I’ve spent over a decade relishing the peace and quiet of my neighborhood. It’s the type of place where everyone maintains neat lawns, waves at each other, and where children’s laughter fills the air. However, that tranquility was disrupted when Tim moved in next door.
Initially, Tim seemed like a decent guy. He introduced himself saying, “I’m Tim. My wife and I just moved in, seeking a quieter life away from the city.” I replied, “I’m Brian. My family and I have lived here forever. This is indeed a peaceful place.” We exchanged pleasantries, and I genuinely thought we’d get along.
Tim appeared thrilled about the idea of neighborly barbecues and beers, and I looked forward to it too. Over the next couple of weeks, I frequently saw him around, as he settled into his new home. Everything seemed fine, until one afternoon, he knocked on my door with a request.
“Hey Brian, can I use your driveway for a couple of days while mine is being repaved? My truck is too big to park on the street,” Tim asked. I explained, “Sorry, Tim. My family has multiple cars and we need the driveway space.”
Tim didn’t seem to take it well. He huffed and walked away. I thought I had been fair and clear, but things took a turn for the worse. The next morning, his truck was parked halfway into my driveway, blocking me in.
“Is this guy serious?” I muttered. My kids needed to get to school, my wife Kelsey would be leaving soon, and I was already late for work. Annoyed, I marched over to Tim’s house and knocked. He answered in his pajamas, looking unperturbed. “Tim, I told you not to park your truck in my driveway.” I said. He shrugged, “It’s just for a few hours, man. No big deal.”
“Move it now, Tim. We all have places to be,” I demanded. He eventually moved it, but not without a dramatic sigh and a hoot as I drove off. This scenario repeated over the following week; his truck, along with friends’ vehicles and random items, kept crowding my driveway.
Fed up, I vented to Kelsey over dinner. “Don’t fight with him, love. Maybe call the homeowners’ association and file a complaint,” she suggested. It seemed like a diplomatic solution, so I decided to try that.
The next morning, however, I found bright orange spray paint scrawled across my lawn, reading “SELFISH JERK” in giant letters. Furious, I took photos and stormed over to Tim’s house. When he opened the door, he was grinning. “Do you really think this is funny?” I snapped.
“What are you going to do about it? Call the cops over some paint?” he laughed. Enraged, I drove to the police station and filed a report, although they could only document the incident since the paint wasn’t permanent.
I needed a better plan. I called my brother Andrew, who runs a landscaping company. “I need your help, Andrew,” I said. He listened and then burst into laughter. “I’ve got the perfect solution, Brian,” he said.
That weekend, Andrew came over with his crew and a special “dye” he’d developed. We spent the entire day tearing up my front lawn and laying down fresh sod. He explained that the dye was a harmless, chalk-based substance intended for a school project involving sprinklers and patterns.
Come Sunday morning, I watched from the porch with a coffee in hand, as Tim walked his dog past my house. Right on schedule, he and his dog were sprayed with bright blue water from the sprinklers, soaking them both. The look of shock on his face was priceless as he ran off, dripping with blue dye.
Later that day, Tim, still stained blue, stormed over. “What the hell, man?” he yelled. I leaned against the doorframe, “What are you going to do, Tim? Call the cops over some water?” He had no words and stomped away.
Since then, Tim hasn’t dared to park in my driveway or pull any more stunts. I’m just waiting for his next move, ready to teach him another lesson if needed.
What would you have done?
