The 79th floor
A memoir of the World Trade Towers

Stephan Ohr
The year after the woman who was my wife joined me on the Upper West Side of Manhattan —1975 or ‘76 — we had enormous tax problems. We were filing a joint tax return for a year we were mostly separated: she in Westfield on the Jersey side of the River, me in New York City. Our decision to file a joint Federal return would force us to make amends to two states — not to mention what was then a near-bankrupt city with an arcane and (for commuters) somewhat ruthless tax structure. Though her job and income was entirely in New Jersey, my wife would now have to file at least six additional tax forms: a New Jersey residency tax form for the part of year she lived across the river, a New Jersey non-residency tax form for the two months in New York, a New York State residency tax form, a New York State non-residency form, a New York City residency form, a New York City non-residency form, and maybe a few others. Though I had never lived or earned a penny there, I would have to do the same — yes, residency and non-residency — for the state of New Jersey. I could declare “zero” on every one of these forms, a Chemical Bank officer informed me, but I MUST submit them. But the bank didn’t carry these forms. If I didn’t use H&R Block (or some other accountancy), the bank clerk informed me, I would have to get them from a New York State Tax Office. The nearest one to me was on the 79th floor of the World Trade Towers.

I was working at the time at the New School (the adult education division) on 12th Street. The Trade Towers always greeted me like a dual monolith on 7th Avenue when I emerged from the IRT subway in the mornings. The Cortland Street station was another four stops down. I figured I’d leave my office at 4:30 one afternoon and make it to the New York State tax office before it closed at 5:00. It wasn’t easy to find the South Tower underground, but I made it to the 79th floor with plenty of time to spare.

What I hadn’t figured on was that this was a government service facility with staggered hours. Some offices might open at 9 AM and close at 5 PM; other workers might come at (say) 8:30 and leave at 4:30. This office must have been one of those: At 4:45 the doors were wide open (for the cleaning staff, perhaps), velvet ropes led you through a serpentine maze to a chest-high service counter, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.

“Hello? Anybody here?” I called out, perhaps a little timidly, wondering if someone would pop up to help me — or forcibly tell me, sorry, we’re closed. I called out repeatedly from the service counter, but silence was the only response.

I noticed there was an enormous table behind the service counter, piled end-to-end with a variety of 8-by-11-inch papers. Many of them looked like tax forms. I noticed too that there was a space along the counter where the panel could be lifted up and out like a Dutch door. From there I went behind the counter to examine the contents of the table. I checked the form numbers with those on my list. Sure enough: everything was there.

It was only after I took the forms that I noticed the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the spectacular view beyond. The panorama from the 79th floor of the World Trade Towers took in Brooklyn and Coney Island on my left, Jersey City and Staten Island on my right, ships in the harbor and the green lady fortune (the Statue of Liberty) directly below — all basking in the wonderfully warm orange glow of the late afternoon sun. I had no choice but to sit and take it all in.

I don’t know how long I was lost in that reverie when I heard some tapping, like fingers drumming on the counter behind me. I turned to face a tall blonde-haired fellow, an academic-looking person with glasses on the customer-side of the service counter. He was very polite for a New Yorker I thought. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, reading from a notation he had made. “Do you have form number 89361?”

I stared at him as if he had three heads. Nonplused, he pointed to the big table laden with paper. I followed his direction to the forms. Sure enough: there was 89361. I picked it up and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he turned to leave, obviously pleased.

But there was another person on line behind him, a younger man with hippy hair and a fu-Manchu moustache. “Hey man! Do you have form number 21-30?” I found that one on the table, and handed it over.

There was another person behind him, another and another. They kept on coming in, asking for forms. I worked for several minutes for the New York State Tax Office, a long time it seemed, on the 79th floor of the World Trade Towers. Finally, when an elderly lady, vaguely reminiscent of a West Side street person, waddled in and slapped a pile of tax forms on the service counter, I decided it was time to leave. “You cheated me!” she screamed, with an eastern European accent. “You people did my taxes last year. And I found out: you cheated me out of $450!”

Vainly, I looked around for a way out. There was a name plaque, “John Hyde, Supervisor” pasted to one of the office doors. “You’ll have to come back,” I told the lady. “Come back in the morning. Ask for Mr. Hyde. He’ll help you.”

The lady stared at me belligerently. People continued to get on line behind her. “We’re closed!” I shouted, making my way out from behind the counter. “Go home, we’re closed!”

It was too bad my service to New York had to end that way, I thought in the elevator. I was becoming quite good at dispensing forms. I was even able to give submission advice to a young man from New Jersey now living in New York. “Do I have to submit non-residency forms for New York AND New Jersey?” he whined.

“You have to submit BOTH,” I smiled. “Take my word for it: you need to submit both.”

*Stephan Ohr is a technology reporter with Electronic Engineering Times (www.eet.com). He lives and works in San Francisco.