I knew what this was. Patricia was building a case, a paper trail she could wave in my face later. Meanwhile, my neighbors—the ones with peeling paint on their shutters, the ones whose kids left basketball hoops on the curb all day—somehow never seemed to get these reminders.
One Saturday, I was washing the Mustang when a guy named Greg from two houses down walked over. Middle-aged, easygoing, always wore cargo shorts.
"Man, that's a sweet ride," he said, circling the car with admiration. "How fast does it go?"
I laughed. "Fast enough that I'm not trying to find out in Maplewood. Thanks, though."
He grinned. "Well, if Patricia is giving you grief, just ignore her. She tried to fine me once for leaving my RV in the driveway for two days. Total waste of time. I fought it and won."
I raised an eyebrow. "So she goes after everybody?"
He hesitated. "Eh, not exactly. I've seen her let some folks slide. Depends who you are, I guess."
That said it all.
The turning point came one evening when I invited my sister, Denise, and her kids over for dinner. They loved the car, especially my nephew, Nolan, who begged me to take him for a short ride around the block. We came back laughing, music playing low on the speakers, and there was Patricia standing at the edge of her yard with her phone out, filming us.
I rolled down the window. "Is there a problem?" I called.
Her voice was syrupy sweet. "Just documenting HOA policy."
"Documenting what?"
"That kind of driving doesn't belong here. Speeding, loud music. We have families trying to sleep."