Mike joined in, his booming baritone echoing off the pergola. “And then the guy says that’s not a hammer.” We were improvising nonsense. But the effect was immediate. The front door across the street opened. Brenda stepped out. She was wearing her patrol outfit again. Visor, sunglasses, clipboard. She walked to the edge of her driveway and stared at my house. She craned her neck. She took a step left. She took a step right. She was trying to see through the slats. “She can’t see us,” Mike whispered grinning. “It’s killing her.” “She’s getting closer,” I reported. Brenda walked to the edge of the street. She was squinting. She pulled out her phone. She tried to take a picture. But all she would get was a picture of a nice wooden wall.
“Time for phase two,” Mike said. “The toast. To the new deck,” Mike shouted raising his glass of iced tea so it was visible above the privacy screen for just a second. “To the deck,” I shouted back. Brenda flinched. She looked furious. She couldn’t verify if we were drinking alcohol. She couldn’t verify if we were loitering or working. She had no data. She stood there for a solid 5 minutes just staring. Then she marched up to the edge of my lawn. “Hey,” she shouted. “Hey.” I stayed silent. Mike put a finger to his lips. “I know you’re in there,” Brenda yelled. “I can hear you. You need a permit for a gathering of more than 10 people.” “There’s two of us,” I whispered to Mike. “Ignore her,”
Mike whispered back. “I’m calling the code enforcer,” she screamed. “That wall is too high. It exceeds the visual variance.” Mike leaned over to me. “It’s exactly 6 ft. Standard fence height. Totally legal.” We didn’t answer. We just clinked our glasses together. Clink. The sound drove her over the edge. She took a step onto my grass, then another. She was now fully on my property, marching toward the deck, phone raised like a weapon. “Smile,” Mike whispered. “You’re on camera.” The little black lantern on the post blinked once imperceptibly. Brenda marched right up to the privacy screen and tried to peer through the crack. “What are you doing in there?” she hissed. “Drinking tea, Brenda,” I said calmly, not standing up. “Would you like some?” She jumped back, startled by how close my voice was. “You— You are provoking me. This structure is an eyesore. It’s aggressive.” “It’s wood,” I said. “It’s inanimate. Please get off my lawn.”
“I have a right to inspect potential code violations,” she claimed. Which was absolutely not true. “You are trespassing,” I said. “And you are being recorded.” “Recorded?” She looked around wildly. She looked at the lanterns. She didn’t clock them as cameras. “You’re bluffing. You’re a menace.” She kicked, actually kicked, one of the new planters I had put at the base of the stairs. It tipped over, spilling dirt onto the walkway. “That,” Mike said, his voice low and hard, “was property damage.” Brenda realized she might have crossed a line. She froze, looked at the spilled dirt, then looked at the wooden wall. She huffed, straightened her visor, and turned around. “I’ll have this torn down by Monday,” she shouted over her shoulder as she retreated. We watched her go. Mike looked at me. “Did we get it?” I pulled up the app on my phone. I rewound the footage. There it was, in crisp 4K definition. Brenda walking onto the property. Brenda screaming. Brenda kicking the planter. “We got it,” I said. “Trespassing and destruction of property. It’s minor, but it’s leverage.” “Save that video,” Mike said. “Back it up to three different clouds.” “Done.” We spent the rest of the afternoon in peace.
