Everybody knows Ardsley. He lives in Castle Gardens but spends all day in Westlake Village. He directs traffic and, like a shepherd, leads children across the street on their way to school. He berates shopkeepers for not keeping their sidewalks swept, and with a rolled up newspaper he swats at speeding cars. During the Yuletide season he protects the town Christmas tree from vandalism. Some people think he should be put away; others think we're lucky to have him on patrol.
Ardsley is a Korean War veteran and still wears his government issue overseas cap. The rest of his wardrobe comes from the Army and Navy store on Westwood Avenue. He proudly wears a fireman's badge he shoplifted at a garage sale. His appearance, to those who don't know him, is vaguely official, and his dictatorial manner lends him an authority he does not really have.
The towns of Westlake Village and Castle Gardens are side by side. Their names imply a chic that neither of them possess. Few of the eight thousand or more people living in the two towns have, as the saying goes, a pot to piss in. They get by and that's about it.
There are no lakes or castles and there are few gardens to grace the two seedy towns. They were baptized long before they developed and like black sheep, never lived up to their names. Castle Gardens is populated mainly by West Indians, Asians, and Blacks; Westlake Village by Italians and Poles. They live in relative harmony and are free to cross the indefinite border that separates them. Many of the men in Castle Gardens mow the lawns of people in Westlake Village, and many of the women are nannies for their children. I live in Westlake Village, but I am neither Polish nor Italian, therefore I can wear the cool detachment that a foreigner might wear in a foreign land. If hostilities should erupt between the warring factions who live about me, I can claim immunity.
The people of Westlake Village consider Ardsley to be a black man. He is not. He is cafe-au-lait, and far less swarthy in complexion than many of my Italian friends. Some of us wonder why he doesn't devote his civic concern to the problems of Castle Gardens. A hollow question indeed, and one I would not venture to ask Ardsley any more than I would ask my plumber why he does not live where he plumbs! For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, we are condemned to each other. It is not prudent to engage Ardsley in discussions of this kind. A cheery "good morning" and a comment on the weather is about as far as any of us dare to go.
He boards the bus in Castle Gardens every weekday morning and lectures the bus driver on his careless driving habits, refuses to pay the exorbitant fare, and threatens to report the driver to the metro authority. Harsh words are exchanged between Ardsley and the driver while en route, and about the time they arrive in Westlake Village, he is told to get out. This subterfuge, played like a game of chess, has provided him with free transit in both directions for nearly twenty years.
He heads for the Dairy Barn and threatens Julio and Tony with a citizen's arrest for blockage of the sidewalk by their drive-in customers. A complimentary buttered bagel and a coffee--black with three sugars--keeps things going. His next stop is Westlake Village's triangular intersection where the crossing guard lady has her post. Ardsley takes over. Crossing guards have thrown up their hands in despair, and some have been reduced to tears when he holds his home-made "STOP" sign above his head and leads the children from one side to the other. The children love and trust him and follow in his wake like minnows on the outgoing tide. They are not so apt to trust a woman dressed as a policeman.
The main drag of Westlake Village is Westwood Avenue. It is one mile in length, give or take a foot or two. It is barely wide enough for two-way traffic, and commercial vehicles avoid it. The street is lined with mom-and-pop stores and rickety old private homes converted to professional use. It is a pleasant walk in pleasant weather. Along the way you will find a sandwich shop, a chiropractor, a bakery, and a palm reader. Lately a Vietnamese couple has invested in a shop specializing in Far Eastern delicacies. Westwood Avenue is Ardsley's beat. He will stick his head in every door and demand that the shopkeepers sweep their sidewalks and clean their windows or he will issue them a summons--or do it himself for a nominal fee. He is particularly abusive with the Vietnamese couple. He suspects them of selling marijuana and sexually stimulating herbs to minors. He is positive that their collection of ginseng roots are aborted fetuses.
If fate had not stepped in, this story could well end here on a peaceful note. But fate is fickle, and just when you think the old Chevy is going to last another year, the transmission starts making funny noises. In September of last year, the highway department decided to repair potholes on a nearby highway and diverted all traffic to Westwood Avenue for the afternoon. The department neglected to inform Ardsley of their plans. It was an unpardonable error, for at the sight of the first eighteen-wheeler barreling down Westwood Avenue, Ardsley sprang into action.
With blazing indignation in his eyes, he held his STOP sign high and stepped in front of the truck to flag it down. At the sight of this strange, somehow authoritarian figure, the driver foolishly jammed on his brakes, and his vehicle jack-knifed. A patrol car, on duty but parked illegally at the doughnut shop, was totaled, and two non-fruit bearing peach trees were leveled. Ardsley had finally overstepped his authority.
The officers emerged from the shop, dusting powdered sugar from their uniforms, and, to their credit, sized up the situation immediately. One of them shouted, "Fer Chrissakes Ardsley, Waddafukkyadoon?!!" and threw his half-eaten doughnut down.
With a great deal of huffing and puffing, the two of them put the cuffs on Ardsley and called for assistance on their walkie-talkie. The radio in the squad car was no longer in working order. The second squad car arrived complete with siren and flashing lights and off they went--two policemen in front and two in back with Ardsley and his STOP sign between them.
Here in Westlake Village, the grapevine is our only reliable source of information. Through it we have learned that Ardsley is now in Kings Park--an institution for the mentally challenged. The pace of justice in our town, (and perhaps yours as well) is exceedingly slow. It does not move without provocation, and when it does move, it moves with measured tread. My elderly friends and I got together and drove out to Kings Park to visit Ardsley last week. We were told he was not receiving visitors.
(c) 1987 by Harry Buschman