I pointed to the sign again. "Read the last three words."
They squinted. "'This means you.'"
I nodded. "Exactly."
They retreated to their SUV in a flurry of offended whispers. Five minutes later, I got a text from an unknown number: It would really help community morale if you left the gate unlocked for this event. — S.C.
I replied with a photo of my gate lock and the caption: Morale remains secure.
By the end of the week, Skyler was escalating. Flyers appeared in mailboxes around the neighborhood: Help Preserve Our Shared Lake Access. The photo showed my dock—my actual dock—with the caption, Traditionally Open to All.
Traditionally, my patience was longer. Not anymore. I printed a sign and mounted it directly above the dock stairs: Private Property. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. Including Clipboard Carriers.
The next day, Skyler returned accompanied by her faithful lieutenants—the same women with matching visors, now joined by a man who looked like he ironed his jeans. They stood in formation like a suburban tribunal.
"Benjamin," Skyler said in her diplomat voice, "we need to talk about optics."
"Optics?"
"Yes. You've created an unwelcoming aesthetic."
"Those signs send a negative message."
"They send an accurate one."
She took a deep breath. "You're making this difficult. We could have been friends."
"I already have friends," I said. "They don't come with bylaws."
Her smile cracked for the first time. "If you won't cooperate voluntarily, I'll have to file a formal notice of obstruction."