“I’m not going to crucify him because he put a tiny mark on your precious little toy car,” she sneered, and any hope of a reasonable solution died right there in her cluttered foyer.
That “toy” was the last piece of my father I had left, restored from a rusted skeleton with five years of my life and a small fortune.
Her little angel used its fender as a skate rail, and my hidden camera caught the whole, deliberate act, right down to his smug little smile. Karen, his mother, watched the footage and actually laughed before painting me as some crazy old woman with nothing better to do than harass her son.
The condo association wouldn’t help; the system was designed to protect the people who shout the loudest and ignore the rules.
What she didn’t know was that the path to her financial ruin was already paved by her own neglect, hidden in the fine print of a rulebook she’d never bothered to read.
The Gathering Storm: The Sound of Trouble
My husband, Mark, says I love that car more than I love him. He says it with a grin, so I know he’s not really keeping score, but he’s not entirely wrong. My 1966 Ford Mustang, Cherry Red with a pristine white interior, isn’t just a car. It’s a time machine. It’s the last tangible piece of my father, the man who spent a decade of weekends under its hood, his knuckles perpetually stained with grease and his face lit with a singular focus I rarely saw anywhere else. When he passed, he left it to me—a half-finished skeleton of rust and potential. I spent the next five years, and a significant chunk of my graphic design income, bringing her back to life.
Now, she sits under a custom-fit silk cover in my designated spot, number 37, in the cavernous concrete belly of our condo building. The spot is prime, right near the elevator, a small perk of being one of the building’s original owners.
The trouble started not with a bang, but with a thwack. A recurring, echoing thwack-thwack-clatter that reverberated up the concrete columns and through the floor into our living room. It was the sound of hard urethane wheels on polished concrete, the sharp crack of a skateboard tail hitting the ground. It was the sound of teenagers.
“They’re at it again,” I’d muttered, looking up from my tablet.
Mark didn’t even lower his newspaper. “It’s a parking garage, Cheryl. They’re not hurting anything.”
He was a good man, my Mark, but his ability to tune out the world was both a superpower and a source of profound irritation. He couldn’t hear the grating shouts that followed the thwack, or the tinny blast of some mumble rap artist I was too old to name. To him, it was just ambient noise. To me, sitting three floors above my four-wheeled daughter, it was the sound of a looming threat.
An Unofficial Skate Park
The next Saturday, I went down to get a cleaning cloth I’d left in Cherry’s trunk. The elevator doors slid open to a wall of sound and teenage funk. Four of them, all limbs and attitudes, had turned the area by the main garage door into their personal X Games venue. A portable speaker was perched on an electrical box, rattling the metal casing. Empty chip bags and crushed energy drink cans formed a little shrine of adolescent consumption in the corner.
One of them, a lanky kid with a spray of acne across his nose, was trying to ride up the curved wall of the entrance ramp. His board shot out from under him and skittered across the floor, stopping a foot from the fender of a neighbor’s Lexus. He laughed, a loud, barking sound that echoed in the enclosed space. The owner of the Lexus, a meticulous accountant named Mr. Gable, would have a coronary if he saw this.
I walked toward my spot, my keys jingling, a deliberate announcement of my presence. The music didn’t stop, but the motion did. Four pairs of eyes tracked me. I recognized one of them—Aiden. He lived in 5B with his mother. I’d seen them in the elevator. He had his mother’s defiant chin but none of her tired softness. He was all sharp angles and a carefully cultivated scowl.
I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? “Please don’t treat our shared living space like a garbage dump?” “Could you possibly have your fun with a little less sonic assault?” I’d just be the cranky old lady in 3A. So I just unlocked Cherry’s trunk, retrieved my microfiber cloth, locked it again, and walked away, feeling their eyes on my back the whole time. The moment the elevator doors closed, the thwack-clatter started again.
A Scratch in the Armor
It was a week later. I had a meeting with a new client and decided to take Cherry for a drive. It was a perfect spring day, the kind of day that demanded windows down and a classic rock station on the radio. Down in the garage, I pulled back the silk cover with the same care a person might use to unwrap a priceless artifact. The red paint, a shade called Candy Apple, gleamed under the cold fluorescent lights. It was perfect.
