We had barely settled into our new rental when Lindsey made her grand appearance. The moment our moving boxes hit the floor, there she was – pastel perfection personified, balancing a tray of immaculate chocolate chip cookies with the precision of a military drill sergeant. Her smile was wide, but her eyes told a different story. They darted past us, scanning our half-unpacked living room with the intensity of a detective at a crime scene.
“Welcome to the neighborhood!” she chirped, her voice dripping with the kind of forced cheer that instantly puts you on edge. The cookies were just her opening move. Within minutes, she’d pivoted to her real agenda: the neighborhood’s sacred “one car per driveway” rule. Never mind that our two vehicles fit comfortably on the concrete. Never mind that we were temporary residents. Lindsey had rules to enforce, and by God, she would enforce them.
Three days later, the sound of grinding metal jolted us awake before dawn. We stumbled outside in pajamas to find our cars halfway onto tow trucks, while Lindsey watched from the sidewalk like a general surveying a conquered battlefield, her lavender robe flapping in the morning breeze as she sipped her coffee with visible satisfaction.
That’s when we let her in on the joke.
“You realize you just cost yourself twenty-five grand, right?” I asked, nodding toward the nearly invisible decal on my rear windshield. The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might faint right there on her perfectly manicured lawn.
Turns out, interfering with undercover federal operations carries a hefty price tag. The look on Lindsey’s face when the agent showed up at her door the next morning – her “Live, Laugh, Love” mug shattering on the porch tiles as the reality of her $25,000 mistake sank in – was worth every second of the early morning wake-up call.
