My expensive ladder, the one I needed to stop my house from flooding, was lying on its side in my neighbor’s mud, all to save a few of his tomatoes.
This was Dave’s world. We just lived in it. He was the charming guy next door, the one who could borrow your favorite casserole dish and then gaslight you into feeling bad for asking for it back.
For years, I let it slide. A cooler here, a power tool there. I was trying to be the “good neighbor” in our perfect little suburb. I told myself it was just stuff.
But seeing my ladder sinking in the dirt, knowing he was inside ignoring my calls, was the last straw. This wasn’t just about borrowing anymore. It was about disrespect.
He hid behind his reputation as the friendly neighbor, so I decided to use that reputation, and all those friendly neighbors, to get my justice.
The Empty Hook on the Wall: An Unreturned Favor
It started, as it always did, with a smile and a simple request. Linda, Dave’s wife from next door, had knocked on my back door two months ago, a frantic look in her eyes. She was holding an empty aluminum pan.
“Sarah, I am so sorry to ask, but my lasagna for the church potluck just… it fell apart. The pan buckled. Do you have a casserole dish I could borrow? A sturdy one?”
Of course, I did. I handed her my favorite, a heavy ceramic Le Creuset dish, the color of a summer sky. It was a wedding gift from my mother. “Just bring it back whenever,” I’d said. I hadn’t seen it since.
My husband, Mark, thinks I’m a pushover. He’s probably right. But in a neighborhood like ours, a manicured grid of identical driveways and competitive lawn care, being the “difficult” neighbor is a social death sentence. You borrow, you lend, you keep the peace. It’s the unspoken covenant.
Dave was the king of this covenant. He knew everyone’s kids, their dogs’ names, the exact day their trash was picked up. He was also a serial borrower, a fact we’d all learned to live with. It was a tax we paid for his easy charm. A power washer here, a bag of charcoal there. The list was long, but the items were usually small enough to let slide.
Today, I needed my dish back. Our daughter, Lily, was coming home from her first semester at college for the weekend, and I’d promised her my signature baked ziti. I walked over and rang their bell. Dave answered, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Sarah! What’s up, neighbor?” he boomed, his smile as wide and reliable as the sunrise.
“Hey, Dave. Is Linda around? I was just hoping to grab my blue casserole dish. She borrowed it a while back.”
His smile didn’t falter, but a flicker of something—annoyance? confusion?—passed through his eyes. “Oh, yeah, the dish. You know, I think Linda said it got chipped when she was washing it. She was so embarrassed, probably just forgot to mention it. She’ll be heartbroken you had to ask.” He clapped me on the shoulder, a gesture that was both friendly and dismissive. “I’ll tell her you came by. We’ll get you a new one, don’t you worry.” He was already closing the door.
A Promise by the Petunias
I walked back to my house, a hot knot of frustration in my stomach. Chipped? The thing was built like a tank. More likely, it was sitting in their cabinet, forgotten. Or worse, re-gifted. Mark found me staring into our cupboard, at the empty space where the blue dish belonged.
“Let me guess,” he said, leaning against the counter. “It met with a mysterious ‘accident’?”
“It got chipped,” I mumbled.
He just shook his head. “Sarah, the man has our good cooler, my post-hole digger from 2018, and at least three of my bungee cords.”
“It’s not worth the fight, Mark. It’s just stuff.” Even as I said it, the words felt thin.
My garage is my sanctuary. I restore old furniture, a little side business that’s more about passion than profit. I love taking something broken and forgotten and making it whole again. My tools are my partners. They’re extensions of my hands, each one chosen and cared for. They hang on a large pegboard, a neat and orderly universe I control.
The next day, I was out front, planting petunias, when Dave came strolling by. He complimented my color choices, talked about the weather, and then his eyes landed on the small trowel and garden shears by my side. They were brand new, a birthday gift from Lily.
“You know, my shears just gave up the ghost,” he said, picking them up. The steel gleamed in the sun. “These are nice. Mind if I borrow them for a quick trim on that rogue bush by my fence? I’ll have them back in an hour, promise.”
What could I say? He was standing right there, holding them, smiling his million-dollar smile. “Sure, Dave. An hour.”
The Coming Storm
The text message alert buzzed on the kitchen counter, loud and insistent. It was a weather warning from the county. SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING IN EFFECT. POTENTIAL FOR HEAVY RAIN, HIGH WINDS, AND LOCALIZED FLOODING.
Our neighborhood sits in a slight depression. A heavy rain means the storm drains back up, and water starts creeping up the driveways. Cleaning the gutters wasn’t a suggestion; it was an absolute necessity. If they overflowed, water would pour down the side of the house and find every crack in the foundation. We’d had a flooded basement once before. It was a nightmare of shop vacs, ruined storage boxes, and the lingering smell of mildew. Never again.
“I’ve gotta get those gutters,” I called to Mark, who was on a work call in his office. “The storm’s supposed to hit in a few hours.”
I pulled on my work boots and went to the garage. The air was cool and smelled of sawdust and oil. I walked to the back wall, to the two large, sturdy hooks where my 8-foot Werner ladder always hung.
The hooks were empty.
My mind raced, trying to place it. I hadn’t used it. Mark hadn’t used it. And then, a memory surfaced, cold and sharp. Dave. Three weeks ago. He was putting up his Christmas lights—in October, because “you gotta beat the rush”—and his own rickety wooden ladder had cracked.
“Sarah, you’re a lifesaver,” he’d said. “I’ll have this back to you by sundown.”
I had stood right here and watched him carry my ladder, my brand new, $150, fiberglass ladder, across the lawn. I hadn’t thought about it again until this exact moment. A wave of panic, cold and acidic, washed over me. I looked out the garage door at the darkening sky. The wind was picking up, rattling the leaves. I was out of time.
The Red Ladder in the Mud
I tried calling him. It went straight to voicemail. I walked over and rang the doorbell. No answer. I could hear their TV murmuring inside. They were home. They were ignoring me.
Defeated, I walked back home, my mind spiraling. I imagined the water pouring over the gutters, the pool forming against the foundation. The cost of the ladder was nothing compared to the cost of another flood. All because I was too polite, too afraid of being “that neighbor.”
The storm was getting closer. The sky was a bruised purple, and the first fat drops of rain began to splatter on the driveway. I stood in my living room, watching the wind whip the trees, feeling utterly helpless. A motion-sensor light in Dave’s backyard flicked on, illuminating his patio and a small vegetable garden.
And there it was.
It was my ladder. I knew it by the bright red safety strip on the bottom rung. It wasn’t leaning against his house. It wasn’t stored neatly in his shed. It was lying on its side in his muddy tomato patch. He had tipped it over and draped a clear plastic tarp over it, creating a makeshift greenhouse to protect his precious plants from the coming rain.
The base of the ladder, the part with the articulated feet, was already half-submerged in a growing puddle of mud and water. My ladder. My expensive, essential, professional-grade ladder. Lying in the dirt, being ruined, to save a few tomatoes.
I stood at the window, the rain now coming down in sheets, and I felt something inside me break. It wasn’t frustration anymore. It was a cold, quiet, surgical rage.
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