When the Messiah Comes, He’s Going Straight to Jerusalem City Hall

That is, to settle his arnona (city taxes) bill. It doesn’t matter that he—or his messenger—hasn’t been around for:
a) 2,000 years according to the Christian view
b)1,400 years according to the Muslim view
c) Ever (?) according to the Jewish view

Because, apparently, you don’t actually have to live in Jerusalem to be charged city taxes.

The Story of Becky (in short)
March 30, 1982 – Becky is born to loving parents Linda and Norman
March 31, 1982-October 26, 2004 – Becky learns (in error) that the world operates according to logic
October 27, 2004 – Becky makes aliyah (becomes an Israeli citizen and moves to Israel)
November 1, 2004-January 31, 2005 – Becky lives in disgusting apartment (the kind where you wash your dishes before you eat, not afterwards) with a Rastafarian and a man who buys a drum set 3 seconds after Becky moves in
July 11, 2007 – Becky receives documentation of a law suit from Jerusalem City Hall currently pending against her for taxes she didn’t pay on an apartment she lived in for 4 months several years before

The period for which taxes were not paid: 2003-2006

Now, I assume there are no rocket scientists working at Jerusalem City Hall, but I also assume that basic math and logic would indicate that someone who was not present in the country—that City Hall had no clue even existed—could not possibly rack up a city taxes tab of this proportion. Taking into account that I actually did pay—and have receipts!!—for the period I lived in said disgusting apartment, it comes as even more of a shock and frustration.

So, I did what any logical, red-blooded American located in a bureaucratic nightmare would do: I screamed a little while, threatened to burn City Hall down (I’m sure I could have at least a thousand gas can-toting Jerusalemites there in a matter of hours), and decided to do the only thing I could—submit a request to defend myself in the civil court of Jerusalem (conveniently, and suspiciously, located right behind City Hall—I’m sure I saw some tax clerks and judges having coffee and scones together while discussing what they will buy with my ill-gotten funds)

I may be losing my sanity, but at least I have my freedom
Going to the court was . . . to be honest, it was a lot like going to the airport. The security is pretty tight—I guess because 50% of the people there are coming for criminal trials and 100% of the people there are pissed off. (Correction: a little bit like going to the airport) Here’s what one should know when going to the courthouse:

1) Bring lots of small change (approximately 73 shekels in agurot—nickels for you Americans—because they want 87.3 copies of everything you are submitting and the copy machines operate on the smallest change in the country
2) Bring another 41 shekels for the resident lawyer you need to sign your “Declaration of Truth” who will inevitably ask you:

“So, are you from New York?”
“No, Florida.”
“Ahhhh, Floriiiiidaaaa.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been in Israel?”
“Three years.”
“Wow, you don’t even have an accent.”
“Then, why did you ask me if I’m from the States?”
“Ha ha ha, you’re cute.”
(Me thinking but not saying, “You wanna represent me in court?”)

3) Bring a lot of patience—and absolutely no logic, because between the circus-like atmosphere and the ridiculousness of someone who I just met (and called me cute) signing something that says I am telling the truth (because he can tell, by my “beautiful smile” of course) . . . well, if you bring the opposite set of tools (no patience and lots of logic), you may not make it out alive.
4) Which brings me to my next point: Bring gratefulness—that you are actually walking out of there free and not with chains on your legs (on the way to the van that will take you to back to jail).

It’s been a bit crazy, but . . .
Justice will prevail. At least I’d like to think so. At this point, I’ve only submitted a request with the logic of my argument (and documentation) to defend myself. Hopefully, it’ll all work out. If not, I have promises from friends of:
1) “Proteksia,” or Protection/Connections to people on City Council (by TWO different people—Am I the only one without this???)
2) Taking it to the press: New York Times, here we come!
3) Burning the place down with all the records of my and other people’s false (and real) debts.*

*No one has actually offered to do this for me, but I have a feeling there are others like me out there . . . somewhere.