Time for a bit of spleen-venting about nonsensical municipal regulations and associated processes. Specifically, increased vigilance by the City of Dallas (COD) Code Compliance Department (CCD). I've noticed compliance vehicles cruising our cheery little suburban 'hood with a frequency I never noticed in my old Preston Hollow area. And if anybody violates code, trust me, it’s all those Preston Hollow baby lawyers in their McMansions with their high-falutin' turrets (some with arrow slits), battlements, moats, drawbridges, portcullises (portcullisii? portcullisorum?) and wooden stocks for the peasants.
Whew, slow that roll, gramps. But yeah, anyway, compliance. The COD-CCD recently cited me for a fence height violation. I was given ten (10) days to rectify the situation.
So I called the CCD and they confirmed that yes, I need to obtain a permit for my existing eight-foot fence because it's over six feet tall and someone complained.
Wait, I say, someone complained? How is that possible? All the fences around here are the same height. I know, I walked the alley. NOBODY has a fence shorter than eight feet.
Ah yes, they replied, but many of those have permits. It’s not the height per se, but the lack of permit that’s the issue. Whoever slapped it up did so with no permit. Ergo, it’s now my problem to solve.
Might I inquire as to who complained? A height-challenged peeping Tom? Have other neighbors received complaints and citations? Sorry, can't release that information.
I heave a great sigh, say fine, and reach for my wallet to handle the situation over the phone.
Oh nay nay, they say. You must come into our office to obtain the permit. We’re open 8 to 5 every weekday. Also, please fill out and bring the permit application checklist and permit application, all available online. And bring a property map. A what? Who has that? You should have been given one when you bought your property, they say. Oh, right, I say.
How much will all this cost? Depends on the value of the fence, they say.
I say, looks like five dollars to me. They chuckle agreeably. Their phone manners are really quite nice, I must admit.
But just ten days to resolve this? I lie through my dental work and say my job requires me to travel this week, can I get an extension? Sure, they say, 30 days. All done? Have a nice day!
Later that same day, I see my other next-door neighbor and mention the citation to him. Turns out he got one as well and is as surprised as me. He questions whether someone actually complained. We agree that a shadowy cabal of Illuminati/alien/MKUltra/flat-earthers is behind this conspiracy to increase City of Dallas revenues.
He asks what I’m gonna do. I say, guess I’m gonna drag down there and pay it. Since, unlike me, he truly has a job, I offer to handle his citation, too.
He says thanks but he’s gonna ignore it and see what happens. I say that’s great, you should totally do that, I'm a putz for caving to da man, power to the people, right on.
A few days later, I head down to the City of Dallas Code Compliance Department (COD-CCD) office building in Oak Cliff. With its worn floors, dingy walls, clanky elevators and musty-smelling ventilation, it looks like it could benefit from a few code compliance citations itself.
And now to the heart of the matter - for those who may have to deal with this too, here’s the action-packed play-by-play of my municipal experience in 24 steps.
1. Arrive at 9:20 a.m. Visitor parking is full. Cruise lot four times to make sure. Metered parking on street provided via an indecipherable app that doesn't function. Park on dubious side street three blocks away and hope car remains in one piece and place.
2. Enter building. Review office directory listing to no avail. Heave a great sigh.
3. Wander building. For future reference, turn left upon entering and proceed down dank hall to the visibly unmarked Permit Office.
4. Enter Permit Office and wait for 25 minutes to sign name on an honest-to-God physical clipboard. What is this, World War Two?
5. Ten minutes pass before a department worker bellows my name incorrectly and informs me that I will need a platte. A what? Proceed to third floor, office 318. You don’t have computer access here, I ask? No, she says, looking at me like I just asked for cobra venom. Resist urge to point out obvious.
6. Proceed to office 318, where a handwritten sign refers me to office 314. Proceed to office 314.
7. Nice young man with tenuous grasp of English searches for my property on ancient computer and after 20 minutes, still can't find it. Co-worker helpfully suggests he look at Carrollton map platte instead. I hope for a loophole – Hey, it’s not Dallas, I’m free! – but hopes are dashed. Residence found and platte printed. Cost is $3, no credit cards, no checks, cash only. Smallest I have is a $5, their fishing tackle cash box has no change, heave another great sigh and hand it over.
8. Return to permit office, wait in same line as before for 45 minutes.
9. Finally, it's my turn at bat. Young lady regards my paperwork (and me) suspiciously for 6 seconds, then stamps it with a well-worn rubber stamp and hands it back to me. For this I waited 45 minutes? She says the inspector will be out shortly to deal with me and my alleged fence. Inspector? Yes. She dismisses me with an airy wave to plague-infested waiting area where assorted scary people cough, sneeze and wheeze.
10. Decline invitation to sit in waiting room, loiter in hallway and play Bejeweled on phone. Yaay, level 11!
11. 50 minutes later, inspector screeches my name. I present her with all paperwork, dutifully stamped, including platte from room 318 (or was it 314?) that I recently (over)paid for.
12. Inspector eyes me warily, asks for value of fence. Respond that since I didn’t build it, I have no idea. She asks for estimated value. Five dollars, I say. She eyes me even more warily-ier. I say, okay, how about ten? Attempt at humor not appreciated. Inspector unsmilingly gathers up my paperwork and departs, saying she'll be back momentarily.
13. Play Bejeweled for 45 minutes. Yaay, level 22! Battery power drops precipitously.
14. Inspector returns with a form I need to sign attesting that I'm not a contractor but owner of residence. I wonder aloud why I wasn't provided with this form prior to this point. She says she'll be back momentarily.
15. Play video games on phone. Battery almost gone. Close game and all other apps. Sigh.
16. Inspector returns 30 minutes later with paperwork bundle, directs me to checkout line where I will pay $100 for permit.
17. Just out of curiosity, where is platte? She says they need to keep it for their records. Again resist urge to point out obvious.
18. Pay $100 fee. They take Amex, yaay, points on Amazon!
19. Depart building at 1:20 p.m. Total time investment – four hours.
20. Exit building, find car still in place and one piece. Depart gratefully. Notice visitor parking lot is now nearly empty. Vow to be less punctual in the future.
21. On way home, make another vow - discover identity of complainant and make their life hell.
22. At stoplight, email neighbor to reaffirm their decision to ignore citation.
23. Three weeks later, neighbor receives second notice of COD-CCD violation and an additional $250 late fine.
24. Apologize to neighbor for providing bad advice.