Don’t Worry, Be Happy

Nobody is happy anymore.

We are all in terrible arguments over barking dogs, loud parties, ugly fences, yowling cats, rude waiters, dumb clerks, crazy skateboarders, morally deprived auto mechanics and teachers who can’t communicate.

Until recently, the only way one could resolve a dispute was to sue or beat hell out of an antagonist. Calling the police did little good. They were too busy being cowboys to worry about a dog defecating on someone’s lawn.

As society became more complex, computers added another dimension to life’s miseries. We began to find ourselves victimized by electronic equipment devoid of those human traits that once offered warmth in moments of travail. We are in a war with computers we cannot win.

They show no mercy and take no prisoners.

Then lawyers, may lightning strike them, were granted the right to advertise, thrusting society onto a new and even more hellish plane of displeasure. If sex sells soap, lawyers were suddenly peddling human conflict.

When in doubt, they told us, sue.

By nature parasitic, members of the legal profession have gone out of their way to enhance the kind of enmity that often ends up in civil court, thus elevating their own standards of living at the cost of everyone else’s well-being.

When the world ends, only one person will survive. That will be a lawyer, and he will sue God.

What to do about all this? I have the answer. Low-cost mediation.

An old idea with a relatively new application, mediation has become the thing to do in California during the past few years.

There are a dozen public mediation agencies in L.A. County, with hundreds of workers, all anxious to settle things between you and the neighbor with the defecating dog.

Their fees are usually nominal, you don’t need a lawyer and you don’t have to wait five years for a solution.

I know of this through Myra Schegloff, a weaver who sells her wares at the Topanga Days community fair. She began telling me about her role in the mediation of neighborhood disputes, of which there are many in Topanga.

She is a handsome middle-aged woman with flecks of gray in her hair and a manner of speaking that makes you feel . . . well . . . at peace. I would imagine Mary, the mother of Jesus, had a voice like Myra Schegloff.

Eventually, I visited her at the Claremont Dispute Resolution Center, where she works when she’s not weaving, and discussed mediation with Myra and with the center’s executive director, Jerry Pearson.

A man with a graying beard and rimless glasses, Pearson also has that kind of disarming, soul-soothing quality that can turn mad dogs into hand-lickers. Even his seersucker jacket seemed somehow pacifying.

As we spoke, classical music played in the background. I’ve never felt so calm in my life. Twice I almost smiled.

The Claremont center operates under the county’s Department of Consumer Affairs and charges $10 to mediate a dispute, or nothing if you’re poor.

Schegloff and Pearson oversee a staff of about 50 volunteers who are trained in the art of bringing people together and having them talk out their differences.

Their caseload comes from a disputant himself or from referrals, and they will handle anything from a neighborhood fight to contested bills, although they will not handle situations that involve major felonies.

The idea, for those easily confused by priorities, is to call the Claremont Center before murdering your neighbor.

Marital disputes comprise a good portion of the center’s work. One woman, for instance, wanted to end her 58-year marriage because her husband was playing around with other women. He was 80 years old.

A mediator couldn’t stop the old fool from messing with the chickies but did help in an equitable division of community property. That made her happy, and him too, I guess.

In another situation, a man and woman who had been living together ended their relationship. The parting was not amicable.

The man was angry because he had paid to beautify the woman’s breasts through silicone implants and now she was leaving and taking her full breasts with her.

“He wants his money back,” Myra said, soothingly. “The question seems to be, what percentage of enjoyment did he get out of her breasts? We’re trying to work out a rate of partial repayment.”

You get the idea. Solve your problems through a peacemaking third person and starve a lawyer. Meanwhile, keep your dog out of my yard and repair your ugly fence.