Hide the ceiling fans from Odin the assessor

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Odin Tidemand recently knocked on the front door of the neighborhood eyesore, looking askance at the residential disaster before him.

Odin was armed with a clipboard and a pen, along with a business card that revealed he is a senior assessor with the city's Office of Tax and Revenue's assessment division.

This was a cue to hide your wallet. Odin had a couple of important questions to ask, none of them encouraging. Odin talked softly, but carried an awfully big pen.

This is the twice-a-year game between the city and its beleaguered residents.

Here comes a property assessor. There goes the budget.

No one from the city ever comes to your place to say what a swell person you are or to announce that the mayor has decided to hold a day in your honor. Instead, whenever a bureaucrat comes to the door, you merely are negotiating the terms of your financial surrender.

Odin wanted to be your friend, as "friend" is defined by the city. He wanted to discuss numbers: the number of bedrooms and bathrooms. He wanted to discuss improvements. He was looking for a sign in order to pull a magical number out of the increasingly oppressive air.

Here is the thing: Odin already had the information at his disposal. He was reading from a prepared sheet. There were no secrets between Odin and the victim lurking inside the neighborhood eyesore.

You tried to let Odin know that all was not what it seemed.

You told him about the pond in the basement that's stocked with bass. You told him that the bathroom was actually a latrine in the back yard. You told him about the holes in the walls from apparent domestic fights of yesteryear. You told him about the faulty wiring and the crumbling foundation and the lead paint and the lead in the water and the asbestos in your midst.