My first taste of Connie’s justice came three weeks after moving in. Certified letter claiming my motorcycle violated commercial vehicle restrictions under bylaw 7.3b. Apparently, my Harley was somehow equivalent to running a business out of my garage. This while my neighbor’s plumbing van sat in his driveway twenty-four seven and the landscaper across the street parked his trailer loaded with mowers right on the street. Oh, and Connie’s BMW covered in magnetic real estate signs every weekend.
I sent a polite email with photographic evidence of actual commercial vehicles requesting equal enforcement. You know what happened next? Emergency board meeting, second violation notice, one hundred fifty dollar fine. The diesel fumes from my neighbor’s work truck were thick in the air while I photographed his non-commercial Ford F-350 with Martinez Plumbing painted on both sides. The irony was almost funny. Almost.
Then there’s Bradley, Connie’s sixteen-year-old son and the future of America. Apparently, this kid failed his driver’s test twice, crashed his mom’s car into a mailbox, and put his dad’s pickup through a fence. But somehow he’s convinced he’s ready for a motorcycle. Bradley’s been fixated on my Harley since day one, making comments about old guys hogging all the cool rides.
First time he approached me directly, I was washing the bike in my driveway. Kid strolls over, hands in his pockets, and suggests I should let him borrow it for prom night. When I politely explained insurance liability and offered to show him the engineering instead, he got that look kids get when the world doesn’t revolve around them. Sulked away muttering about selfish veterans and how his mom was right about problem neighbors.
That conversation happened on a Saturday. By Tuesday, I had four separate violation notices in my mailbox. The pattern was becoming clear, but I had no idea how deep this rabbit hole actually went or that my phone calls with the state attorney’s office were about to become very, very relevant to my own situation.
Two weeks after that first violation notice, Connie launched what I can only describe as a selective enforcement campaign that would make a Soviet bureaucrat proud. She mobilized her network of concerned neighbors. And by concerned, I mean bored housewives with nothing better to do than document my every move. Suddenly, I was receiving violation notices faster than junk mail.
Grass allegedly a quarter inch too long despite measuring exactly two and three-quarters inches, well within the three-inch limit. Garbage cans visible from the street for three hours after pickup, even though collection doesn’t happen until noon, and everyone else’s cans sit out until evening. Excessive outdoor maintenance sounds for changing my motorcycle’s oil on a Saturday afternoon. Each violation came with a one hundred fifty dollar fine and enough legal jargon to choke a paralegal.
My mailbox started looking like a crime scene stuffed with certified letters, while my neighbors’ identical violations went completely unnoticed. The acrid smell of diesel exhaust from Martinez’s plumbing truck mixed with the sweet scent of Mrs. Patterson’s overgrown honeysuckle as I photographed the hypocrisy. Her grass was actually taller than mine, and the guy two doors down had been pressure washing his driveway every weekend for a month.