I turned and walked up the three steps to my porch, my sanctuary. I had bought this place 6 months ago. It was a fixer-upper in a quiet, established neighborhood. That’s realtor code for full of retirees with nothing to do but monitor the street with military-grade binoculars. I thought I was buying the American dream. Instead, I had bought a front-row ticket to the Brenda show. I grabbed my wallet and walked back out. Brenda was still filming. “He went inside,” she narrated to her phone, presumably live-streaming to her echo chamber of local busybodies. “He probably went to flush the drugs or hide the weapons. You see how he walks? That’s the walk of a guilty man, a thug.” I handed my license to Miller. “Officer, look at me. I’m a 30-year-old data analyst. I work from home. My biggest thrill in life is when an Excel spreadsheet formula works on the first try. Do I look like a thug?” Miller looked at my pizza socks. “Mr. Jason Bennett?” “That’s me.”
“Mr. Bennett, look, we got a call. We have to respond. The caller alleged a suspicious individual loitering on the premises for an extended period, displaying erratic behavior.” “I live here,” I repeated, emphasizing the words slowly. “You cannot loiter at your own residence. That is literally the definition of living. I was inhabiting my property. Is there a time limit on how long I can sit on my porch? Is there a meter I need to feed?” “There have been complaints about staring,” Miller said, looking uncomfortable. “I have eyes,” I said. “They are attached to my head. If I sit on the porch, they have to be pointed somewhere. Unless the HOA bylaws require me to gouge them out, I’m going to see things. I saw the mailman. I saw Mrs. Higgins walking her poodle. I saw that squirrel with the bagel. That is not surveillance. That is existence.”
“He’s got a setup!” Brenda shouted. She had crept closer now, standing right at the edge of my driveway. “He sits there for hours. It’s unnatural. Normal people go to work. Why isn’t he at work? He’s clearly running a drug ring out of that porch. I smell it. I smell the marijuana!” “That’s mulch, Brenda!” I shouted back. “I put down fresh mulch on Saturday. You literally watched me do it. You complained about the color of the bags!” “Likely story,” she scoffed. “Officer, I want him cited. There is a town ordinance against vagrancy and loitering that impedes public peace. His presence is impeding my peace.” Officer Davies came back from the cruiser. “License is clean, obviously. No warrants, no record. He’s got a parking ticket from 2018 in downtown.” “A hardened criminal,” I muttered. “Lock me up.” Miller handed me back my license. “Look, Mr. Bennett, technically you aren’t breaking any laws.” “Technically?” I raised an eyebrow. “I should hope factually I’m not breaking any laws, either.”
“But,” Miller continued, lowering his voice so Brenda couldn’t hear. “You’re upsetting the neighbors. And when the neighbors get upset, they call us. And when they call us, we have to come out here. And I really, really don’t want to come out here again today. So, can you maybe take it inside? Just for now? De-escalate the situation?” I looked at Miller. I saw the exhaustion in his eyes. I sympathized with him, I really did. But then I looked at Brenda. She was smirking. It was a tight, smug little purse of the lips that said, “I won. I control this street. I snapped my fingers and the law arrived to chastise you.” If I went inside now, it was over. If I retreated to my living room, she would own the porch. Next week, she’d decide I wasn’t allowed to park in my driveway. The week after that, she’d decide my curtains were the wrong shade of white. This wasn’t about the porch. This was about dominance.