The early morning hammer of water on the truck’s glossy black paint was a symphony of small victories and guilty thrills.
I watched from my window, heart pounding in sync with the rhythm of the relentless sprinkler. Every streak and spot, a testament to hard water chemistry and a plan set in motion by frustration’s fertile ground. It was halfway through the week when I noticed it—the subtle wavering of his resolve.
His once-proud stride now a beaten shuffle, and the gleaming polish ritual replaced by frantic scrubbing against the white etchings that marred his pride and joy. Each day, he emerged with new desperation, his confidence eroding like the truck’s finish, until one morning, the usual battle of will and water never happened. His space next to mine was visibly, tangibly empty, just like the confrontation that never came.
But triumph has its own bitter aftertaste, and this was no exception. Behind the newfound ease of opening my driver’s door lay the lingering truth of what I’d become. Yet justice, in its rawest form, was finally mine, with the seeds of unexpected twists and more revelations brewing just below the surface.
The Encroachment: The White Line Is Just a Suggestion
The first time it happened, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Everyone has a bad parking day. You misjudge the angle, you’re distracted by a podcast, you’re rushing to get inside before the ice cream melts. I get it. I’ve done it.
I pulled my sensible little Honda into spot 2B, my assigned territory in the concrete jungle of the Avalon Creek apartment complex, and sighed. A monster truck, the kind of vehicle that compensates for something, was hugging the white line that separated our spots. Not just hugging it. Smothering it. Its enormous, knobby tires bulged over the paint like a sumo wrestler spilling out of a Speedo.
“Seriously?” I muttered to the empty car.
My driver’s side door could only open about five inches, a useless gap that wouldn’t accommodate a supermodel, let alone me and my cantankerous left hip. It was a souvenir from a youthful skiing misadventure, a permanent ache that flared up with barometric pressure changes, too much standing, or, apparently, trying to contort myself out of a poorly parked car.
With a groan that was half pain and half pure annoyance, I resigned myself to the passenger-side shuffle. I hoisted my work tote over the center console, then began the awkward, grunting process of clambering over the gearshift. My hip screamed in protest. It felt like grinding gravel in the joint. Finally, I flopped into the passenger seat, breathing heavily, and pushed the door open into the glorious, unobstructed space on the other side.
As I limped toward the building entrance, I decided a note was the civilized approach. Non-confrontational. Neighborly. I pictured the driver: probably some young guy, new to the building, still figuring out how to maneuver his behemoth. He’d be mortified.
Back in my apartment, I found a pink sticky note and my best pen. I wrote, “Hi neighbor! Would you mind leaving a little more space on the driver’s side? It’s a bit of a tight squeeze for me. Thanks so much! 🙂 – Your neighbor in 2B.”
I even added a smiley face. A smiley face is the international symbol for “I’m not a psycho, please just do this one small thing.”
I stuck it on his driver’s side window, right at eye level. Problem solved. Or so I thought.
Notes in the Void
The next day, the truck was parked in exactly the same spot. Maybe even a little closer. My pink note was gone. Not on the ground, not tucked under his wiper. Just… gone. Vanished into the ether, taking my smiley face with it.
Maybe he didn’t see it? Maybe it blew away?
I repeated the passenger-seat tango, the grunts a little louder this time, the pain in my hip a little sharper. My husband, Tom, found me in the kitchen, rubbing the joint while waiting for the kettle to boil.
“Bad hip day?” he asked, kissing the top of my head.
“Bad parker day,” I grumbled. “The guy in 2A is practically parking in my trunk.”
“Did you leave another note?”
“What’s the point? The first one apparently self-destructed.” I sighed, pouring steaming water over a tea bag. Chamomile. I needed to calm the hell down. “I’ll try again. Maybe a different color. Blue is more authoritative than pink, don’t you think?”
So began the War of the Notes. Over the next two weeks, I left a rainbow of polite requests on his windshield. A blue one that said, “Hey there! Just a reminder to please leave a bit more room. Thank you!” A yellow one that pleaded, “Getting out is a real challenge! Any extra space would be appreciated!” I even tried a green one, for a fresh, organic, eco-friendly appeal to our shared humanity.
Each one disappeared without a trace. And with every vanishing note, the truck seemed to creep another inch over the line. It was no longer a simple mistake. This was a statement. A deliberate, gas-guzzling act of aggression.
The passenger-seat tango became a dreaded daily routine. I’d pull in, see the black wall of metal, and a wave of weary frustration would wash over me. Some days, I’d just sit there for a minute, my head against the steering wheel, gathering the strength to begin the clumsy, painful climb. It was humiliating, feeling like a clumsy teenager trying to sneak out of my own car.
“You should go to the building manager,” Tom said one night, watching me limp around the living room.
“And say what? ‘The big, mean truck is parking too close to me’?” I scoffed. “I’ll sound like a whiny kid. I want to handle this myself. It’s a neighbor thing. Henderson will just tell us to work it out.”
I wanted to believe in neighborly decency. I wanted to believe that if he just knew *why* I needed the space, he’d understand. The notes were too impersonal. He needed to see me. To see the wince of pain. He couldn’t ignore a person. Could he?
About the Author
