And that’s when the idea hit me. Not all at once. Not like some big dramatic moment. More like a quiet thought that slipped in and refused to leave. What if I didn’t fight the system? What if I owned it? At first, I laughed it off. It sounded ridiculous. Who buys a street? That’s not a normal solution to a parking problem. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense in a strange, almost uncomfortable way.
Because if the HOA didn’t own the road and the city didn’t own it, then whoever did made the rules. And for the first time since this whole thing started, I saw a way to flip the situation completely. So, I reached out to the trust. The first conversation was surprisingly straightforward. No emotion, no curiosity about why I wanted it. just numbers, paperwork, process.
To them, it was just another asset, something sitting on a spreadsheet that hadn’t been touched in years. I made an offer, not low, not aggressive, just fair enough to make it worth their time, but still within reach for me if I stretched a little. It wasn’t a small decision. I had to move money around, dip into savings I’d been holding on to for years, delay some plans I’d had.
But every time I hesitated, I thought about that empty curb, about the missed job, about Carl standing there smiling like he owned something he didn’t. And that pushed me forward. The process took about 2 months. Back and forth paperwork, title verification, legal checks, all the boring parts that make something like this real.
And when it finally went through, it didn’t feel dramatic. There was no big moment, no celebration, just a document, a signature, and a quiet confirmation. I own the street. I didn’t tell anyone. Not the neighbors, not the HOA, not even the guy at the towy yard. I just waited and then I parked my truck. Same spot, same position, like nothing had changed.
