Still holding the flag, I pulled out my phone and photographed every angle, footprints, spacing, the position of the flags relative to the driveway. It would come in handy later when the real authorities, the ones who actually had jurisdiction, looked into this. Right on cue, my phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Mark, the neighbor who'd complained about Karen fining him for having a red car. Dude, check your driveway. She's lost her mind. I replied with the photo of the flags. His response came back instantly. Oh my god, she's making runways now. I actually laughed, but the morning comedy show wasn't over yet.
A few minutes later, I heard the familiar clack clack clack of Karen's sandals marching down the street. I didn't have to turn around to know it was her. Her footsteps were as recognizable as her voice. She appeared at the bottom of my driveway, clipboard hugged against her chest like a holy artifact. "Good morning," she said, voice tight with fake politeness. "I'm sure it is," I replied, still holding her neon orange flag like evidence. She adjusted her sunglasses. "I see you've discovered the preliminary markers. The HOA has initiated a vehicle access evaluation for community safety. On my property, property lines," she said, waving a dismissive hand, "are fluid when it comes to safety concerns." I raised an eyebrow. "Fluid? Yes. And as acting HOA president, I have full authority to take precautionary measures when a resident refuses compliance."
She nodded toward my truck. "And your vehicle's defiance is well documented." I almost choked on my own air. "My truck's defiance." It refused universal access, she said, as if that sentence made sense in the English language. I let the silence sit for a moment, mostly because I couldn't decide which part to address first. Eventually, I gestured at the flags. "You put these here yourself." "Of course, I did," she said proudly. "The board was unanimous." My eyes narrowed. That was a lie. Or at least a major exaggeration. I knew the board was tired of Karen's antics. They'd whispered complaints, exchanged knowing glances, even apologized to me behind her back. "Is that so?" I asked. "Unanimous?" "Well," she shifted slightly, "unanimous in spirit." Ah, spirit. The best friend of anyone who didn't actually have votes.
I took a step toward her, polite but firm. "Karen, this is private property. You're trespassing. And these flags, this gate you're planning, have no legal standing." Her chin snapped upward. "Not yet." That made me pause. "Not yet." Karen clutched her clipboard like a shield. "I'll be drafting an amendment for the next HOA meeting. The community will vote to place all vehicles within visual proximity of HOA land under shared authority." It's progressive. "It's illegal." I countered. She brushed off the comment with a scoff. "Laws adapt. Communities evolve." Then she added, "Almost giddily. Besides, residents deserve protection from rogue vehicles." My truck was now a rogue vehicle. "Marvelous." I took another photo of her standing proudly among the flags.
Karen noticed and stiffened. "What are you doing?" I said simply, she frowned, recognizing that word as one that could be used against her later. "You can't intimidate me," she snapped, though her voice wavered. "I will not be threatened by someone who thinks he's above community standards." I smiled. "Karen, I think you're forgetting something." "And what is that?" "You called 911 on the sheriff." Her face flushed pink anger or embarrassment. I couldn't tell. Maybe both. "That was a misunderstanding," she said quickly. "You told dispatch I was refusing an HOA inspection." "I stand by that." "You told them I was suspicious." "You were suspicious." I was holding a cup of coffee. Her lips pressed into a thin line. It was clear she didn't enjoy the memory of her humiliation being brought up. Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed off, leaving me with a driveway full of flags and the distinct suspicion that this was far from over.