"How cheap?"
"Six hundred dollars."
She blinked.
"And what are you going to do with it?"
I smiled.
"Nothing."
"That sounds suspicious."
"Maybe."
Then I kept scrolling.
I found a second vehicle.
A giant old sedan.
Faded yellow paint.
Peeling vinyl roof.
Rust around the wheel wells.
The seller wanted five hundred dollars.
I showed Emily.
She stared at the screen.
"You've lost your mind."
"Probably."
She sat down.
"What exactly are you planning?"
I finally told her.
She listened.
Then she began laughing.
Not a small laugh.
A genuine, uncontrollable laugh.
"That's horrible."
"It's legal."
"That's not the same thing."
"I know."
She looked at the pictures again.
"You really want to buy those?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
I pointed toward the window.
Rick's white truck was parked across our garage.
"Because he thinks he owns the space."
Emily looked at the truck.
Then at me.
A slow smile appeared.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Let's buy the ugly cars."
The first car was a turquoise minivan.
Calling it turquoise was generous.
The original color might have been turquoise.
After years of sun exposure, dirt, rain, and neglect, it looked more like the color of a swimming pool that had not been cleaned since 1998.
The sliding door didn't work.
One window had duct tape across it.
The seats smelled like mildew.
The dashboard had a crack running across it.
The tires were old but usable.
The engine, surprisingly, started.
The seller looked embarrassed.
"Are you sure you want it?"
"Yes."
"You know about the door?"
"Yes."
"The air conditioner doesn't work."
"That's fine."
"The radio only gets one station."
"Fine."
"The trunk latch sticks."
"Fine."
The man stared at me.
"You really want this thing?"
"Yes."
He handed me the title.
I handed him six hundred dollars.
I drove away.
The second car was even worse.
It was a large sedan from the 1980s.
The paint was faded yellow.
The roof covering was peeling.
The exhaust rattled.
One headlight was cloudy.
But the engine started.
And the brakes worked.
That was enough.
I paid five hundred dollars.
Then I registered both vehicles.
I obtained insurance.
I made sure everything was legal.
I wasn't interested in creating a problem for myself.
The cars needed to be legitimate.
That was the entire point.
For several days, nothing happened.
Then Friday arrived.
The night before our vacation.
The HOA had scheduled a planning meeting.
Rick was expected to attend.
I knew what would happen.
At 6:40 p.m., his white truck appeared at the end of the street.
I watched from the living-room window.
He drove past three empty spaces.
Then two.
Then one.
And stopped directly across our garage.
Emily stood beside me.
"He's doing it."
"Yes."
She folded her arms.
"Are we really going through with this?"
I looked at her.
"Do you want to?"
She smiled.
"I absolutely want to."
We waited until Rick entered the community center.
Then I handed Emily a set of keys.
She looked at them.
"The van?"
"Yes."
"You drive the sedan?"
"Yes."
We walked several blocks to where I had parked the vehicles.
Emily climbed into the minivan.
I got into the yellow sedan.
We drove back.
Rick's truck sat directly in front of our garage.
The street was perfectly straight.
There was enough room on either side.
I positioned the minivan in front of Rick's truck.
Emily carefully backed it toward the white pickup.
She stopped.
I walked over.
There was barely any space between the bumpers.
"Perfect," I said.
Then I moved the sedan behind Rick's truck.
I slowly reversed.
A few inches.
Then another few.
Then another.
I stopped when there was almost no room left.
Emily got out.
She looked at the arrangement.
"That's beautiful."
I laughed.
Rick's truck was trapped.
But the important part was that we hadn't blocked anyone else's driveway.
We hadn't blocked a fire hydrant.
We hadn't parked illegally.
We hadn't touched Rick's vehicle.
We had simply parked two registered, insured vehicles legally on a public street.
And we had left them there.
We went back inside.
I checked the doorbell camera.
It had a clear view.
I adjusted the motion settings.
Every movement would send an alert to my phone.
Emily brought our suitcases downstairs.
"You realize we're leaving the country tomorrow."
"I know."
"And that truck is going to sit there."
"Yes."
"For three weeks."
"Yes."
She looked at me.
"What if the police do something?"
"They can inspect the cars."
"What if the HOA tries to fine us?"
"They can try."
"What if they tow them?"
"The tow company already told us they won't."
"And what if Rick gets really angry?"
I smiled.
"Then he'll finally understand how we felt."
At 9:15 p.m., we left for the airport.
Our ride pulled away.
Cedar Ridge disappeared behind us.
I looked at my phone.
The camera feed showed the two ugly vehicles.
And the massive white truck trapped between them.
For the first time in months, I felt relaxed.
I had no idea what was happening at the community center.
But I suspected it wouldn't take long.
At the airport, we had barely reached the departure gate when my phone buzzed.
MOTION DETECTED.
I opened the camera.
Rick had walked outside.
Two board members were with him.
They were laughing.
Then Rick saw his truck.
He stopped.
The two people beside him stopped too.
Rick walked closer.
He stared at the minivan.
Then the yellow sedan.
Then his truck.
He walked around the front.
He tried to open the driver's door.
There wasn't enough room.
He walked to the back.
There wasn't enough room there either.
He stood in the middle of the street.
His shoulders rose and fell.
Then he kicked the tire of the yellow sedan.
Emily looked over my shoulder.
"Did he just kick it?"
"Yes."
"That's not very mature."
"No."
Rick walked toward our house.
He climbed the front steps.
He pressed the doorbell.
Nothing.
He knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
Harder.
I watched.
He shouted something.
The camera audio picked up only fragments.
"Move..."
"...your cars..."
"...this is..."
"...community..."
Then he returned to the street.
He called someone.
Twenty minutes later, a tow truck arrived.
Emily laughed.
"Here we go."
The driver got out.
Rick pointed aggressively at our vehicles.
The driver examined the minivan.