When my wife, Emily, and I bought our house in Cedar Ridge, we thought the hardest part of becoming homeowners was going to be the mortgage.
We were wrong.
The mortgage was predictable.
The property taxes were predictable.
The occasional plumbing problem, the broken dishwasher, the patch of grass that refused to grow in the backyard—all of that was predictable.
What we never predicted was that our biggest problem would be a man with a gigantic white pickup truck who believed that becoming president of our homeowners association had somehow turned him into the unofficial mayor, sheriff, parking authority, and owner of every inch of pavement within three blocks of his house.
His name was Richard Coleman.
Everyone called him Rick.
I called him trouble.
When Emily and I first moved into Cedar Ridge, Rick was simply another neighbor.
I had seen him around.
He was a tall man in his early fifties with silver hair, an expensive watch, and the kind of permanent expression that suggested the world had personally disappointed him.
His truck was impossible to miss.
It was a lifted white pickup with oversized tires, dark tinted windows, chrome running boards, and an exhaust system that sounded like someone had attached a thunderstorm to the tailpipe.
The truck was enormous.
It was so tall that when Rick drove past our living-room windows, I could see the roof of it from inside the house.
Emily joked that if he ever got tired of driving it, he could probably park it in our kitchen.
At the time, neither of us knew how close that joke would eventually come to reality.
Our house sat on a corner lot near the community center.
That location was one of the reasons we bought it.
The community center was attractive, with a small clubhouse, a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a grassy area where children played in the summer.
The neighborhood itself was quiet.
Most families had lived there for years.
People waved when they drove past.
Children rode bicycles in the evenings.
Older couples walked their dogs after dinner.
It felt peaceful.
The house had a two-car garage and a wide concrete driveway.
There was enough room for both of our cars, plus another vehicle if we needed it.
The garage door opened directly toward the street.
That detail would become extremely important.
During our first few months, everything was normal.
We introduced ourselves to the neighbors.
We planted flowers.
Emily painted the front door.
I installed shelves in the garage.
We attended the occasional community event.
The HOA existed, of course, but I barely thought about it.
The monthly fee was reasonable.
The rules seemed mostly concerned with ordinary things like lawn maintenance, trash cans, exterior paint, and keeping abandoned vehicles off private property.
Then the annual HOA election happened.
I didn't pay much attention.
That was my first mistake.
Rick Coleman ran for president.
He won.
At first, I thought nothing of it.
A few weeks later, however, I began noticing changes.
The community center suddenly had more meetings.
There were more signs.
More notices.
More emails.
More rules.
More reminders.
And Rick seemed to be everywhere.
He attended every meeting.
He sent messages about minor violations.
He personally inspected lawns.
He complained about basketball hoops.
He criticized holiday decorations.
He even sent a notice to a neighbor because the neighbor's trash bin was apparently visible from the sidewalk for an additional seventeen minutes after collection.
People laughed about it.
Then they stopped laughing.
Rick took the position seriously.
Far too seriously.
The first problem between us happened on an ordinary Saturday morning.
Emily and I had planned to drive to the hardware store.
I went into the garage, grabbed my keys, and pressed the remote.
The garage door began rising.
Then it stopped.
I heard a dull metallic vibration.
At first, I thought the motor had malfunctioned.
I pressed the button again.
Nothing.
I stepped outside through the side door.
And there it was.
Rick's white pickup.
Parked directly across my garage.
Not near it.
Not beside it.
Directly across it.
The front bumper was only a few feet from the garage door.
I stood there staring at it.
"You're kidding me," I muttered.
The street wasn't full.
There were at least six empty parking spaces within fifty yards.
But Rick had chosen the exact spot that blocked my garage.
I walked over to the community center.
A meeting was taking place inside.
I opened the door.
About ten people were sitting around folding tables.
Rick looked up.
"Can I help you?"
"Whose truck is parked across my garage?"
Rick sighed.
"Mine."
"I need to get out."
He looked at his watch.
"We're in the middle of a meeting."
"I understand that. I still need to leave."
He leaned back.
"There isn't anywhere else to park."
I pointed toward the street.
"There are empty spaces down there."
He glanced through the window.
"I have equipment in the truck."
I looked at the enormous pickup.
"What equipment?"
Rick's face hardened.
"HOA documents."
I almost laughed.
"You need an entire parking space directly in front of my garage for paperwork?"
One of the other board members looked down at the table.
Someone else coughed.
Rick stood.
"Look, I'll move it."
"Thank you."
"But you need to understand something."
I waited.
"This is a community facility. Sometimes people have to make minor accommodations."
"I don't have a problem making accommodations."
"Good."
"I have a problem being unable to leave my own garage."
His jaw tightened.
He walked outside.
The truck roared to life.
He moved it forward just enough for my garage door to open.
Then he stopped.
I stared at him.
He rolled down his window.
"There."
"That's still blocking the driveway."
"I moved it."
"By about six feet."
"You can get out."
I looked at the narrow opening.
Technically, I could.
Barely.
I got into my car.
Emily watched from the front door.
I slowly backed out.
My mirrors had only inches of clearance.
When I returned later, Rick's truck was gone.
I thought the problem was over.
I was wrong.
The next week, he did it again.
Then again.
Then again.
Each time, he had a different excuse.
A meeting.
A board inspection.
A community event.
A delivery.
A contractor.
One Saturday he told me that the area in front of my garage was "effectively communal parking."
I stared at him.
"My garage is private."
"The street is public."
"Exactly."
He smiled.
"Then we're on the same page."
We were not.
The fourth time it happened, I finally lost my patience.
Rick had once again parked his truck across my garage while attending a neighborhood committee meeting.
I walked into the community center.
"Rick."
He looked up.
"Yes?"
"Move your truck."
He smiled.
"You really need to learn patience."
"I've been patient four times."
"Then be patient a fifth."
"No."
The room became quiet.
I continued.
"If you block my garage again, I'm calling a tow company."
Rick laughed.
Not nervously.
Not awkwardly.
He laughed directly in my face.
"You won't."
"I will."
"This is an HOA-controlled neighborhood."
"The street belongs to the city."
"You don't understand how this community works."
"I understand that I own my house and my garage."
Rick leaned forward.
"I am the HOA president."
I shrugged.
"That's nice."
His smile disappeared.
He stood.
"Watch yourself."
I looked directly at him.
"You should take your own advice."
I walked out.
Two days later, the first violation notice arrived.
Our trash cans had supposedly remained outside too long.
The fine was fifty dollars.
Emily and I checked the collection schedule.
The trash had been collected that morning.
The notice claimed the violation had occurred two days earlier.
I appealed.
The appeal was denied.
Rick signed the decision.
A week later, another notice arrived.
Weeds.
Emily had spent the previous weekend cleaning the flower beds.
I took photographs.
I sent them to the board.
The response was simple.
"The violation was observed prior to corrective action."
Another fifty dollars.
Then came a third.
The mailbox.
A fourth.
The driveway.
A fifth.
A sixth.
Every fine was small enough to seem ridiculous.
But together, they became expensive.
More importantly, I understood the message.
Rick was telling me that he could make my life uncomfortable whenever he wanted.
He believed the HOA gave him that power.