I hung up the phone. I felt a strange sense of calm. The anxiety of the police encounter was fading, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I wasn’t just going to live here. I was going to loiter. I was going to loiter so hard it would make her head spin. But first, I needed to make sure I was bulletproof. Brenda had mentioned the HOA. She had mentioned people she knew. She was playing a game of rules and regulations. I walked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. I cracked it open and took a sip. “You want to play rules, Brenda?” I whispered to the empty kitchen. “Let’s play.” I didn’t know it yet, but the porch was just the bait. The real trap was going to be much, much more expensive and much more satisfying. The next morning, the war began at 6:59 a.m. I was awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the clock to tick over. I knew the local noise ordinance by heart now. I had looked it up the night before while angrily eating popcorn. Construction could legally commence at 7:00 a.m. on weekdays, not 6:59, not 7:01, 7:00 sharp. At 6:58 a.m., a low rumble shook my window frames. It sounded like a tectonic plate shifting or perhaps a dinosaur clearing its throat. I got out of bed and peeked through the blinds. A white Ford F-350, lifted so high you’d need a step ladder and a prayer to get into the cab, was idling in front of my house. The side of the truck read Big Mike’s Decks in red block letters that looked like they had been punched into the metal. A trailer was attached to the back, piled high with pressure-treated lumber that smelled like chemical victory.

At exactly 7:00 a.m., the driver’s side door opened and Big Mike stepped out. I had spoken to him on the phone, but seeing him in person was a different experience. Mike was about 6’4” and roughly the shape of a vending machine. He wore a neon yellow T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, revealing arms that looked like they were made of braided steel cables. He had a beard that could hide a small bird, and he was wearing wrap-around sunglasses despite the morning overcast. He didn’t knock. He walked to the trailer, grabbed a circular saw, plugged it into a generator that hummed like a jet engine, and revved it. Rrrrr. The sound tore through the quiet suburban morning like a scream. It was beautiful. I threw on a robe and went out to meet him. “Morning,” I shouted over the generator. Mike cut the power. The silence that followed was deafening. He looked me up and down, noting the robe and the slippers. “You Jason?” he asked. His voice sounded like gravel crunching under a boot. “I am. You made good time.” “Time is money,” Mike said. He gestured to the two other guys hopping out of the truck. One skinny guy with a mullet and one older guy who was smoking a cigarette with intense focus. “That’s Steve and Old Man River. Don’t ask why we call him River. We don’t know.” “Great to meet you guys,” I said.

“So, about the plan.” Mike walked up to the porch, stomped on a loose board, and grimaced. “Plan is simple. We rip this rotting toothpick structure out. We extend 12 ft that way, wrap around the corner. Cedar decking. Pergola on top with 4x4 posts. Big enough to land a helicopter. Sturdy enough to host a sumo wrestling tournament. That what you wanted?” “Exactly,” I said. “But Mike, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch.” I pointed across the street. “See that house? The beige one with the lawn gnomes arranged in a phalanx formation? Yeah. That’s Brenda. She is the enemy. She will try to stop you. She will measure things. She will quote bylaws you didn’t know existed. She called the cops on me yesterday for sitting in that chair.” Mike slowly turned his head toward Brenda’s house. He adjusted his sunglasses. “She called the cops for sitting?” “Yes.” Mike spat on the ground, not on the grass, but respectfully on a patch of dirt. “I hate people like that. My ex-wife was like that. She tried to tell me how to stack the dishwasher. You can’t tell a man how to stack a dishwasher. It’s an art form.” He turned back to me. “Don’t you worry, Jason. I speak fluent Karen. Steve, get the demo hammers.”

The demolition began. And with it, the summoning ritual was complete. Within 4 minutes of the first hammer swing, Brenda’s front door flew open. She marched out wearing a pink bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, hair in curlers, looking like a terrifying Easter Bunny. She didn’t come to me. She went straight for Mike. I stood by the front door, coffee in hand, watching the gladiators enter the arena. “Excuse me!” Brenda shrieked. “Excuse me!” Mike was ripping a plank off the deck with a crowbar. He didn’t stop. Crack. “Hey, you!” Brenda yelled, waving her arms. Mike slowly lowered the crowbar. He turned to her. “Morning, ma’am. You’re in a construction zone. Going to need you to put on a hard hat or step back 10 ft.” “It is 7:05 in the morning!” Brenda screamed. “People are trying to sleep! This is a residential neighborhood, not a shipyard. Shut that noise off immediately!” “City ordinance 45 B,” Mike said calmly, leaning on his crowbar like it was a cane. “Construction permitted between the hours of 7:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m., Monday through Saturday. My watch says 7:06. I’m actually 6 minutes late to making noise. I owe the client some extra decibels.” Brenda gaped at him.

She wasn’t used to people knowing the numbers better than she did. She rallied quickly. “Do you have a permit for this? You can’t just expand a footprint without a variance. The HOA requires—” Mike pointed a massive finger toward my front window. “Permit number 2024-899, taped to the glass. Approved by the city planning committee last Thursday. As for the HOA, state law says they can’t override city zoning on structural safety repairs. This deck was a safety hazard. I’m saving lives here, ma’am.” “Safety hazard?” Brenda scoffed. “It was fine yesterday!” “Termites,” Mike lied smoothly. “Invisible ones. Very dangerous. They eat wood, then they move to human bone. You want to take that risk?” Brenda’s face turned a shade of purple that clashed horribly with her pink robe. “I’m calling the board! I’m calling the city inspector! You are blocking the view of the street!” “We’re not blocking anything but your ability to spy on this man’s breakfast,” Mike grumbled. “Now, unless you want to grab a shovel, step off the job site. Liability, you know. If a nail hits you, that’s a lot of paperwork I don’t want to do.” Brenda let out a sound of pure frustration, spun on her fuzzy slippers, and stormed back to her house. Mike looked at me and winked. “Termites,” he whispered. “Works every time.” I knew then that I would follow this man into battle anywhere.

For the next 3 days, my house was a symphony of chaos, and I loved every second of it. Big Mike and his crew were efficient, loud, and delightfully petty. When they used the saw, they angled the dust chute so the wind carried the sawdust gently toward Brenda’s pristine driveway. When they took lunch breaks, they sat on the tailgate of the truck, facing her house, eating meatball subs and laughing boisterously. I worked from my dining room table, watching the show. But Brenda wasn’t idle. Oh, no. She was mobilizing. On Wednesday, the mailman dropped off a letter. It was a thick, creamy envelope with the Oak Creek HOA crest embossed on it. I opened it. Notice of violation. Recipient, Jason Bennett. 402 Maple Drive. Violation 1, unauthorized modification of exterior aesthetic, section 4.2. Violation 2, excessive noise nuisance, section 5.1. Violation 3, loitering, section NA, handwritten in red ink. Fine. $500 immediately, plus $1.50 day until construction ceases. I walked outside and handed the letter to Mike. He wiped his hands on his jeans and read it. “Visual nuisance.” Mike read aloud.