He stood as still as a statue and with arms folded, head thrown back with his nose high in the air. It appeared as if he had decided I was a scofflaw. (Wish I had a picture of him.)

He then started spinning his fingers motioning for me to roll down my window and interrogated me as to what I planned on doing. (I could almost hear the police radio in the background and imagined his taser-gun was just underneath his folded arms making that squealing sound when electronic zappers start charging up.)

I told him I was trying to get past him so I could park, if he would be so kind as to get out of the road. (Is The Enforcer really that stupid?) And yes, I was going into the Garden Theatre building.

The Garden Theatre owners ought to get real about parking back there. After being interrogated by "The Enforcer," who appeared as though he had already judged me as a "bad guy," I don't really want to go back.

However, I had more to do than just go to the post office.

Is it against the rules if I drop off a letter and then go dine at Mio Vicino across the street? Or pick up a sandwich at Subway? I wanted a sandwich at Subway but was suddenly nervous that if I emerged with a Subway bag, he would be after me. So I ate it inside worrying all the time whether The Enforcer would come around and catch me wolfing down a 12-inch savory turkey breast and ham on sourdough. "Meal with chips, sir?"

"No thanks. I'm in a hurry, now."

Then I thought I could show him my postal receipt, as proof I'd entered the business Mecca of Lincoln Avenue called the Garden Theatre. Or would it matter if he saw me with a mouth full of savory turkey breast and ham on sourdough?

But what about the poor guy who lost or threw away his receipt?

What if someone went to look at shoes at the shoe store and found nothing and left for another store on Lincoln Avenue and came back with a bag from Petroglyph? Poor guy.

"Run! Run to your car before 'The Enforcer' sees your Petroglyph bag!" I would yell.

While wolfing down the last 6 inches of my 12-inch savory turkey breast and ham on sourdough, I imagined helping that poor guy evade "The Enforcer."

I would whisper to the guy at the Lincoln crosswalk, "I'll drive up to distract him and you run with the chair you bought at the furniture store. Give me two-minutes tops to get there."

Then I drive up and start answering The Enforcer's tricky questions.

"Yes sir. I have nothing to hide sir. I will not go anywhere but the grand Garden Theatre. I will glide over the pink and blue tiled floors and be enthralled at the wide-open spaces where there are no businesses and feel the energy. Sir!"

Meanwhile, the poor guy with a chair over his head flies by in the background. He makes it to his car. But then I realize, the chair is too big. It is hanging out of his trunk.

He speeds out of the lot in a panic as I scream, "Look out! That's the evil-gate side of the Garden Theater. Don-n-n't go-o-o ther-r-r-e!"

The Enforcer, upon hearing my scream and the exploding tires of the poor guy, spins around in a rage with the menacing eye of a tiger who has just found his prey snared in his trap. The poor guy sees him coming and frantically spins his wheels trying to break free.

I yell, "Get out of your car. Run for your life. Let him have the chair."

Then a boy drops his large soda at the Subway fountain and I realize, I had been inside the eatery a while—long enough to woof down that 12-inch savory turkey breast and ham on sourdough.

I made sure I finished my soda and left with nothing containing the copyrighted logo and advertising trademarks of the Subway corporation. I carefully placed my post office receipt in my right pocket and load up on three breath mints just in case that savory turkey breast and ham on sourdough is still on my breath.

I walk out the front of the Subway and back through the Garden Theatre but by that time The Enforcer had left. Maybe he went to eat at Mio Vicino. I didn't see him at the sushi bar.

Mike Boberly is a Willow Glen resident who has lived in Palm Haven for nine years.