operation overseas.

This period of economic pause affected construction, especially of new homes.  Without the increase in new homes, the city population began to decline.  In turn, the tax base for the city dwindled, which limited the funds available to expand or build new public facilities.

The condition of the city hall building reminded Bob of folks who would put on airs to appear successful.  If you looked deep at all, one could easily see that the appearance of success was a façade.  Decay and impending failure laid beneath the surface.

Along the main walkway to the front door, were a series of bricks, each with the name of a previous city council member or mayor.  Not too many were well-worn, at least not yet.  Even though some of the names dated back over a hundred years ago, these bricks were only 10 years old.

“More questionable images of success,” Bob thought as he walked on the names of the past.

The door had a long, horizontal handle that appeared, by its color, to be aluminum.  The same material seemed to frame the door.  The rest of it was thick, tempered glass.

Bob reached with his left hand to open the door.  He had expected to assert only a small amount of effort to open the door.

“This is heavier than it looks,” Bob said out loud.

Reaching with his right hand, Bob pulled on the handle until the door began to open.  The struggle with the door seemed to have a metaphorical message.

“This is clearly not the door of opportunity,” Bob thought.  “This door seems to be saying that I should stay away.”

Once he passed through the stubborn door, Bob stood and visually measured the place.  The walls were all paneled with what struck him as cheesy faux oak.  To the left, hanging on the wall was a directory which listed a room number for each of the city departments.

“Let’s see,” Bob spoke in low tones.  “I need the city clerk’s office.”

Making a mental note, he committed to his short-term memory that it was room 215.  Recalling that from the outside, it appeared the building was three stories, he reasoned that the city clerk’s office must be on the second floor.

On the right side of the entryway, Bob saw the elevator doors.  He fought the impulse to take the ride, since his destination was just up one floor.  Slightly hidden behind the directory, Bob noticed a set of stairs.  The paneling had acted as a sort of camouflage, keeping him from being aware of the stairs at first.

As he climbed the stairs, he used the height to gain a different perspective of the entryway.  There was a reception desk, but it was unmanned.  From his position, he could see a master phone with a series of buttons that he figured were the extensions for each of the department offices.  A few of the buttons were lit up, so he knew the system was active.  Also, he saw several personal items on the desk, so he assumed that there was an employee normally stationed there, possibly on a break or at lunch.

As he climbed more of the stairs, he began to see that there was some waffling in the walls.  He determined that since a great deal of the front of the building was glass, the regular exposure to sunlight had caused the paneling to start to buckle.

“We need to get that fixed,” Bob thought.

At the top of the stairs, the first door he saw had the number 201 etched on a plague that was mounted directly on the door.  This gave him the confidence that, indeed, the rooms were numbered according to the floor, second floor with rooms numbered in the 200’s.

Near the end of the hallway, he found the door numbered 215.  He reached out and grasped the doorknob.  A mixture of emotions caused him to pause.

“This must be the place.  I could be satisfied that I found it and call it a day,” he reasoned.  “But Dixie would insist that she come with me to get this done.”

“Do I really want to do this?”

He continued to dialogue in his head.

“No, I really do not want my life to be under anyone’s microscope” he recalled telling Dixie.

“Well, what do you think they would find?”

“I know that there aren’t any skeletons in my closet, so to speak.”

“So, there you have it,” Dixie said with a smile.  “You have nothing to worry about.  You are the perfect candidate!”

“I don’t know about that,” Bob countered.

“Now, why would you say that, Bob?”

“It seems to me that people prefer controversy.  If I don’t have any, then they are likely to make some up,” Bob said with his palms in front of him facing upward.

Dixie reached for his hands and gently grasped them.  She then pulled him close, so that their faces were only inches apart.

“I still think that you are scared.”

“No, I am not scared.  I am just trying to be smart,” he answered her with his own form of reason.

Suddenly, there was a pull on the door.  Bob had gotten lost in his thoughts while still holding the doorknob.  After a second tug from the inside, Bob released the doorknob.

As the door swung open, Bob was face to face with an attractive brunette.  She seemed immediately flustered to have Bob right there in front of her.

“Oh, oh, sorry,” she fumbled out the words.  “I didn’t realize that someone, I mean you, were there.”

Bob found her awkwardness amusing.  He could not help but grin at her.

“No, no, it is my fault.  I got lost in my thoughts and well,” Bob began to regain his focus, “I am here to get the paperwork to get my name on the ballot for the election in November.”

“You want to be on the ballot?”

“Why, yes, I do.  Is this the right office to get that paperwork?”

“I am so sorry,” the woman now seemed flustered.  “My name is Barbara.  I am the city clerk.”

Again, Bob smiled, “Hi Barbara.  My name is Bob, Bob Griffith.”

She reached out her right hand to shake.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Bob Griffith.”

After a short, firm handshake, she moved back into the office.  Circling the lone desk in the room, she opened a drawer and began to pull out some forms.

“Here are the forms that you need.  There are still two weeks before the deadline.”

“Good,” Bob nodded as he received the papers from her.  “Is there anything else I need?”

“Oh,” Barbara said as she tilted her as if she realized something.  “It would be necessary for you to speak with Charlie Maxwell.  You do know who Charlie is?”

“Isn’t he the president of the city council?”

“Why, yes, he is,” Barbara responded as if she were impressed.

“Why would I need to speak with him?”

“Well, we have a practice of having anyone who expresses interest in being on the ballot to speak with Charlie.  He can confirm that you meet the qualifications and, also, give you advice on how to best proceed without breaking any election laws, especially if have never been a candidate.”

Barbara finished that last statement with a strong nod.

“I certainly don’t want to break any laws,” Bob spoke carefully.

Barbara reached for a notepad and pen.

“Can I get your phone number?  I will help to arrange the meeting with Charlie.”

Bob thought that Barbara seemed very efficient.  He like that in people.

“Certainly.”

He gave her his number expecting to receive a call within the day.