The first time the red Porsche showed up in my driveway, I thought it was a mistake.
The second time, I thought it was disrespect.
By the twenty-seventh time, I knew it was a game.
A blond, spoiled man from down the street kept parking in front of my garage like my property was his private valet spot. His mother defended him every single time, no matter how clear the evidence was, no matter how many times I asked him to stop.
So I gave him a warning. Then I gave him a sign. Then I gave him one final chance.
When the tow truck finally lifted that Porsche, something fell out from underneath it. And suddenly, simple payback turned into a police investigation.
I worked on cars for a living. Not in some shiny dealership with free coffee and glass walls. I mean real work: grease on my hands, busted knuckles, late nights, stubborn engines, emergency calls.
My driveway was part of that work. Customers dropped cars off there. I kept tools in my garage. Sometimes I had to move fast when someone needed a tow, brake work, or a repair before morning.
So when a red Porsche 911 appeared in my driveway one Monday morning, blocking my garage door, I was annoyed but calm. I figured someone had made a mistake.
I did not know it was the beginning of a nightmare.
The guy came jogging over about twenty minutes later like nothing had happened. Blond hair, designer hoodie, sunglasses, and that rich-kid walk like sidewalks were built for him personally.
I said, "You parked in my driveway."
He smiled like I had told a joke.
"Relax, man. I was just visiting my mom's friend."
I pointed at my garage. "You blocked my tools."