I heard the crunch of gravel long before I saw the cruiser. Mountain roads echo like long metal throats. Every sound carries, especially when the person making the call is screeching loud enough to scare wildlife two counties over. Karen stood in the middle of my driveway, waving her arms like a stranded airline marshal, shouting, “Over here. Over here. He’s the dangerous one.” Dangerous. Me. A middle-aged engineer holding nothing more than a phone and a bruised sense of patience.
The cruiser pulled up. Two officers inside. The driver stepped out first, a tall guy with the sort of calm, neutral expression worn by someone who has seen too much stupidity to react anymore. The second officer, shorter, younger, stayed by the car, hands on his utility belt, eyes scanning everything. Karen rushed toward them like she had been waiting her whole life for this moment. “Officers, arrest him immediately. He tried to assault me. He’s stealing electricity. He’s harassing community members.” Her voice cracked on the last word, like she was performing for an invisible camera. I half expected applause from the squirrels.
The taller officer held up a hand. “Ma’am, slow down. One at a time. What exactly happened?” She jabbed a finger toward me. “He attacked me because I was using the community outlet. He screamed at me and chased me through the trees. He thinks he owns this mountain.” The officer turned to me. “Sir?” I simply lifted my hand and pointed at the bright orange extension cord stretching across my porch like a fluorescent snake. If the officers followed that cord with their eyes, they would see it trailing into the woods, disappearing into a patch of shrubs and pine needles, where it continued downhill toward her property.
I spoke calmly, because someone needed to be the adult. “Officers, I own this cabin. I have the deed, the power account, everything. I found this woman trespassing and stealing electricity from that outlet.” I pointed again. “All breakers inside the cabin were off. The meter was still spinning. She plugged that in while I was off the property.” “And that’s a lie,” Karen screeched. “He rents from me. This is my community. This is our shared power.” The younger officer blinked twice. “Shared power?” “Yes,” she barked. “Mountain community rules.” Now, mind you, there is no HOA here. No association. No bylaws. Nothing except the general rule of the mountains. Respect property lines, unless you want a shotgun pointed at your truck tires. The tall officer seemed to know it. He rubbed the bridge of his nose like he was not paid enough for this.