To the uneducated eye, Brenda’s, it would look like an encroachment on the public easement. “It’s beautiful,” Mike said, stepping back to admire our work. “It screams report me.” “Let’s take our positions,” I said. It was 10:00 a.m. on a Tuesday. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. And I was sitting in my rocking chair behind the privacy screen, watching the monitor of my new security system on my iPad. Mike sat on the bench next to me. “She’s moving,” I whispered. On the screen, the front door of 405 Maple Drive opened. Brenda stepped out. She was wearing a visor and carrying a watering can, presumably to water the three petunias she allowed to live on her porch. She watered one flower. She watered the second. Then, she looked up. Her head snapped toward my house so fast I thought she might get whiplash. She dropped the watering can. It clattered onto the concrete. She didn’t even look at it. Her eyes were locked on the sign. “She sees it,” Mike narrated. “She’s reading. She’s squinting.” “Wait for the Brenda part,” I said. We watched her lips move. She read the top.
She smiled sarcastically. Then she got to the bottom. Her posture changed. It went from annoyed neighbor to tactical nuke. She stiffened. Her hands balled into fists. She took a step toward the street, realized she was in her gardening clogs, didn’t care, and kept coming. “Here we go,” I said, putting down the iPad. “Action stations.” We walked out from behind the privacy screen and stood by the lemonade table just as Brenda reached the edge of my driveway. She stopped exactly 1 in from the property line. She knew where it was. “What?” she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the sign. “Is this?” “Morning, Brenda,” I said, using my best customer service voice. “Thirsty? Oh, wait. Sorry, read the fine print.” “You cannot run a business in a residential zone,” she screamed.
Her face was already flushing a deep, blotchy red. “This is an R2 zoned district. Commercial enterprises are strictly prohibited. Do you have a vendor’s permit? Do you have a health department rating? Is that unpasteurized citrus?” “It’s free, Brenda,” Big Mike said, picking up a red cup. “Can’t be a business if there’s no money changing hands. It’s charity. I’m a charity case. I’m thirsty.” “It doesn’t matter,” she yelled. “It is a visual blight. A table on the driveway? It looks like a flea market. It looks like poverty.” “I think it looks festive,” I said. “And the sign is very informative.” She read the sign again. The vein in her forehead began to throb. “Pending litigation? Bad vibes? That is slander. That is libel. You are writing lies about me on a placard visible from the public roadway.” “Is it a lie?” I asked innocently. “The vibes are pretty bad, Brenda.” She let out a sound that was half scream, half growl.
She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out her phone. “I am calling the police,” she announced. “I am calling them right now. And I am not just reporting a noise complaint. I am reporting an illegal, unlicensed food stall, harassment, defamation of character, and loitering with intent to distribute.” “Intent to distribute lemonade?” Mike asked. “Is that a felony now?” “Go ahead, Brenda,” I said, leaning against the table. “Call them. Make sure you tell them it’s an emergency. Tell them I’m out of control.” “Oh, I will.” She stabbed at her phone screen. “Officer Miller gave me his direct extension. You are done, Jason. You are finished in this town.” She put the phone to her ear. She turned away from us, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk like a lawyer in a courtroom. “Yes, this is Brenda Miller at 405 Maple. I need a unit at 402 immediately.