WESTSIDE LOS ANGELES--I worked my own neighborhood. My territory was so small that after a day of scorching my sitzfleisch every time I got in and out of my broiling car seat, I switched to bicycle travel. It was cooler, faster, and better exercise. But even within this tight radius I encountered a vast diversity of income, ethnicity, and above all, human decency.
My high point came on a 100-degree day, when a lovely eighty-something Iranian woman offered me a bottle of ice cold water, then–after patiently spelling out the names of everyone in her family– invited me into her modest apartment to share a lunch of Persian eggplant stew. It was one of the best smells I'd ever encountered, but my case list beckoned and I declined, offering profuse thanks and a promise to return one day.
The low point took place just a few blocks away and a few days later, at a bulky McMansion decorated in Late-Nineties Tasteless Ostentation. The joint was rigged with enough security to shame CIA headquarters: ornate iron bars on every window, cameras, motion sensors, a Ring doorbell, and for all I know, hidden machine-gun turrets.
I rang the Ring. No response. Twice more. Not a word, despite clear sounds of activity within. I was filling out the "no answer" form with my ballpoint when a woman's muffled voice growled, "What do you want?"
Doffing my cap and lowering my Covid mask to expose what I hoped was a disarming smile, I flashed my badge to each of several cameras and identified myself as an employee of the federal government.
"We're busy."
Shouting through the triple-locked door (the intercom was busted) I ran through my well-honed routine with as much charm as I could muster, but my invisible opponent put the stopper to me at every turn. She even refused my offer to leave behind written instructions to fill out the form online.
On my way out I noticed a few objects on a small, wooden table near the entrance to the garage. Closer inspection revealed them to be that day's LA Times, a long-dead Bonsai tree in a plastic pot, and a Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch worth, Google later informed me, a cool $5,000.
I returned to the Fortress of Solitude and started the whole process over again, explaining at the top of my lungs through stout oak that apparently some family member had left a pretty damn nice watch outside, practically begging to be stolen. Instead of gushing with gratitude, the woman was, in fact . . . annoyed by my return!
"It's my husband's. Don't touch it. Leave it where it is. He'll come out and get it."
I retreated to a safe distance across the street and watched to confirm that the bling had been recovered (and, frankly, to find out what kind of chowderhead leaves five grand worth of timekeeping excellence in his front yard), but when after several minutes nobody emerged, I shrugged and pedaled off.
Two days later my supervisor sent me to the same address for a follow-up. The paper and Bonsai were still there. No Rolex. I knocked.
"We're busy," said Princess Charming.
"Did your husband get his watch back?"
She snorted in the affirmative.
"You know, I kind of did you a favor a couple days ago. I thought you might want to reciprocate. Sort of a karma thing? What do you say, can I interview you for the Census? It'll take about five minutes."
A brief, cold silence was followed by the sound of receding footsteps as she slouched back into her high castle. I retreated, too, the cameras boring holes in my neck.
It was almost enough to make me wish I'd taken the watch.
--MM
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