Except it wasn’t.
On the passenger-side door, just below the handle, was a thin, white line. It was about four inches long, too shallow to be a keying, but too deliberate to be an accident. It looked like the car had been sideswiped by a ghost. I ran my finger over it. My nail caught in the groove. It was through the clear coat.
My stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot. I scanned the area. Nothing. No note, no fallen object, no clue. I thought of the shopping carts by the grocery store, the tight spots in downtown parking lots. Had I missed it? Did I do this myself and just not notice? It was possible. My memory wasn’t a steel trap anymore.
I spent the next hour with a bottle of scratch remover and a polishing cloth, my arm aching as I worked the paste into the blemish in tiny, concentric circles. By the time I was done, it was nearly invisible, a faint scar only I would ever notice. But I would always notice it. It was a flaw in the perfection, a tiny crack in the armor. Mark came down to see what was taking so long.
“What’s up?” he asked, looking from my flushed face to the spot on the door.
“Found a scratch,” I said, my voice tight.
He squinted. “Where? I don’t see anything.”
“It’s there,” I insisted. I knew I sounded crazy. The obsessive car lady. Maybe I was. Maybe this was the price of loving an inanimate object so fiercely. But as I finally drove out of the garage, the echo of a skateboard hitting concrete seemed to follow me up the ramp.
The Crescendo
The problem with ignoring a small annoyance is that it rarely stays small. The skating sessions became a daily ritual. They were no longer confined to the entrance area. The entire first level of the garage was their territory now. The noise was constant, a grinding, percussive soundtrack to my late afternoons. The trash collection in the corner grew, a monument to their carelessness.
One evening, Mark and I were having dinner when a particularly loud crash from below made the wine glasses on our table vibrate. It was followed by a chorus of whoops and hollers.
“Jesus Christ,” I snapped, putting my fork down. “It sounds like a demolition derby down there.”
“Cheryl, let it go,” Mark said, not looking up from his steak. “What do you want to do? Call the cops? They’re just kids blowing off steam.”
“Blowing off steam is one thing. This is a siege,” I said. “And my car is parked in the middle of the war zone.”
“Your car is under a cover. It’s fine. You’re stressing over nothing.”
His dismissal stung more than the noise. It wasn’t just “the car.” It was the principle. It was the complete and utter lack of respect for a shared space, for other people’s property. It made me feel old and invisible, like my concerns were just the quaint ramblings of a woman with too much time and affection invested in a machine.
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening. The garage was finally quiet, but I could still hear the phantom echo of the wheels. I imagined a rogue board skittering across the floor, tumbling under the silk cover, and leaving a new, deeper scratch on Cherry’s perfect paint. The anxiety was a low hum beneath my skin. Mark was already snoring softly beside me, but I knew I wouldn’t be getting much sleep. Something had to give.
The Unmistakable Violation: The Black Scuff
The mark of disrespect wasn’t a scratch this time. It was a smear. A long, black arc of it, marring the pristine white stripe that ran along Cherry’s lower body, just behind the driver’s side rear wheel. It wasn’t paint. It was waxy and coarse, like a giant crayon had been dragged across the car. Interspersed within the black smudge were deep, parallel gouges that went straight through the paint to the pale gray primer beneath.
I found it on a Tuesday morning. The silk cover was askew, bunched up near the back, as if it had been hastily pulled aside and then kicked back into place. My breath caught in my throat. I knelt, my knees protesting against the cold concrete, and touched the mark. It was gritty. It smelled faintly of urethane and burnt plastic.
This was no shopping cart. This wasn’t an accidental door ding. This was the unmistakable signature of a skateboard. Someone had used my car as a stunt prop. The black was from the edge of the board, the gouges from the truck’s axle. I could see the whole ugly event in my mind: the careless shove, the grind, the triumphant laughter.
A wave of heat washed over me, a rage so pure and white-hot it made my hands tremble. This was a violation. A deliberate, contemptuous act. They knew whose car this was—the old lady who kept it under a cover, the one who polished it every weekend. This wasn’t just damage; it was a message. And the message was, we don’t care.
About the Author
