Gregory returned for round two. A week later, he stomped up my driveway, clipboard in hand. “Mrs. Callahan, your mailbox is in violation,” he announced.
“Mailbox?” I asked, inspecting the gleaming post.
“Paint is chipping,” he said.
Not a single chip. He was inventing violations now.
“Gregory,” I said, arms crossed, “this isn’t about a mailbox. You’re still mad about my lawn.”
“I’m enforcing the rules,” he gritted.
“Sure you are,” I replied.
That was when I doubled down. More gnomes, more flamingos, more lights — and a motion-activated sprinkler system. The first time he stepped onto my lawn, he was soaked from head to toe, sputtering and muttering about formal complaints.
Neighbors noticed. Soon, Mrs. Jenkins added gnomes, the Patels erected flamingos. Our quiet street transformed into a technicolor wonderland. Gregory’s authority became a joke. His clipboard was useless. Every morning, he drove past a parade of defiance he couldn’t touch.
I watched from my porch, sipping tea, while laughter and neighborly chatter returned. What began as personal revenge became a community rebellion.
Gregory still drives by every day, glaring at my lawn. And every time, I wave, smiling as if nothing happened.
So here’s a tip, Gregory: keep checking. I’ve got plenty more ideas. And a lifetime’s worth of lawn to decorate.
