He looked at the beautiful cedar posts he had just installed. “This is craftsmanship. This is art. She calls this a nuisance? Her face is a visual nuisance.” “What do I do?” I asked. “They can put a lien on my house.” “Pay the fine for now,” Mike advised. “Keep the receipt, then fight it at the next meeting. But this?” He tapped the paper. “This means we’re getting under her skin. She’s throwing paper because she can’t throw punches. We escalate.” “Escalate how?” “The pergola,” Mike said, his eyes gleaming. “You wanted it shaded, right? How about we use those angled slats? The ones that block the view from the street, but let you see out? It’s called a privacy screen. It’s perfectly legal, but it’ll drive her nuts because she won’t be able to see if you’re on the porch or not. The mystery will kill her.” “Do it,” I said. “Build the wall.”
The climax of the construction phase happened on Friday. The deck was nearly done. It was magnificent. A sprawling platform of cedar, smelling of rich wood and defiance. Mike and his crew were packing up for the day. The massive F-350 was parked on the street, right in front of my house. Because the trailer was attached, the rig was long. The back wheels of the trailer were maybe 2 ft past the edge of my driveway, encroaching into the public space of the curb. I was outside signing a check for the materials when a police cruiser rolled up. Not a patrol car this time, but a sleek, menacing traffic enforcement interceptor. Brenda was already on her lawn. She wasn’t in a robe this time. She was in her full “let me speak to the manager” uniform. Khaki capris, a sensible blouse, and sunglasses big enough to weld in. She was pointing at Mike’s truck.
The officer, a guy with a thick mustache and a zero sense of humor, stepped out. “Owner of this vehicle?” he barked, pointing at the truck. “That’s me,” Mike said, stepping forward. He towered over the officer, but he kept his hands visible. Mike knew the drill. “You’re blocking the flow of traffic,” the officer said. “And you’re parked more than 12 in from the curb. I’ve got a complaint here saying this vehicle has been abandoned for 3 days.” “Abandoned?” Mike laughed. “I’ve been moving it every night. And look at the tape.” Mike pulled a tape measure from his belt. He was like a gunslinger with that thing. He snapped it down to the pavement. “10 in from the curb. Legal limit is 12. I’m within spec.” “The trailer hitch!” Brenda shouted from the sidewalk. “The hitch is sticking out into the lane. It’s a hazard! A fire truck couldn’t get through! If my house burns down, it’s his blood on the hands!” The officer looked at the hitch. It was sticking out maybe 4 in. “It’s a violation,” the officer said, pulling out his ticket book. “Obstruction of roadway. And since it’s a commercial vehicle in a residential zone overnight—” “I didn’t park it overnight!” Mike argued. “I just told you!” “I have a witness statement saying it’s been here since Tuesday,” the officer said, gesturing to Brenda. Brenda smirked. It was a cold, reptilian smile. She had lied. She had filed a false report just to get him ticketed. “That’s a lie!” I jumped in. “I have security footage. I can prove the truck leaves every day at 5:00 p.m.!” “You can contest it in court,” the officer said, already writing. He ripped the ticket off and slapped it on Mike’s windshield. “Move it now, or I call a tow.” Mike looked at the ticket. He looked at Brenda. His face went red, then strangely calm.
