For the residents of Whispering Pines, it meant it was time to fire up the massive commercial-grade boilers that kept their cavernous mansions at a balmy 72°. And that meant it was time for the propane trucks. On a freezing Tuesday morning, the deep guttural roar of a diesel engine echoed through the valley. I bundled up in my heavy parka, stepped out of the RV, and walked to the edge of my property.
At the bottom of the service road, idling in a cloud of frozen exhaust, was a massive 10-wheel tanker from High Altitude Gas. The driver, a burly guy in a high-visibility jacket, was standing outside his cab, staring in utter confusion at my reinforced iron gate, the heavy padlock, and the bright red no-trespassing sign. I walked down the snowy embankment to meet him.
“Morning,” I called out, my breath pluming in the frigid air. “Hey, buddy,” the driver said, scratching his hard hat. “I’ve got a massive delivery for the Whispering Pines enclave up the hill. Three houses are completely on empty, but someone locked the service gate.” “I did,” I replied cheerfully. “This is private property. No commercial traffic allowed.”
The driver looked at the sign then at me. “Man, I can’t take this rig over their wooden bridge at the main entrance. It’ll collapse. If I don’t get this gas up there, those folks are going to freeze tonight.” “That sounds like a terrible problem for their homeowners association,” I said. “Drive safe now.” The driver shrugged. He didn’t care. He got paid by the hour. He climbed back into his cab, executed a painstakingly slow three-point turn, and rumbled away.
It took exactly 45 minutes for the explosion. I was back inside the RV when I heard the screech of tires. I looked out the window to see Brandy Parker’s pearl-white Range Rover fishtailing in the snow before slamming to a halt in front of my gate. Right behind her was the HOA security golf cart outfitted with snow tires carrying Gary and another guard. I grabbed my phone, hit record, and stepped outside.
Brandy was screaming before I was even within earshot. She was bundled in a floor-length fur coat, waving a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters at Gary. “Cut it. Cut the lock right now,” she shrieked. “This is illegal. This is kidnapping. He is holding our entire neighborhood hostage.” Gary looked nervously at the thick hardened steel of my padlock, then at the comparatively flimsy bolt cutters in his hands. “Mrs. Parker, I don’t think these are going to do it.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said, stepping into view, holding up my phone. “Because if you damage my property, Gary, I’m pressing felony vandalism charges against you personally, not the HOA. You.” Gary immediately lowered the bolt cutters and took a step back. Brandy whipped around, her face flushed a deep, violent shade of magenta. “You sociopath!” she yelled, pointing a manicured finger at me. “You open this gate right now. The Harrison family is completely out of propane. They have a newborn baby in that house. We have elderly residents. You are endangering lives.”