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.

“So, about the plan.” Mike walked up to the porch, stomped on a loose board, and grimaced. “Plan is simple. We rip this rotting toothpick structure out. We extend 12 ft that way, wrap around the corner. Cedar decking. Pergola on top with 4x4 posts. Big enough to land a helicopter. Sturdy enough to host a sumo wrestling tournament. That what you wanted?” “Exactly,” I said. “But Mike, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch.” I pointed across the street. “See that house? The beige one with the lawn gnomes arranged in a phalanx formation? Yeah. That’s Brenda. She is the enemy. She will try to stop you. She will measure things. She will quote bylaws you didn’t know existed. She called the cops on me yesterday for sitting in that chair.” Mike slowly turned his head toward Brenda’s house. He adjusted his sunglasses. “She called the cops for sitting?” “Yes.” Mike spat on the ground, not on the grass, but respectfully on a patch of dirt. “I hate people like that. My ex-wife was like that. She tried to tell me how to stack the dishwasher. You can’t tell a man how to stack a dishwasher. It’s an art form.” He turned back to me. “Don’t you worry, Jason. I speak fluent Karen. Steve, get the demo hammers.”

The demolition began. And with it, the summoning ritual was complete. Within 4 minutes of the first hammer swing, Brenda’s front door flew open. She marched out wearing a pink bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, hair in curlers, looking like a terrifying Easter Bunny. She didn’t come to me. She went straight for Mike. I stood by the front door, coffee in hand, watching the gladiators enter the arena. “Excuse me!” Brenda shrieked. “Excuse me!” Mike was ripping a plank off the deck with a crowbar. He didn’t stop. Crack. “Hey, you!” Brenda yelled, waving her arms. Mike slowly lowered the crowbar. He turned to her. “Morning, ma’am. You’re in a construction zone. Going to need you to put on a hard hat or step back 10 ft.” “It is 7:05 in the morning!” Brenda screamed. “People are trying to sleep! This is a residential neighborhood, not a shipyard. Shut that noise off immediately!” “City ordinance 45 B,” Mike said calmly, leaning on his crowbar like it was a cane. “Construction permitted between the hours of 7:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m., Monday through Saturday. My watch says 7:06. I’m actually 6 minutes late to making noise. I owe the client some extra decibels.” Brenda gaped at him.