By Tuesday afternoon, the final tally was completely absurd. I had separated the scrap metal, which Dave generously hauled away to the salvage yard for a few extra bucks in his pocket. But, the spendable, legal United States currency $3,412.85, $3,412.85. I literally laughed out loud when I saw the final number. Ashley had tried to fine me $150 for fishing, and instead she had basically handed me a down payment on a used car.
But I didn't want a used car. I wanted to make a point. I wanted to execute a level of malicious compliance so profoundly petty that the Pelican's Perch Homeowners Association would remember my name for the next decade. The monthly HOA board meeting was scheduled for 7:00 p.m. that Tuesday evening at the community clubhouse. Now, the clubhouse is exactly what you'd expect from a place like this.
It smells faintly of chlorine from the adjoining pool and aggressively of stale potpourri. It's decorated in what I can only describe as 1990s tropical depression. Lots of faded wicker furniture, aggressively floral cushions, and bad watercolor paintings of herons. I knew Ashley was going to be ready for me. After the complete humiliation at the pond with the Naples Police Department, she had undoubtedly spent the last 3 days plotting her revenge.
I checked the community portal online. And then, sure enough, she had amended the meeting agenda. Right there, under new business, was an item titled "Emergency Resolution to Ban Subaquatic Ferrous Extraction, Magnets, Ropes, and Salvage Equipment on Community Property." She was trying to change the rules of the game retroactively. But, like honestly, she was playing checkers while I was out here playing administrative 4D chess.
At 6:45 p.m., I loaded up my cargo. I couldn't just walk in with the money. That wouldn't make an impact. I needed a visual. I had gone to a local brewing supply store and purchased a massive, comically large glass carboy, the kind they use to ferment 10 gallons of beer.
It was thick, heavy glass. I had spent the last 2 hours carefully pouring all $3,412.85 into this giant glass jug. It was a swirling, glittering mass of copper, silver, and zinc. And it was heavy. Unbelievably heavy.
Quarters weigh about 5.6 g each. When you multiply that by the thousands of coins I had, the jar weighed roughly 85 lb. I had to rent a heavy-duty appliance dolly from Home Depot just to move it. I strapped the giant glass jar to the yellow steel dolly using thick ratchet straps, making sure it was completely secure. I wheeled it down my driveway, the heavy rubber tires crunching on the concrete, and began the slow, arduous walk toward the clubhouse.
It was a beautiful Florida evening. The sun setting in a blaze of orange and pink over the manicured lawns. A few neighbors gave me weird looks as I pushed a dolly carrying a literal treasure chest down the sidewalk. But I just smiled and nodded. I reached the clubhouse at exactly 7:08 p.m.
I wanted to be late. Cuz I wanted them to be in the middle of their business. I pushed the clubhouse doors open with my back, carefully maneuvering the dolly over the threshold. The meeting was taking place in the main hall. About 30 folding chairs were set up in rows, mostly filled with retirees who treated these meetings like a spectator sport.
At the front of the room was a long folding table. Sitting in the dead center, looking like a monarch presiding over her loyal subjects, was Ashley. She had a gavel. An actual wooden gavel. She was mid-sentence when I walked in.
And furthermore, the sheer destruction of the community aesthetic by these rogue elements cannot be tolerated. Ashley was projecting her voice into a cheap microphone. We must act swiftly to protect the property values of Pelican's Perch from this what is this industrial scavenging? I pushed the dolly down the center aisle. The rubber wheels squeaked loudly against the linoleum floor.
Squeak, squeak, squeak. Every single head in the room turned. I stopped right in the front row, directly in front of the board's table. I tipped the dolly back, letting it rest on its base with a heavy resonating thud that made the floorboards vibrate. The giant glass jar caught the harsh fluorescent lighting of the clubhouse, sparkling like a beacon of absolute defiance.
Ashley stopped talking. Her mouth hung open slightly. The microphone let out a high-pitched squeal of feedback before she fumbled to mute it. She stared at the jar, her eyes wide, the color draining from her face. "Good evening, board members," I said, projecting my voice so the entire room could hear.
I didn't need a microphone. "Sorry I'm late. I had to stop and secure some community assets." The room was dead silent. You could literally hear the hum of the air conditioner.
What What is the meaning of this? An older man sitting to Ashley's right asked. He was the HOA treasurer, a guy named Arthur, who always looked like his tie was tied too tight. What is that? "This, Arthur," I said, patting the cold glass of the carboy, is $3,412.85.
It represents roughly 30 years of neglect by this association regarding the environmental upkeep of the community retention pond. Murmurs rippled through the folding chairs behind me. People were craning their necks to get a better look at the massive pile of cash. You bring that stolen property in here and flaunt it? Ashley finally found her voice, as though it was an octave higher than usual.
She grabbed her gavel and slammed it down on the table. Bang! You are out of order. This is an official meeting. That money belongs to the association.