She wasn’t used to people knowing the numbers better than she did. She rallied quickly. “Do you have a permit for this? You can’t just expand a footprint without a variance. The HOA requires—” Mike pointed a massive finger toward my front window. “Permit number 2024-899, taped to the glass. Approved by the city planning committee last Thursday. As for the HOA, state law says they can’t override city zoning on structural safety repairs. This deck was a safety hazard. I’m saving lives here, ma’am.” “Safety hazard?” Brenda scoffed. “It was fine yesterday!” “Termites,” Mike lied smoothly. “Invisible ones. Very dangerous. They eat wood, then they move to human bone. You want to take that risk?” Brenda’s face turned a shade of purple that clashed horribly with her pink robe. “I’m calling the board! I’m calling the city inspector! You are blocking the view of the street!” “We’re not blocking anything but your ability to spy on this man’s breakfast,” Mike grumbled. “Now, unless you want to grab a shovel, step off the job site. Liability, you know. If a nail hits you, that’s a lot of paperwork I don’t want to do.” Brenda let out a sound of pure frustration, spun on her fuzzy slippers, and stormed back to her house. Mike looked at me and winked. “Termites,” he whispered. “Works every time.” I knew then that I would follow this man into battle anywhere.

For the next 3 days, my house was a symphony of chaos, and I loved every second of it. Big Mike and his crew were efficient, loud, and delightfully petty. When they used the saw, they angled the dust chute so the wind carried the sawdust gently toward Brenda’s pristine driveway. When they took lunch breaks, they sat on the tailgate of the truck, facing her house, eating meatball subs and laughing boisterously. I worked from my dining room table, watching the show. But Brenda wasn’t idle. Oh, no. She was mobilizing. On Wednesday, the mailman dropped off a letter. It was a thick, creamy envelope with the Oak Creek HOA crest embossed on it. I opened it. Notice of violation. Recipient, Jason Bennett. 402 Maple Drive. Violation 1, unauthorized modification of exterior aesthetic, section 4.2. Violation 2, excessive noise nuisance, section 5.1. Violation 3, loitering, section NA, handwritten in red ink. Fine. $500 immediately, plus $1.50 day until construction ceases. I walked outside and handed the letter to Mike. He wiped his hands on his jeans and read it. “Visual nuisance.” Mike read aloud.

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.