Some people learn by listening. Others need to experience the consequences firsthand. My neighbor Richard definitely fell into the second category, so I did what was needed to teach him a lesson.
The first thing I do every morning is make coffee. The second thing I do is look out my kitchen window to see if Richard’s blue Honda Civic is blocking my garage. Again.
It’s been this way for six months now. Ever since he moved back in with his parents next door. Six months of knocking on his door at 7:45 a.m. Six months of fake-smiling through gritted teeth while he fumbles with his keys, mumbling half-hearted apologies.
Six months of being late to work.
I’ve never been great with relationships. Three serious boyfriends by age 32, and each one ended with me changing my Netflix password and buying new sheets.
After the last breakup, Jason—who “needed space” but apparently found it in my best friend’s apartment, I decided relationships weren’t worth the trouble.
So, I focused on my career instead.
As a graphic designer for a marketing firm downtown, I earn enough to afford my small but perfect house. I’ve decorated it exactly the way I want.
No compromises on the teal accent wall or the framed vintage movie posters. No one to tell me I can’t have ice cream for dinner or that I spend too much money on travel.
Speaking of travel, I’m saving up for a solo trip to New Zealand next year. Well, I’m trying to. Each time I’m late because of Richard’s parking habits, my boss gives me the look that says, “I’m not angry, just disappointed,” which is somehow worse.
This morning was no different.
I peeked through the blinds and saw the blue Honda exactly where it shouldn’t be. It was parked directly in front of my garage door.
With a sigh, I set down my mug, slipped on my shoes, and trudged next door. Three sharp knocks. Footsteps. Then Richard’s sleepy face peering out from behind the door.
“Oh, hey Cindy,” he said. “Car’s in the way again?”
“As it was yesterday,” I replied. “And the day before. And pretty much every day since you moved back home.”
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry. I’ll move it right now.”
I watched as he searched for his keys, still wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a faded t-shirt with some obscure band logo on it. At 28, Richard should have had his life together by now.
Instead, he’d moved back home six months ago, supposedly to “help his parents.”
Mrs. Peterson, who runs the neighborhood gossip pipeline disguised as a book club, told me that Richard had lost his job at the tech startup in the city. Came home with his tail between his legs.