Have you ever stared directly into the Arizona sun in the middle of August? Don't. Seriously, I mean it. It hurts in a way that makes your retinas feel like they're being gently microwaved on the defrost setting.
But you know what honestly hurts significantly more than temporary blindness? A $5,000 homeowners association fine for trying to keep a freak apocalyptic monsoon from turning your living room into an indoor municipal swimming pool. My name is Jack and I live in Scottsdale, Arizona. Specifically, I live in a beige, soul-sucking subdivision called Whispering Pines.
Let me clear something up right away. There are no pines here. None. I haven't heard a single pine whisper in the five years I've owned this house.
What we have is gravel, cacti that look like they're flipping you off, and a homeowners association board that wields more unchecked tyrannical power than most sovereign nations.
It started on a Tuesday. The sky had bruised to a deep, angry purple the night before, and the desert had unleashed one of those rare, violent monsoons that dumps two months' worth of rain in exactly 45 minutes. My roof, which was apparently made of stale graham crackers and optimism by the lowest bidding contractor in 1999, decided it had had enough. At 2:00 a. m., I woke up to the sound of water aggressively drumming onto my kitchen island.
I did what any rational, panic-stricken homeowner would do. I hauled myself up into the attic, found the source of the leak, and the next morning, as soon as the sun came up and started baking the damp earth into a sauna, I climbed onto the roof. I didn't have time to wait for the insurance adjuster to leisurely make his way out here. I had to protect my property.
So, I took a heavy-duty woven silver tarp, the really thick, industrial kind you use to cover a boat, and I secured it tightly over the damaged section of shingles using roofing nails and about 10 lb of silicone sealant. It wasn't pretty. It was, in fact, incredibly reflective and aggressively silver against the sea of dull, mandated desert sand shingles. But it worked.
The house was dry. I figured I had a week, maybe two, before the roofers could come out and do a proper patch job. I figured wrong. I was standing on my front lawn, wiping a mixture of sweat and roofing tar off my forehead with the back of my hand, admiring my handiwork.
That's when I heard the unmistakable rhythmic clicking of orthotic sandals hitting the pavement. It was Brenda. Brenda was the president of the Whispering Pines HOA. She was a woman who looked like her primary diet consisted of unsweetened lemon juice and grievances.
She always carried a brushed aluminum clipboard. I don't know why it had to be brushed aluminum, but it caught the glare of the sun perfectly, much like my new tarp. She marched up my driveway, stopping precisely where the concrete met the approved 2-inch layer of decorative Sedona red gravel."Jack," she said.
It wasn't a greeting. It was an accusation."Morning, Brenda," I replied, forcing a painfully tight smile."Quite a storm last night, huh?
Caught a bit of a leak, but I got it handled." Brenda didn't look at me. She tilted her head back, her oversized polarized sunglasses reflecting the blinding silver rectangle on my roof. She let out a sigh that sounded like a tire slowly losing air. She unclipped a pen from her clipboard.
Click. Click."Jack, what is that?" she asked, her voice dripping with the kind of condescension usually reserved for explaining basic math to a toddler."It's a tarp, Brenda, to keep the water out.
The roof leaked." "A tarp?" she repeated, tasting the word and clearly finding it offensive."A highly reflective, unauthorized, non-compliant, aesthetically disastrous tarp." "It's temporary," I said, my patience already beginning to evaporate in the 95-degree morning heat."I've already filed the claim with State Farm. An adjuster is coming next Tuesday.
The roofers will be here the week after. And it's just to stop the drywall from turning to mush." Brenda vigorously scribbled something on her aluminum clipboard."We don't do temporary in Whispering Pines, Jack. You signed the CC&Rs when you moved in.
You are well aware of the architectural guidelines, section 8, paragraph 4, subsection B. All roofing repairs must utilize pre-approved materials matching the existing aesthetic." "Brenda, it's an emergency patch to prevent structural water damage," I argued, stepping closer."Are you telling me I should just let the rain destroy the inside of my house to maintain the aesthetic of the neighborhood?" She finally looked at me, lowering her sunglasses just a fraction so I could see the absolute void of empathy in her eyes."I'm telling you that you are in violation of the community standards.
That thing is an eyesore. It is reflecting sunlight directly into Mrs. Gable's sunroom across the street. You have 24 hours to remove the unapproved, highly reflective roofing material, or you will be fined.
"Fined? I laughed, a short, sharp bark of disbelief."You're going to fine me for mitigating a disaster? "Five hundred dollars," she said, her voice entirely flat."Five hundred bucks? For a tarp?
"Per day, Jack. She ripped a piece of paper off her clipboard. It was a fluorescent pink carbon copy slip."Five hundred dollars per day, retroactive to the moment I observed the violation, which was 10 minutes ago.
Remove it by tomorrow morning. Use an approved desert sand or coyote brown temporary cover if you must, though I doubt you'll find one, or the fines will accrue. If they reach $5,000, well, we will place a lien on your property." She held the pink slip out to me. I just stared at it.
I didn't take it."I'm not taking that," I said. Brenda smirked. It was a terrifying expression.
She stepped past me, walked right up to my custom mahogany front door, and peeled the backing off the sticker. She slapped the fluorescent pink violation notice directly onto the wood, pressing it down hard so the adhesive really bit into the grain."Have a compliant day, Jack," she said, turning on her orthotic heels and clicking her way back down the driveway. I stood there for a long time.
The Arizona sun beat down on my neck. I looked at the pink sticker on my beautiful door. I looked at the silver tarp on my roof. And then, a very specific, very cold kind of rage settled into my chest.