If you’re on to a good thing…

It was just before Yom Haatzmaut in 2008, the first year we were here, and we were acutely aware that we were out of the loop – to use an expression that would befuddle most Israelis. Imagine if you were stuck in Teaneck on July 4^th and you and the missus were sitting in your kitchen by your lonesome whipping up a package of Wacky Mac on the stovetop. That would be equivalent of being here in the Land among a nation of hard core barbecuers with no grill, nothing to grill on it, and no one to share your viands with. Thank God for Jeff and June, who had a place to go and enough room in the car to take us (probably including Natania) with them for us to celebrate our first Yom Haaztmaut here in our adopted homeland.

Read more: Every Good Boy — Part 3

Decades before, our friends had met an Israeli couple who were temporarily living in Texas and managed to keep in touch with them. The couple was long since safely back in The Land, and every year threw a barbecue on Independence Day, hosting a collection of friends they had acquired in the States, many from The Mistake by the Lake. Jeff and June were now invited, and we could tag along. Enough food for an army – even the IDF.

I remember the ride up to Rosh Ha’ayin, the countryside festooned with Israeli flags, us thrilled to be here and glad to feel part of the action. We were invited back year after year until, shall we say, the family split apart at the seams. Not to be deterred, for the next few years, we joined Jeff and June for a barbecue at their place. Then we began to meet at restaurants in Jerusalem for a different kind of dining experience, because you can’t make a caprese salad on a grill. (I do remember someone once trying to barbecue a tofu hot dog on our grill with the predicably disastrous result.)

Enter Arvin from somewhere off-stage. I got to know him when I joined the small group of guys at our shul in Teaneck learning gemara after the early minyan Shabbat morning. Among other things, Arvin played the trumpet and was part of a band that gave a concert once a year in Votee Park. At long last, he and Gila were able to follow their heart and their kids, and now Arvin was able to be part of three bands, one of which performs at the First Station every Yom Haatzmaut. Well, of course. We would meet June and Jeff at the First Station, listen to the concert and have lunch at one of the restaurants there.

And that’s what we did again this year. It wasn’t even Pesach, but there I was sending out an e-mail, Don’t forget, we have a date for Yom Haatzmaut, in case, God forbid, they had forgotten. Which they hadn’t. The performance by Arvin’s band this year had less of the American Big Band Music that I know and love and more of the Israeli stuff that gets from me a tepid response. The food at the restaurant we usually go to was OK, but the service was lack-luster (not up to the standard of the Whiskey Bar). (Can someone come and take our order?) Will that discourage us from a repetition next year? Don’t be silly. Until senility or failing limbs do us part. Because if you’re on to a good thing…

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

OK, we need the form that we get from you that we use when we file our taxes. I’m sure you sent it, but we’ve moved, and our post office isn’t very good at forwarding our mail. I’ve tried to create an on-line account, but I’m having trouble, even after I’ve spoken to someone on your end twice. So I still need to speak to someone – if you don’t mind.

In the old days, if you called a business, you either got to speak to an operator or at least an automated system (for so-and-so, press one; for this and that, press two…) But the New York City Employees Pension System (NYCERS) is up-to-date, which makes things worse. Welcome to the world of automated assistants (think Siri or Alexis). Try explaining your problem to A.I. in a way that makes sense to a computer. I took the coward’s way out: I want to speak to a person. I kept repeating this mantra, no matter what the phone voice said, which is what I had done the first two times I called.

It shouldn’t have been that hard to open an on-line account, allowing me to change our address and generating the form we need for the IRS. Understand that I retired from my City job in 1995, before they had all these newfangled methods of annoying their clientele, retirees like me.

I had found their website easily enough and started setting up an account. Wait a minute, it’s asking for my pension account number. It could be this set of numbers or this one with an ‘N’ at the beginning. Except neither one fits into the six digits in the field. I’ll say this for NYCERS. Once you convince their automated gatekeeper that you need to speak to a human (no offense, Ms. A.I.), I got connected within seconds. The real-live woman I spoke with explained that I should use the N-xxxxxx-0 and omit the N and the last 0 and use the six digits in between.. Was I supposed to know that? I thanked the lady, feeling confident I could handle the rest by myself. But when I filled out the form and hit ‘continue,’ I was told that ‘the system is not in operation at this time.’

The system is down? Unlikely, but let me try again later and the next day and the next. Finally, I called back, again convincing the same voice on the other end that I needed to speak to a person (no offense, Ms. A.I.). The second lady I spoke to said she would notify their computer people of my difficulty, and someone would get back to me in a day or so. Which turned out to be the case. Within hours, I received an email, telling me I needed to fill out the on-line form and submit it. That’s what I’ve been trying to do for the last week, you fatheads!!! If I could have done it, I wouldn’t be bothering you.

Let’s consider the matter. I’m not getting anywhere this way. Since the form we need was probably sent out – just to the wrong address – why don’t we try to retrieve it? Barbara called up Revital, the lady in the post office we’ve been dealing with. Do you have any mail for us that was supposed to be forwarded and wasn’t, maybe stuck away collecting dust on a shelf in some back office? The postal lady promised to inquire and get back to us. Which she didn’t, but when Barbara called her back, the word was no mail here for you. And did we know that the form we filled out to have our mail forwarded was only good for three months? No, we did not know. Was this one more part of the ‘Everyone knows that’ syndrome that infects this fair Land, bedeviling those of us who did not grow up here and are still greenhorns after 30 years? Just imagine if we actually knew all the things we’re supposed to know, how much simpler life would be – but I’m probably preaching to the choir. (Tenors over here; altos over there.)

Why don’t we call the people who bought our old apartment; maybe they have some of our mail. Sure enough, they had a whole plastic bag of mail languishing in their car, which they would be happy to give to us, now that we had taken the trouble to inquire. And as predicted, in this stack of mail, large enough to choke a horse, was an envelope with the form we needed. One problem solved, one more to go.

Let me try an end run. I called back NYCERS and this time got a guy on the phone – after dealing first with the ever-present Ms. A.I. I do not need to open an on-line account; I do not want to open an on-line account. All I want to do is change our address in your system Is there any way that someone on your end can do that? That’s all I need. No, they couldn’t do it over the phone. BUT, they could send me a form – and they could send that form to any address on Planet Earth I chose – which would authorize them to change my address in the system. Of course, he cautioned me, it would take more than the normal seven days for the mail to arrive – as if I expected anything else. That’s OK; I can wait. I’m not going anywhere. Except to the mailbox, where after a few weeks, the form I needed did arrive.

As I expected, down at the bottom was a box with the following instruction: This form must be acknowledged before a Notary Public or Commissioner of Deeds. I don’t know about Commissioners of Deeds or Mis-Deeds, but we do have notaries here. Unlike in The States, where guys who run concessionstands in lobbies of office buildings will routinely stamp a document and charge you a pittance, here in The Land, this task is reserved for attorneys-at-law, who will demand identification and charge you several hundred NIS for their time and effort. Of course, an impressive wax seal will be affixed to your form, but I could live without being impressed.

But then, Barbara Levine threw in a caveat. (There’s often one of these lurking in the shadows!) You’ll need to have it notarized in English, otherwise they won’t accept it. Would that present a problem? Is that even doable?

Talk about an anti-climax. I expected another chapter in my on-going saga of everything possible going wrong, but apparently the law office on the third floor of our mall can handle this matter. I’ll stroll over there in a day or two and then head to the post office. Should there be any further complications, you know I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I’ll get back – belatedly – to our efforts in having fun, because you’re all eagerly awaiting…