Chapter 1 - THE FOURTEENTH TIME SHE HIT MY TRASH CAN
The first time Brenda Hollister hit my trash can, I assumed it was an accident.
By the fourteenth time, I had stopped believing in coincidence.
Every Wednesday morning at Sycamore Falls, I rolled my bin to the curb beside my driveway, exactly where the HOA guidelines allowed it.
And almost every Wednesday, Brenda’s white Cadillac Escalade somehow found it.
She lived next door.
Her driveway angled away from mine.
There was no practical reason for her rear bumper to cross onto my property.
Still, she clipped the bin.
Plastic cracked.
Garbage spilled.
Then, usually before I finished cleaning it up, an HOA violation appeared.
Improper refuse placement.
Sanitation violation.
Obstruction.
Fourteen notices.
Total fines and fees:
$2,460.
My name is Dale Pruitt.
I’m sixty-four, retired, widowed, and spent thirty years designing mechanical equipment meant to survive impact loads.
My late wife Caroline used to say that made me a terrible person to argue with.
“You never get angry,” she’d complain. “You start measuring things.”
She was right.
So after violation fourteen, I measured.
Distance from curb.
Property line.
Roadway clearance.
HOA rules.
County restrictions.
Then I installed three cameras.
The next Wednesday, Brenda backed out at 6:41 a.m.
She stopped halfway down her driveway.
Turned the wheel.
Reversed directly toward my bin.
Hit it.
Stopped for four seconds.
Then drove away.
At 7:03, another violation appeared in my HOA portal.
I replayed the video.
Twenty-two minutes.
That was how long it took Brenda to create the problem and fine me for it.
I sent her one still image.
Her Escalade touching my trash can.
PLEASE WITHDRAW TODAY’S VIOLATION.
Twelve minutes later:
THE PHOTO PROVES YOUR CONTAINER INTERFERES WITH NORMAL VEHICLE MOVEMENT.
I typed:
NORMAL VEHICLE MOVEMENT ACROSS MY DRIVEWAY?
No response.
That evening, another violation appeared.
UNAPPROVED VISIBLE SURVEILLANCE DEVICE.
I searched every governing document I owned.
The rule did not exist.
My neighbor Melissa Grant came over after dark.
She was thirty-nine, widowed, raising a teenage daughter three houses away.
“You need to stop fighting her.”
“Why?”
“Because every time somebody fights Brenda, she finds another violation.”
“How many do you have?”
Melissa looked embarrassed.
“About nine thousand dollars.”
I stared at her.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
Fence stain.
Mailbox.
Roof discoloration.
Shrubs.
A supposedly unauthorized basketball hoop her husband installed before he died.
Then she said something Caroline would have liked.
“You think this is about rules.”
“What is it about?”
Melissa looked toward Brenda’s house.
“I don’t know.”
That night I opened one of my old engineering notebooks.
At the top of a blank page I wrote Caroline’s favorite question:
WHAT DOES BRENDA GAIN?
Underneath:
WHAT CAN I PROVE?
May you like
I still had no answer to the first.
So I started with the second.
