Tom also told me that as she was leaving, she glanced over at my house. He couldn’t say what was in her expression. It was too far and the light was bad, but he watched her stand there for a moment looking at my house. And then she got into her car, her Lexus, newly liberated from my garage, and drove away.
I like to think that in that moment she understood. Not just that she’d lost, people like Sandra always find a way to frame a loss as someone else’s fault. But that she understood on some level that you can’t spend your life treating the rules as a weapon for as long as you feel like it, and then act surprised when the rules finally catch up to you. You reap what you sow, Sandra.
I got a new HOA president after that. His name was Gerald. He was a retired landscape architect, and his primary passion in the role was organizing an annual neighborhood beautification weekend where people planted flowers and picked up litter and ate sandwiches together. He sent one email per month. He didn’t own a measuring tape.
My mailbox post leans approximately 3° off vertical. Nobody cares.
And every morning when I back my car out of my garage my garage, where no uninvited Lexus will ever park again, I hit the button, listen to the door roll down behind me, and drive to my day with the specific quiet satisfaction of a man whose home is completely and entirely his own.
