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.

Crazies not crazy?

Not that exciting of a weekend. I called the people out in Canyon Lake and I was talking with the woman to be served and she seemed fairly... sane. Not at all like someone who would live in the oppressive Stepford that is Canyon Lake. Hmmm.... 

Fear and Loathing in Canyon Lake

If the little town I grew up in is like a living replica of Eisenhower's America, then the community of Canyon Lake in the city of Sun City is like Mussolini's Italy.

I've recently come to the conclusion that not only was I a vital part of the application of the fifth amendment, but I was there to provide comfort, not in the way that I sit there and listen to sob stories, but with a nod of my head and a slight smile I give them hope that they can get through whatever bad news they've just received.

And then I met Lois. Lois is your standard overweight Rent-a-Cop. As a writer I feel it's my duty to not reduce people to stereotypes, one of the best ways to do this is to imagine how people start their days. So here it is:

I imagine Lois wakes up every morning and turns on her air conditioner, you see it gets pretty hot in the seventh circle of Hell where Lois lives. She breakfasts on a cereal of dreams deferred and children's tears, feeds her thirteen black cats, and then gets on her broom and flies to work.

I pulled into the fascist community of Canyon Lake after driving for an hour from my little Californian hamlet. I presented my id and was told that I had to present myself at the front office so I could be escorted in because Canyon Lake is a "private community" (a phrase I would grow to despise.)

This is where I met Lois. When I met Lois she must have been coming off of her drug high (Lois freebases the screams of the innocent you see) and she was in quite a mood. She turned her crazed eyes in my direction and said, "We're going to need to see your server ID if you want to serve." I of course don't have my served ID yet because I have not registered, but I am legally allowed to serve a small amount under my fabulous boss's number. 

Lois would hear none of it. Not even my protestations that I had driven an hour to get to this oppressive mini-state that Francisco Franco would disapprove of. I told Lois that I would have to call my boss. I went out to my parking spot outside the office and dialed the boss. Before I could complete my call another Rent-a-Cop came up and told me I wasn't allowed to be parked there and that I would have to move my car across the street, out of the "private community."

Once my dangerous self was moved to the front of a bank across the street of innocent, fragile Canyon Lake, I called my uncle, who recently graduated from Pepperdine Law School. The uncle set his fingers to find  some legal jargon I could yell at them. The jargon came in the form of the court case "Robert Bein vs. Brechtel-Jochim," which says that if a security guard refuses to let you into a gated community, you can serve the security guard.

Armed with this information, I returned to dearest Lois.  I walked up to the office with the documents in tow. I smiled (all of us who have grown up in suburbia know the power of passive aggression, and that sometimes, saying "You're right" annoys people way more than saying "You're wrong.") I informed Lois that if she would not let me into the naive, virginal community of Canyon Lake, I would have to serve her. Lois thought she could outfox me, she said I could serve her but that it wouldn't do any good. I said that would be all right, all I would need was her full name.

This is where we hit a snag. Lois didn't want to give me her name (you see, I wasn't aware of Lois's name up to this point.) And I informed her that she would face fines if she didn't. Lois informed me that she wouldn't and I informed her that indeed she would. 

Lois picked up the phone and dialed the sheriff. Yes, the sheriff. However, in the course of the call, Lois is required to give her name, and that is where I learned it. Lois, L-O-I-S, four glorious letters. And I just sit there smiling. "He's on his way." Lois says with a slight smirk, "Excellent." I reply with my suburban, good-natured, heavens-I-want-to-rip-your-throat-out smile.

The sheriff comes and I explain the situation. He informs me he can't make Lois give me her full name, I inform him that it was not I who called.

The supervisor comes in and I begin to really appreciate the chaos that I am causing. I begin to be treated as if I had came in and defecated all over Lois's desk, when I just wanted to make sure due process of law was carried out. I look at the supervisor and inform him that I can see I'm making no progress, and I will take my leave. (I actually said take my leave, the more pissed off I am the more formal I get because I know it pisses the other people off.)

I 411ed the couple I was supposed to serve and left a message informing them that I had "an altercation with the security of their community and that I would need them to set up a time for me to meet with them."

In the end, I was glad to see the end of the whole ordeal. I was happy to return to my hometown where I feel perfectly safe without security worthy of the Gaza Strip.