She hates all three.” “You’re a diabolical man, Jason,” Mike grinned. “I’ll get the card table.” We spent the next 20 minutes setting the stage. This wasn’t just a folding table on the lawn. This was a piece of performance art. We draped a checkered tablecloth over the table. We set out a massive glass pitcher filled with ice, lemons, and sparkling water. We added a stack of red solo cups, but the coup de grace was the sign. I had printed it on 11 x 17 cardstock. In a bold, cheerful font, it read “Neighborhood Refreshment Station. Complimentary for all Oak Creek residents. Come say hi. Enjoy the porch.” Note: “Service refused to anyone named Brenda due to pending litigation regarding bad vibes.” We placed the table strategically. It was on my driveway, private property, but right at the edge where the driveway met the sidewalk.
To the uneducated eye, Brenda’s, it would look like an encroachment on the public easement. “It’s beautiful,” Mike said, stepping back to admire our work. “It screams report me.” “Let’s take our positions,” I said. It was 10:00 a.m. on a Tuesday. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. And I was sitting in my rocking chair behind the privacy screen, watching the monitor of my new security system on my iPad. Mike sat on the bench next to me. “She’s moving,” I whispered. On the screen, the front door of 405 Maple Drive opened. Brenda stepped out. She was wearing a visor and carrying a watering can, presumably to water the three petunias she allowed to live on her porch. She watered one flower. She watered the second. Then, she looked up. Her head snapped toward my house so fast I thought she might get whiplash. She dropped the watering can. It clattered onto the concrete. She didn’t even look at it. Her eyes were locked on the sign. “She sees it,” Mike narrated. “She’s reading. She’s squinting.” “Wait for the Brenda part,” I said. We watched her lips move. She read the top.
She smiled sarcastically. Then she got to the bottom. Her posture changed. It went from annoyed neighbor to tactical nuke. She stiffened. Her hands balled into fists. She took a step toward the street, realized she was in her gardening clogs, didn’t care, and kept coming. “Here we go,” I said, putting down the iPad. “Action stations.” We walked out from behind the privacy screen and stood by the lemonade table just as Brenda reached the edge of my driveway. She stopped exactly 1 in from the property line. She knew where it was. “What?” she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the sign. “Is this?” “Morning, Brenda,” I said, using my best customer service voice. “Thirsty? Oh, wait. Sorry, read the fine print.” “You cannot run a business in a residential zone,” she screamed.
