I wasn’t even fully in the neighborhood yet. I was still driving down the hill, waving mentally at the houses I recognized, looking forward to Mom’s casserole and Dad’s stories about his tomato garden being under siege by rabbits. A peaceful homecoming. And instead, I got this circus.
The Charger landed with a jerk, tires squealing, and out stepped the man who would become internet famous in under forty-eight hours. Dale Mercer. Picture a mall cop. Now remove his training, then swap out his confidence for something he copied from a TV show. That was Dale. His sunglasses were so reflective I could see my own annoyed expression in them. His vest didn’t fit. His badge, NPA, Neighborhood Patrol Authority, looked like something ordered from an online costume shop at 2:00 a.m.
And right behind him, descending like a queen to witness her own coronation, came Brenda Lockwood. She had the same tight ponytail, the same pastel cardigan, the same I-hold-dominion-over-all-I-see posture. I swear she had a notebook in her hand before she even reached my window. She lived for this. She breathed this. Chaos and control were her twin oxygen tanks.
I took a slow sip of my warm lemon water and lowered the window halfway. I wasn’t in the mood for theatrics, and I certainly wasn’t about to entertain a fake traffic stop staged by a woman who once tried to fine my dad for having non-compliant garden gnomes. Dale cleared his throat like he expected me to salute. “Sir, you’re being stopped for a community safety inspection,” he said. “Is that so?” I replied flatly.
“I’ll need to see your license, registration, and military ID.” I blinked once. “And what jurisdiction is asking for that?” “This neighborhood,” Dale said, puffing his chest. “We’re the designated enforcement officers.” “Your HOA police,” I said. “Neighborhood Patrol Authority,” he corrected, like that made it less ridiculous. Behind him, Brenda smirked. She’d found someone gullible enough to wear a vest for her. Lord, help us all.
Then she stepped forward and pointed at my tires. “There,” she said. “Dirt residue. That’s a violation of our roadway appearance standards.” “Brenda,” I replied, “that is how dirt works.” She didn’t even blink. “Your trailer is unvetted,” she continued. “Your vehicle is unwashed. You’re entering the community in an unacceptable condition.” I opened both hands. “I’ve been in the desert for three weeks.” “And that,” she said sternly, “is not this neighborhood’s problem.”
I swear I felt my soul attempting to leave my body. Dale took a step closer, hand near a radio clipped to his vest that wasn’t even turned on. “Sir, step out of the vehicle.” “No,” I said simply. His eyebrows shot up. Brenda’s lips parted in triumph, as if she thought she had just won something. “Dale,” she said sharply. “He’s being non-compliant. Detain him.” Detain him. She said that unironically in the middle of a suburban street, with a man whose badge had more reflective plastic than authority.