"Fill up my Range Rover, Marcus," she demanded, crossing her arms. "As HOA president, I shouldn’t have to pay for gas when residents have fuel available. It's only fair for all the unpaid hours I put into this community."
I stared at her for a second, certain I had misheard.
"No."
Her expression tightened. "What did you say?"
"I said no. This is private fuel on private property. It isn’t an HOA resource. Now, please get off my driveway."
Brenda's eyes narrowed. She immediately pulled out her phone and dialed.
"I need police assistance," she told the 911 dispatcher, her voice dripping with manufactured panic. "I am at Willowbrook Estates. There is a man here being highly aggressive, hostile, and threatening me. Send officers immediately."
The smell of diesel hung in the air while I watched her calmly manufacture an emergency out of being denied free gasoline. What made that call one of the worst decisions of her life was simple: Brenda had absolutely no idea who she was talking to.
Ten minutes later, a county sheriff’s cruiser pulled up, lights flashing. Two deputies stepped out. Brenda immediately rushed toward them, pointing an acrylic nail at me.
"Officers, thank goodness," she gasped, playing the victim perfectly. "I came to inspect an unpermitted fuel hazard, and he became violent! He threatened me when I told him he had to dismantle it."
The older deputy, a man whose name tag read Davis, looked at me. I hadn't moved from the front of my garage. My hands were still slightly greasy.