“But,” Miller continued, lowering his voice so Brenda couldn’t hear. “You’re upsetting the neighbors. And when the neighbors get upset, they call us. And when they call us, we have to come out here. And I really, really don’t want to come out here again today. So, can you maybe take it inside? Just for now? De-escalate the situation?” I looked at Miller. I saw the exhaustion in his eyes. I sympathized with him, I really did. But then I looked at Brenda. She was smirking. It was a tight, smug little purse of the lips that said, “I won. I control this street. I snapped my fingers and the law arrived to chastise you.” If I went inside now, it was over. If I retreated to my living room, she would own the porch. Next week, she’d decide I wasn’t allowed to park in my driveway. The week after that, she’d decide my curtains were the wrong shade of white. This wasn’t about the porch. This was about dominance.
“No,” I said. Miller sighed. “Sir?” “No,” I said again, louder. “I appreciate that you guys have a job to do, but I have a mortgage to pay, which I do every month. This is my property. I am not blasting music. I am not naked. I am sitting. Sitting is not a crime. If she calls you again, that is harassment on her part, not mine. You can tell her to stop wasting police resources.” I walked back up the steps, sat down in my rocking chair, picked up my lukewarm coffee, and stared directly at Brenda. “Mr. Bennett,” Miller started. “Am I under arrest?” I asked, taking a sip of the terrible coffee. “No.” “Am I being detained?” “No.” “Then I am going to finish my chapter.” I opened the book. I didn’t read a single word. I just held it up. The cops stood there for a moment. Miller looked at Brenda, who was now vibrating with a frequency that could shatter glass. “He’s sitting back down!” she screamed. “Arrest him! Failure to comply! He’s resisting!” “Ma’am,” Miller said, turning to her. “He is on his own property. He is allowed to sit there. Please stop calling 911 unless there is an emergency.” “This is an emergency,” Brenda wailed. “The moral fabric of this neighborhood is disintegrating.” “Have a good day, ma’am. Have a good day, Mr. Bennett.”
The officers walked back to their car. I watched them go. Brenda stood on the sidewalk, phone still recording, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. She didn’t leave immediately. She stood there for a full 3 minutes filming me sitting. I gave her a little wave. A small, polite, neighborly wave. She hissed, actually hissed like a cat, and stomped back across the street to her house. She slammed her front door so hard I felt the vibration through the pavement. I sat there for another hour. I didn’t even want to be outside anymore. It was getting humid, and the bugs were starting to come out. But I couldn’t move. I had to hold the line. When I finally went inside, I tossed the cold coffee in the sink and slumped against the counter. My heart was pounding. I hate confrontation. I’m a data guy. I like numbers. Numbers make sense. Numbers don’t call the police on you for reading. But I knew this wasn’t the end. Brenda was the type of person who had the non-emergency line on speed dial and the code enforcement officer’s home number memorized.
