He gasped and stormed out, shouting at the other board members. They huddled like a football team planning the next disastrous play.
But Beverly wasn't done. She arrived minutes later, flanked by two SUVs and at least a dozen HOA supporters waving new signs. These weren't handwritten anymore. No glitter, no poster board. These were professionally printed, glossy, bold, dramatic fonts: Stop business discrimination, Restore HOA rights, End hostile service practices.
Tessa whispered, "She made posters, Mark. She had posters printed. This woman is a menace with a credit card."
And Beverly herself—she carried a megaphone the size of a toddler. She climbed onto the curb as if ascending a stage and began speaking to a crowd that had grown from curious bystanders to full-fledged spectators.
"This business," she declared, pointing directly at our store, "has engaged in targeted harassment against our HOA community. They refused our right to service. They denied our essential needs. And today, we stand united."
"Pay for your gas!" a man across the street shouted.
The crowd laughed. Beverly glared at him.
"We stand united," she continued, "against oppression."
Oppression—a strong word usually used for actual injustices. Beverly was applying it to gasoline. I wiped a hand down my face.
Soon, cars began slowing down just to witness the spectacle. Some drivers honked supportively, not necessarily for Beverly, but because people love honking. Someone set up a lawn chair. A teenager livestreamed while eating a bag of chips like it was a movie. The dramatic music practically wrote itself.
Inside the store, Tessa had her phone out, texting rapidly.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Operation Expose Beverly," she said. "I'm inviting the mayor."
"You actually did that?"
"Oh, yeah," she said. "I told him there was a civil rights protest happening at the gas station. He said, 'On my way.'"
I froze. "You told him what?"