Brenda's Greatest Hits (Prior Violations):
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Trash cans left on the curb 12 minutes past pickup.
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Fence posts measuring $2 \frac{1}{8}$ inches instead of the regulation 2 inches.
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Mailbox fonts that weren't "Willowbrook Approved."
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Grass exceeding the 2.5-inch maximum (she literally measured my yard with a ruler).
"Just maintaining community standards," she would say with that arctic smile.
Two weeks before the garage door incident, she marched over while I was bleeding brake lines. The screech of my impact wrench had offended her delicate sensibilities.
"Excuse me, but there's a noise ordinance. No power tools after 6:00 p.m."
I wiped my hands on a shop rag and stayed diplomatic. "Actually, city ordinance permits hobby work until 9:00 p.m. Happy to show you the documentation."
"Well, we'll see about that. This kind of industrial activity affects property values." She spat the words out like I was running a meth lab, not restoring automotive history.
The real catalyst, however, was Brenda's monthly pool party extravaganza that Saturday morning. Her backyard was filled with neighborhood wives sipping mimosas. Through my garage walls, I heard her voice cut through the artificial chatter like fingernails on glass.
"Oh, that's my new Camaro! I just bought it from a classic car dealer in Phoenix. $45,000, but totally worth it. They're shipping it next week."
My socket wrench clattered to the concrete. I peaked outside. She was showing people stock photos on her phone of a car identical to mine, basking in their impressed coos. That afternoon, needing brake fluid, I fired up my baby and backed out slowly. The 350's rumble echoed off the houses like mechanical thunder.