The Fame

Ah the fame. It came quickly and constantly. I was showered with neverending praise and gifts. But I did not let it go to my head. I always remembered my roots, where I came from, and of course you, my (thousands of) followers. I was not going to be a flash in the pan like some other bloggers I could name. I tried to personally respond to as many of your letters as possible, though in all honesty my maid, Consuela, ended up writing most of them (which I imagine would account for the taco sauce over some of the responses.) Naturally a movie and book deal came along almost immediately.

But as the great Franklin Delano Roosevelt said to me once, "A web blog about process serving can only last as long as you're employed as a process server." And sadly, the paraplegic is right. I recently had to quit being a process server, a story that I shan't bore you with seeing how it has already made the rounds on all the gossip blogs (curse you Perez Hilton!)

And I am telling you, I'm not going. There will be more blogs, even though this one's course has run. Please, please, stop your collective sobs. Think of this glorious blog as a shining moment in the world wide web. Think of it not as a blog, but as an epic novella (that's right, an epic short novella) the likes of Breakfast at Tiffany's or The Metamorphoses or Anthem (wait... don't ever think of Anthem.) Yes, think of it as an example of genre and medium bending haute literature.

Yes. Think of that.

If you're mean to me I'll blog about it.

Why on earth would you be rude to someone who has access to your address and a great deal of personal information about you?

This morning I got up and went out serving. But today I thought I'd do something different, today  I let the defendants sleep in.

Normally I get up around 5:30 so I can be at there houses by 6:30 (30 minutes prep time with 30 minutes delivery, I'm like a crappy pizza place.) But today for their sake (and for my own) I decided to give 'em an extra hour where they still live in a world that they haven't been served papers in.

And then I met Mr. Alta Loma. 

First things first you must understand that according to Florida law (I mostly serve interstate documents from Florida) I need the full name of the person I serve. If I don't get the name it doesn't count as a serve. (If they're California documents anything goes, ANYTHING. I throw the documents at your feet and I can say I served John\Jane Doe as I speed away and count my money.)

I get to Mr. Alta Loma's house at 7:35 AM. A decent time I think. Most normal people are up by this time and are getting ready to leave. Is it the best time to deal with being served papers? No, but it's a far cry better than being woken up by a zatfig process server in a Harvard shirt at the crack of dawn.

Mr. Alta Loma claims that the person I've come to serve has left for work already. Mr. Alta Loma is obviously the person I've come to serve. He won't give me his name. All right, I can deal with that, some people are paranoid, it's annoying, but vaguely understandable (for future reference, if a process server asks you for your name, just give it, I'm going to forget it the moment I shoot off the daily e-mail to my fabulous boss.) Vaguely understandable, but Mr. Alta Loma is OBVIOUSLY the person I've come to serve. I ask what time would be better to come by so that I may serve the defendant. Mr. Alta Loma won't give it. This is what they refer to in vulgar parlance as bull crap. MR. ALTA LOMA IS OBVIOUSLY THE PERSON I'VE COME TO SERVE. He's standing two inches in front of me. I could throw the documents at his feet and say that I served the defendant (who is obviously Mr. Alta Loma) but I'm too good of a person for that.

I choke back venom and I'm pissed because I've let Satan's bride (that would be Mr. Alta Loma) see me lose my cool. I plunge into the very depths of my being and pull out a weak, "Thank You." and I die a little inside.

Canyon Lake 2: Electric Boogaloo

I hate to keep harping on Lois but I really have a lot to thank her for. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have gotten my documents delivered today.

I drove out to That-Which-Should-Be-Cast-Out-Of-California (also known in obscure circles as Hemet) and after driving around for like thirty minutes, trying to find my target, I realized that the servees lived in those remnants of Stalin's Russia, the gated community. And not just any gated community, a Canyon Lake style gated community that puts medium security federal prisons to shame.

