I pulled out my phone and opened Facebook. I didn’t have to look far. I’m part of the Oak Creek community watch group. I joined mostly to see if anyone found lost dogs or to get recommendations for plumbers. But there it was, right at the top of the feed, posted 4 minutes ago. Brenda Miller posted a video. Title: Criminal elements in our midst. Caption: Sad day for Oak Creek. Police were called to handle a vagrant individual loitering on a porch at 402 Maple Drive. Police did nothing. The liberal agenda has tied their hands. This individual was menacing me and casing the neighborhood. I fear for our children. He claims to live there, but has no respect for community standards. Watch out. Keep your doors locked. The video was shaky footage of me standing in my socks, looking confused, while the police lights flashed. It was framed perfectly to make it look like I was being interrogated for a double homicide, rather than asked about my rocking chair. The comments were already rolling in. Susan G: Oh my god, is that the blue house? I walk past there every day. So scary. Rick T: This is what happens when we let the neighborhood go. Property values are going to tank. Thanks a lot, 402. Linda P: He looks like he’s on something. Look at his eyes, glassy. Definitely drugs. My blood ran cold. She wasn’t just being annoying. She was assassinating my character. She was painting a target on my back.
I scrolled through the comments, my thumb hovering over the report button. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. Brenda was the admin of the group. I put the phone down on the granite island. I looked out the kitchen window at her house across the street. The lights were on. I could see her silhouette moving past the window. She was probably on the phone rallying the troops, calling the HOA board members, drafting letters. She wanted a war? She wanted to police my porch? Fine. If she didn’t like me sitting on a simple wooden rocking chair, she was absolutely going to hate what came next. I opened my laptop. I wasn’t going to retreat. I was going to expand. If I was going to be the porch loiterer, I needed a better porch. I needed a porch that was undeniable.
A porch that was visible from space. I typed “general contractors near me” into Google. I needed someone who didn’t care about noise. Someone who could build fast and build big. Someone who looked at an HOA handbook and saw toilet paper. I clicked on a link for Big Mike’s Decks and Renos. The website looked like it had been built in 2005, and the testimonial on the front page said, “Mike built my deck. It holds my hot tub and my mother-in-law. Five stars.” I dialed the number. “Big Mike speaking,” a voice rumbled. It sounded like gravel tumbling inside a cement mixer. “Hi, Mike,” I said, my voice steady. “I need a deck, a big one, front of the house. I want a pergola. I want built-in seating. I want it to take up the maximum allowable square footage permitted by the county zoning laws to within 1 inch of the limit.” “Sounds like a party,” Mike said. “When do you want to start?” “Tomorrow,” I said. “And Mike, do you have experience dealing with difficult neighbors?” Mike laughed. It was a loud, booming sound. “Son, difficult neighbors are why I charge extra. But for you, if it’s a good story, I might do the headache part for free.” “Oh, it’s a story,” I said, looking out the window at Brenda’s house. “And it’s only chapter one.”
I hung up the phone. I felt a strange sense of calm. The anxiety of the police encounter was fading, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I wasn’t just going to live here. I was going to loiter. I was going to loiter so hard it would make her head spin. But first, I needed to make sure I was bulletproof. Brenda had mentioned the HOA. She had mentioned people she knew. She was playing a game of rules and regulations. I walked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. I cracked it open and took a sip. “You want to play rules, Brenda?” I whispered to the empty kitchen. “Let’s play.” I didn’t know it yet, but the porch was just the bait. The real trap was going to be much, much more expensive and much more satisfying. The next morning, the war began at 6:59 a.m. I was awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the clock to tick over. I knew the local noise ordinance by heart now. I had looked it up the night before while angrily eating popcorn. Construction could legally commence at 7:00 a.m. on weekdays, not 6:59, not 7:01, 7:00 sharp. At 6:58 a.m., a low rumble shook my window frames. It sounded like a tectonic plate shifting or perhaps a dinosaur clearing its throat. I got out of bed and peeked through the blinds. A white Ford F-350, lifted so high you’d need a step ladder and a prayer to get into the cab, was idling in front of my house. The side of the truck read Big Mike’s Decks in red block letters that looked like they had been punched into the metal. A trailer was attached to the back, piled high with pressure-treated lumber that smelled like chemical victory.
At exactly 7:00 a.m., the driver’s side door opened and Big Mike stepped out. I had spoken to him on the phone, but seeing him in person was a different experience. Mike was about 6’4” and roughly the shape of a vending machine. He wore a neon yellow T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, revealing arms that looked like they were made of braided steel cables. He had a beard that could hide a small bird, and he was wearing wrap-around sunglasses despite the morning overcast. He didn’t knock. He walked to the trailer, grabbed a circular saw, plugged it into a generator that hummed like a jet engine, and revved it. Rrrrr. The sound tore through the quiet suburban morning like a scream. It was beautiful. I threw on a robe and went out to meet him. “Morning,” I shouted over the generator. Mike cut the power. The silence that followed was deafening. He looked me up and down, noting the robe and the slippers. “You Jason?” he asked. His voice sounded like gravel crunching under a boot. “I am. You made good time.” “Time is money,” Mike said. He gestured to the two other guys hopping out of the truck. One skinny guy with a mullet and one older guy who was smoking a cigarette with intense focus. “That’s Steve and Old Man River. Don’t ask why we call him River. We don’t know.” “Great to meet you guys,” I said.