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The lawns were perfectly symmetrical.
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The mailboxes perfectly matched.
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Everyone supposedly minded their own business.
Or so the real estate agent promised.
The Camaro wasn't a midlife crisis. I found her at an estate sale eighteen months ago. She was a rusted-out corpse most sane people would have hauled to the scrapyard for a quick thirty bucks. But underneath the decay, I saw pure American muscle waiting to breathe again. $3,200 later, she was mine.
Every weekend became my personal resurrection project. I lost myself in the meditation of mechanical perfection, completing:
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A rebuilt 350 small-block engine.
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A Turbo 400 transmission installation.
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A complete suspension overhaul.
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A four-month paint job of endless sanding, priming, and wet-sanding.
I documented every bolt, gasket, and drop of sweat with photos. I kept every receipt in a three-ring binder thicker than a phone book. Enter Brenda Wilson: the human embodiment of an HOA fever dream.
Brenda moved to Willowbrook five years ago and immediately crowned herself queen. A real estate agent who drove a pristine white BMW, she possessed manicured nails that had never seen a hard day's work, gravity-defying highlighted hair, and a synthetic smile that could freeze antifreeze.
She ran unopposed for HOA president for three years simply because nobody else wanted neighborhood Gestapo duty. Her superpower was weaponizing paperwork.