The first time I saw the red Porsche sitting in my driveway, I assumed someone had made a mistake.
It was early Monday morning, just after seven.
I had barely finished my first cup of coffee when I stepped out of my house and noticed a bright red Porsche 911 parked directly in front of my garage.
For several seconds, I simply stared at it.
My driveway wasn't shared.
It wasn't public parking.
It wasn't part of the street.
It belonged to me.
More importantly, the garage behind that Porsche wasn't a decoration. It was my workplace.
I had spent almost twenty years repairing cars, and although I no longer operated a large commercial garage, I still handled private jobs from home. Customers brought me trucks, vans, sedans, motorcycles, and occasionally old cars that required more patience than money.
My tools were inside that garage.
My lift was inside that garage.
The compressor, welding equipment, diagnostic computers, spare parts, and nearly everything I used to earn a living were inside that garage.
So when someone blocked the door, they weren't simply taking up a parking space.
They were blocking my work.
I walked closer.
The Porsche was beautiful from a distance.
Up close, however, I noticed several things that didn't fit.
The driver's-side door had a shallow dent.
The windshield had a crack near the lower corner.
One of the side mirrors looked newer than the other.
The tires weren't matching.
And there was a strange scrape underneath the rear bumper.
I looked around.
Nobody was in sight.
I knocked on the driver's window.
Nothing.
I waited.
Still nothing.
Finally, I went back inside and called one of my customers.
"Can you wait about thirty minutes?" I asked.
"Everything okay?"
"Someone parked in my driveway."
"Again?"
That word made me pause.
"Again?"
My customer laughed.
"I thought you knew. There's always some red sports car around your street lately."
Apparently, I was the last person to know.
Twenty minutes later, a young man came walking down the sidewalk.
He was probably in his late twenties.
Blond hair.
Designer sunglasses.
Expensive sneakers.
A black hoodie that looked like it cost more than some people's monthly rent.
He walked toward the Porsche without the slightest sense of urgency.
When he saw me standing beside the garage, he smiled.
"Morning."
I pointed at the car.
"Is this yours?"
"Yeah."
"You parked in my driveway."
He looked at the concrete beneath his shoes.
Then at the garage.
Then back at me.
"Yeah. I know."
There wasn't even an apology.
I tried to remain calm.
"You need to move it."
He pulled out his phone.
"I'm just visiting my mom."
"Then park in front of her house."
He shrugged.
"There's no room."
"There is a whole street."
He smiled.
"I'll only be a little while."
I stepped aside.
"I have a customer coming."
He looked at my garage.
"You work from home?"
"Yes."
"Then you should probably schedule your customers around parking."
I stared at him.
I honestly thought I had misunderstood.
"Excuse me?"
He laughed.
"I'm just saying. It's not a big deal."
I looked at the Porsche again.
"It is to me."
He finally opened the door.
"Relax."
Then he drove away.
I thought that was the end.
It wasn't.
The next morning, the Porsche was back.
Same driveway.
Same position.
Same casual attitude.
This time I had already opened the garage when I saw it.
I walked outside.
The young man was standing beside the Porsche, drinking coffee.
"You've got to be kidding me."
He looked at me.
"Morning."
"You can't park here."
"I did yesterday."
"And I told you not to do it again."
He smiled.
"You said that."
"Then why are you here?"
He took a sip.
"Because I need somewhere to park."
I pointed toward the street.
"Not here."
He laughed.
"You're really serious about this driveway thing."
"It's my property."
"You're acting like I stole something."
"You've blocked my garage twice."
"You're still alive."
I felt my patience disappearing.
"Move the car."
He stared at me for a moment.
Then he got inside.
The Porsche rolled backward.
For one second I thought he was finally leaving.
Instead, he stopped at the end of the driveway, turned the wheel, and parked across the entrance.
He lowered the window.
"There. Now you can get around it."
Then he walked away.
I looked at the car.
I looked at the garage.
Then I looked at the empty street.
That was when I realized this wasn't an accident.
He was doing it because he could.
And, more importantly, he believed I wouldn't do anything about it.
By Wednesday, I had started keeping records.
Thursday, I took photographs.
Friday, I installed a camera.
By the following Monday, the Porsche had appeared six times.
And that was when his mother finally came to my door.
Her name was Patricia.
I learned that much later.
At the time, I only knew her as the woman who arrived wearing oversized sunglasses, carrying an expensive handbag, and looking at me as if I had personally offended her family.
She didn't introduce herself.
She simply said:
"Why are you harassing my son?"
I blinked.
"I'm not harassing anyone."
"He says you've been confronting him every day."
"Because he keeps parking in my driveway."
She glanced toward the driveway.
The Porsche was there again.
"He's visiting friends."
"Then he can park somewhere else."
She folded her arms.
"You need to be more neighborly."
I almost laughed.
"Neighborly?"
"Yes."
"Your son is blocking my garage."