But this time I was cunning as a fox, quick as a cheetah, and as dexterous as a gigantic squid. When the charmingly eastern European security guard wouldn't let me in, I asked for his name, had him spell it out for me, and I drove away and parked. I filled out the form so that I could serve it to him and drove back. I gave him the "If you won't let me in I'm going to have to serve you" spiel, and he raised up his hands and said, "I'm not taking them!" I then proceeded to throw the documents at his feet, as if I were some rich dandy and he were some lowly Ukranian prostitute whom I had just savagely beaten and the documents were the cold comfort of cash.

But if I hadn't had my little kerfuffle with Lois then I wouldn't know what to do when the long arm of justice was stopped by power hungry rent-a-cops. And for that, I thank her.

I'm hoping to do a big post tomorrow about the events of Friday, in which I got up at 5:30 and drove around San Bernardino county, serving that process.

I'll need to clean away these tumbleweeds...

Sorry for that long intermission. The legal system in California literally stopped. No justice was served for an entire two weeks. There was mass chaos and in all the commotion I think we seceded from the Union three times.

But order is back and I have documents to deliver which will hopefully turn into eventful blog posts! I have some documents for my second favorite place on earth, Hemet! Yes, you know the place. But those will have to wait for Saturday. Tomorrow I'm getting up before Dawn shines her glorious face on the Earth to deliver some documents to Ontario and Chino Hills. Craziness? One can only hope.

Slow week.

Not much serving done this week, finals have kidnapped my life (is it depressing that I just referred to my work as my life?)

I hope to write a marvelous piece about the prison experience tomorrow. 

Prison

I drove out to the middle of the desert today to deliver some documents, and let me tell you, it was easier to get into a Medium Security Federal Prison to deliver documents than it was to get into Canyon Lake.

Canyon Lake Redux

Sadly, in this sequel, Lois does not make an appearance. Nor did I leave a snarky comment or better yet the previous installment with the security guard at the gate. I was afraid to see how Stalinist the chaste, pure community of Canyon Lakes could be.

Upon meeting my servee I was struck at how normal and yet strange she seemed. She didn't seem to be aware of the crazy amount of security that surrounded her community. She had forgotten to call me in, somehow being under the delusion that I could either A) stroll right in to her oppressive mini-state or B) leave them with a guard (a ploy that had worked so well the last time.) Even stranger was that she was under the impression that I knew these rules, as if we all lived in Canyon Lake-like areas.

When I drove up the first thing I noticed was that there was this little three year-old boy playing out in the driveway, right near the street. 

This struck me as strange firstly because my neurotic suburbanite meter is set a few clicks above the normal suburbanite. If I see someone walking out late at night they must be up to dastardly deeds, it's not because they like the night air or that they're a night owl or that they're a creative writing major trying to organize their thoughts for their novel. No, it's because they've just committed murder. 

Secondly, I thought it was strange because his mother wasn't watching him. Or at least, she can't have been very carefully. I understand that there has to be a point where the umbilical cord needs to be cut, but this boy was the very definition of toddler and he was on the divide between his driveway and the street. I'm a reasonably careful driver, but if I were any worse or if I had just been texted and stupidly answered the phone and that boy had fallen.... 

Thirdly, I thought it was strange because the second I got out of the car the boy looked up at me with the strangest face. It was a mixture or fear and curiosity. Like he had never seen anyone get out of their car in front of his house that wasn't his father. It was almost like there was a realization that there was a world outside of Canyon Lake.

The mother came down, she was very much the modern woman, the forty-ish work-at-home mom with a toddler. She was very gracious in accepting the documents, and I think had I been anyone else she may have invited me in. And again I got the impression that she had no idea what a strange community she was living in. 

Maybe that's what Canyon Lake is. It's Stepford. It's a place where the troubles of the world are checked at the gate with the Winkie guards. It's a place where you don't have to worry about letting your child play too close to the street because everyone drives a very attentive twenty-five miles per hour. 

But I do believe there's a price you pay for that. You lose your perspective on things and you become not unlike a character in Alice in Wonderland, completely separated from the world. I can't help but wonder what will happen now that the world has found them in the form of a pair of rather thick documents.