Sometimes, the city of Portland works. Far too often, you're on your own.
Joe and Amelia live a mile apart off Southeast Foster, west of 82nd Avenue. Joe has a cat - Blue - at his feet, and jazz from KMHD on the radio. Now and then, Amelia's son sacks out on the couch in her one-bedroom apartment.
Other than that, they are invariably alone.
"That's the elephant in my room," Joe says. "I'm like the lighthouse keeper on a remote island in the middle of the ocean.
Joe and Amelia are the last two stops on my Friday Meals on Wheels route. They live at the edge of things, a long way from City Hall, the streetcar, and the restaurants that are too cool to take reservations. They are not faithfully attended by relatives or caseworkers.
And like so many of the elderly, they don't always know where to turn for help in dealing with the daily indignities: The pharmacy that suddenly won't fill a prescription. The skillet fumes from the local food cart.
The Portland Arts Tax.
Two weeks ago, Joe told me he'd sent off the infamous $35 fee. You're kidding, I said. You're 70 years old. You live on Social Security and a piddling monthly check from the VA. You can't afford veterinary care when Blue is in the dumps. Why the hell are you paying the arts tax?
Because he received the or-else letter. He slogged through the irritating website. He didn't think he had a choice.
After following him down the Revenue Division rabbit hole - the bailiwick of Mayor Charlie Hales - I can understand why. The Arts Tax website broadcasts that each city resident "age 18 or older" must fork over the fee ... but after the hour it took me to locate the "senior filing exemption," I'm still not sure if 70-year-old seniors who live with an aging cat at the poverty line catch a break.
Click "Are you exempt from paying this tax?' and the serpentine flowchart -- and demands for documentation -- take you on a painful ride. Before I hit bottom, I realized why Joe surrendered. And shelled out.
"What aggravates me isn't the $35," Joe says. A tax that benefits the arts, he believes, is a fine idea. "What aggravates me is the obfuscation. The lack of clarity. Once upon a time, you would have called and a human being would have said, 'Hello.' Those days are long gone."
Now, there's a website, designed - a charitable voice tells us - so "you can save a stamp and help us keep costs down."
"They are muddy waters," says Joe, who spends a lot of time on-line. "The webpages are written by a person for whom clear speaking is ... foreign. I don't think it's accidental."
It's what we've come to expect from the city. Which brings me to Amelia. She lives on the ground floor of the 46-year-old Roselee Apartments. Her only window looks east onto a paved lot on 82nd that is slowly filling with food carts.
And for eight months, the exhaust vent from Rosita's Place, the first arrival, was parked 12 feet outside her window. Filling her apartment with the aroma of Torta Cubana and Carne Assada fries. Ruining her sleep.
Are the cart and grill vent street legal? Juan Garcia, the vendor, assures me they are. "It's a commercial lot," he insists. "There's nothing the city can say."
Amelia didn't know any better. Amelia didn't know who to call. It took the apartment manager months to deal with the leak in her bathroom. His voice mailbox is full.
The city? Why would she expect a helpful response from the city?
So, I gave it a stab. I called the Bureau of Development Services, which is under the care of city Commissioner Amanda Fritz. Talked to Ed Marihart, who works with rental housing inspections, about the odor problem. Code specialist Dave Meltzer followed up.
And a month later, whad'ya know? Rosita's Place moved. Voluntarily, Garcia assures me, and only 40 feet. But that's more than enough to allow Amelia some breathing room. And a reason to believe that even when you're dealing with the city, some things work out for the best.
-- Steve Duin
@sduin@oregonian.com
503-221-8597; @SteveDuin