California – Glock Country

My brother is a big-shot in the LA music industry. After winning a Juno in the ‘80s he moved to California to work with the likes of David Foster and Chicago. His wife is an even bigger-shot in the internet advertising biz. They say “dawling” a lot and rarely return my calls.

They live in a big shack with their two young sons in a ritzy suburb of Los Angeles called Agoura Hills. Everyone in the neighborhood keeps horses. They all call each other “dawling” over their adjoining corrals.

Some of the neighbors also keep guns.

When we were kids we’d play a game called “knock-a-door ginger”. On summer nights we’d scurry up to a house, ring the doorbell and run like hell. The more ornery the neighbor, the greater the risk and thus the thrill. This inane, juvenile pastime was great fun.

One neighbor was feared like no other: “Old Man Maloney”.

We pulled into L.A. on my brother’s birthday and parked our humble RV in the lavish driveway winding into his acreage.

Tim and Karen invited us to stay for a couple of days. I asked if there was anything I could do. While the “Hollywood” Feehans lunched on Sunset strip – avoiding meddling paparazzi – I toiled like an immigrant labourer, chopping wood in exchange for accommodation.

That night – during my bro’s party and unbeknownst to the adults – his boys and a couple of their friends thought it might be fun to “TP” a house down the street. This practice (I’m jealous we didn’t invent the concept) involves unleashing a complete roll of toilet paper on a house, decorating the entire exterior with a fluffy white roll of soft, double-ply Charmin.

In our day it was understood that if you got caught, old man Maloney would kill you. I exaggerate of course. Mr. Maloney still lives a few doors down from my mom in Edmonton and is actually kind of a sweet old bugger.

These days in Los Angeles they take kid’s pranks a little more seriously. When the TP’ed neighbor heard the giggling outside his house he stormed out and gave chase. The boys ran breathlessly home. The doorbell rang. There on my brother’s stoop stood an irate man in his forties, sporting only underwear and a loaded 9mm Glock pistol.

Glock cocked the neighbor stated without irony that “it was lucky nobody was shot”.

Glock was the pistol of choice used by the deranged Tucson gunman. After the rampage Glock sales in the U.S. went through the roof. Look it up.

Were he dead, old man Maloney would roll over in his grave.

Gerry