Suburbia has its own brand of warfare, and Lindsey was a seasoned general. We’d been in the rental house less than 72 hours when she launched her first offensive – a tray of bakery-perfect cookies masking what was essentially a reconnaissance mission.
While Jack and I were still admiring the chocolate chips’ uniform spacing, Lindsey’s eyes were busy cataloging our sins: two cars in the driveway, unpacked boxes visible through the windows, no doubt countless other violations of her personal neighborhood code. “The HOA is very particular about parking,” she murmured, her smile tightening at the edges.
We thought nothing of it. Until the tow trucks came.
There’s something uniquely humiliating about confronting a tow truck driver in your pajamas at dawn. Even more so when your self-appointed neighborhood watchdog stands gleefully by, basking in her petty victory. That’s when we decided to show our hand.
“You might want to look closer at what you’re having towed,” Jack said, tapping the nearly invisible marker on my windshield. Lindsey’s triumphant smirk faltered as the tow truck driver suddenly got very interested in his paperwork.
The federal agent who arrived the next morning didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The quiet recitation of statutes and dollar amounts – $25,000 in operational damages, potential obstruction charges – did all the work for him. As Lindsey’s perfect porcelain mug hit her perfect porch tiles, we couldn’t help but smile.
