Columnist John Katsilometes: A resident’s take on The Gate

Monday, June 18, 2001 | 8:37 a.m.

John Katsilometes is the Sun features editor. His column appears Mondays. Reach him at kats@lasvegassun.com or 259-2327.

I live in a gated community.

The pizza guy might be a serial killer.

The Gate won't save me.

The Gate is made of wrought iron, I think. Maybe it's aluminum, or even the refractory metal Lockheed has engineered for the Trident missile. Doesn't matter. Any able-bodied adult can scale The Gate. Jughead could squeeze through it. Any cat can come and go through The Gate as it pleases -- and at our gated community, Feline Gardens, they do.

Consider the concept of The Gate: It is to dissuade trespassers. It is to physically prevent trespassers from entering our community. It is to prevent crime and make us feel safe.

Now if I were a trespasser -- one of those chronic trespassers who salivates at the sight of temporary green fencing -- The Gate cannot prevent me from obtaining my trespassing fix. I'd just hang back, a few steps from The Gate, looking inconspicuous -- maybe playing with a yo-yo -- until a car approached The Gate. It would open and -- ahoy! -- I'm trespassing.

More troubling, The Gate truly does not deter or diffuse criminal activity. Explore with me the syntax of the criminal mind:

Let's see, I've got my utility bag of break-in tools: big drill, flashlight, little burglar mask, black-and-white striped T-shirt and funny cartoon cap. I think I'm set to lift that toaster oven in unit No. 205 ... what's this!? A gate? Curses! Foiled again!

Not likely.

And who has The Gate's magic code? Just about everyone. Over the past six months we've had maybe a dozen landscapers -- wielding sharp implements, mind you -- turned loose on Feline Gardens.

I never feel comfortable asking how these folks gain access. "Just how did you get in through The Gate?" is not the ideal icebreaker when approaching a sweaty guy savaging a shrub with a weed whacker.

The same problem exists with trash collectors. Who are they? How many of them know the code? Where does their definition of "trash" begin and end?

In truth, The Gate's primary purpose is to serve as a "perk," something residents refer to pridefully when describing their neighborhood to friends and family:

"We live in a nice neighborhood. Jacuzzi, pool, weight room and (pause for effect) it's a gated community."

Or, "We wanted a little more security. So we went 'gated.' "

This does impress Idahoans.

But in practical terms, The Gate is often no more than an inevitable nuisance. It's a twice-daily, hurry-up-and-wait border crossing. Sometimes I actually feel as if I've got Benicio Del Toro hiding out in my trunk, smuggling him into Feline Gardens.

Naturally, inviting friends over to the compound means having to share The Gate's magic code. An example of a code-swapping conversation:

"OK, it's pound, 5-5-5-5, pound, then star."

"Star, 5-5-5? Pound pound?"

"No, pound first. Then four 5s, not three, then pound and star."

"Pound and star at the same time?"

"No. Pound. Four 5s. Pound, then star. But do it quick, or it'll disconnect and you'll have to hit 4 twice, or 44."

"Is that five 4s? How many 4s and 5s are we talking here?"

"Forget it. I'll just wait for you. Look for me out front. I'll be the one with the yo-yo."