PRIVATE PARKING AGREEMENT.
Patricia Voss granted use of driveway at 14 Larks Lane for one recreational vehicle.
Term:
Five years.
Consideration:
Maintenance and oversight of premises.
Date:
Two and a half years earlier.
Tenant:
P. Voss.
Owner:
Linda Marsh.
Signature.
LINDA MARSH.
More neighbors came out.
Seven.
Then eight.
People stayed on the sidewalk.
Far enough away to claim they had merely happened to be outside.
Winston looked at me.
His expression was apologetic.
"Sir, if she has a valid lease, I can't sort that out on a driveway."
He was right.
That was not his job.
For perhaps thirty seconds, I was wrong in every way that mattered publicly.
I stood on my property trying to remove a vehicle belonging to a woman who had just produced a signed contract granting her permission.
The truth was inside my head.
The document was in his hand.
Paper beats assertion until paper is tested.
So I took out my phone.
Called Linda Marsh.
Speaker mode.
Held the phone flat against my palm.
Three rings.
"Hello?"
"Linda, this is Thomas Hale."
"Hi."
"I'm standing on the driveway."
"Oh no."
"Patricia Voss is here."
"She has a document claiming you signed a five-year parking agreement allowing her RV on this driveway."
"I need to ask clearly."
"Did you sign that agreement?"
The pause lasted maybe a second.
It felt much longer.
Then Linda said:
"I have never signed anything with that woman in my life."
Nobody moved.
Linda continued:
"I wouldn't sign a birthday card for Patricia Voss."
"Whatever she's showing you is not mine."
"She parked that thing there after we moved in and told us the driveway was association overflow."
"I told her to move it."
"She called the police."
"You can tell everybody listening that I said so."
Patricia's face changed.
She did not argue.
That surprised me more than denial would have.
She folded the alleged lease once.
Placed it inside her apron pocket.
Turned.
Walked into her house.
Closed the door.
Winston looked at me.
"Okay then."
He resumed the tow.
The motor home climbed the flatbed with a long mechanical groan.
The satellite dish shook.
A few neighbors stepped backward as the truck passed.
Nobody said anything.
Thirty-two feet of tan fiberglass left Larks Lane at approximately eleven miles per hour.
I stood in the center of my driveway after it was gone.
For the first time since I bought the house, I could see the entire concrete surface from the garage to the curb.
That afternoon I changed the garage locks.
Reset the opener.
Reprogrammed the motor.
Every remote in the neighborhood stopped functioning.
Nine small gray objects became meaningless pieces of plastic.
I added a lock to the side gate.
Repaired a fence panel where pool material had apparently been carried through.
Then I made a decision.
The neighborhood needed to see what had been hidden by familiarity.
So on Sunday morning, I delivered notices.
Not accusations.
Invitations.
To my neighbors,
Property belonging to Larkspur Commons residents and the association has been stored at 14 Larks Lane during prior ownership without my consent or, according to former owners, theirs.
Any remaining property will be placed on my driveway next Saturday between noon and 3:00 p.m.
Please identify and collect what belongs to you.