I smiled, nodded, went back inside. That should have been the end of it. About a week later, I’m pulling my trash cans in, maybe 10 minutes after pickup, and Brenda walks past, doesn’t stop, just calls out, “FYI, those were about 6 in past the curb line this morning. They’re pretty strict about that.” 6 in. I didn’t measure my trash cans.
I’m guessing Brenda did. 2 weeks after that, I get an email, not to me, from the HOA. A general notice about a basketball hoop complaint on the street. Someone had one too close to the sidewalk. Wasn’t mine. I don’t own a basketball hoop, but I was copied on the email for no apparent reason. I checked the CC list.
Eight homeowners. I didn’t know why I was on it. I still don’t. None of this was a big deal. That’s the thing. None of it individually was worth getting upset about. Trash cans, a basketball hoop, a comment here, a copied email there, but there was a rhythm to it. Not escalation, just presence. Brenda was always somewhere nearby, always noticing something, always just involved enough to make you aware she was paying attention.
Frank had warned me, and I was keeping mental notes, but I wasn’t worried. I figured she was all bark. I was about to find out she had a bite, too. It just wasn’t as strong as she thought. It was a Saturday. I’d done a Home Depot run. Some lumber, a few boxes of screws, a can of stain I probably didn’t need, but grabbed anyway.
pulled into my driveway, backed the truck up to the side so I could unload from the bed without carrying everything around the house. Neighbor across the street was out washing his car, waved at me. I waved back. Normal morning, normal weekend. Nothing about that day felt like the start of anything. 4 days later, I opened my mailbox and found an envelope from the HOA.
