Who Put the ‘Ass’ in ‘Neighborhood Association?’
“It says here that all trash cans must be concealed from the road,” a woman read from a thick stack of papers to the small group of men and women seated before her. She looked up at them over her reading glasses. “And the folks next door to Marie’s house clearly have their trash can in full view of anyone who drives by.”
The group nodded and made sounds of disapproval.
“And I would just like to say,” added a balding little man seated beside her, “that the Watsons have had boxes stacked at the side of their house for weeks now. They say they’re renovating, but how long is this supposed to last? It’s clearly against our regulations.”
“Why don’t they put the boxes in their backyard?” one of the group asked.
“They say it’s because their dog is back there,” the man sighed.
“Well let’s write all of these people a letter,” sighed a middle-aged brunette. “And let’s simply say there have been complaints.”
“Here, here,” the man next to her said emphatically.
“Let’s say,” the woman added briskly, “‘Contact with you has been difficult. You haven’t been taking our calls, and so we’re forced to resort to this letter.’”
“If you want to write the letter, I’ll hand deliver it to their front door,” offered a man in a sweater vest.
“I think that’s a great idea,” said the woman with reading glasses, “because I’ve talked to Mrs. Watson about this, and she’s just said, ‘I don’t know what to do. I guess we’ll just have to put Molly down!’”
The balding man beside her nodded, taking copious notes.
“I’ll write the letter,” proclaimed an aging bottled blonde. “And we’ll send them a copy of the homeowner’s association covenant so that they can see a copy of the rules for themselves.”
“The problem in most of these cases is that there’s no communication,” the man in the vest explained. “I communicate with my neighbors. I have had Myrtle Chapman over twice to look at the damage her dog has done to my yard. She loves to go after the chipmunks in our front flower bed and our poor flowers have suffered.”
“Speaking of, Denise Compton’s dog died under mysterious circumstances,” the brunette said in a half-whisper. “Just keeled over one day for no reason.”
“I’ll bet it was antifreeze,” the balding man responded, looking around nervously. “That dog always was a barker.”
There was dubious silence. Then,
“What are we going to do about late dues?”
“Well if someone calls me and says they’re having trouble and we work something out, that’s fine,” decided the woman with reading glasses. “Otherwise, they’ll get a late fee. Like the Stevensons. They can’t always pay, but they worked out a deal with Tom before me, and they pay when they can.”
“Barbara Denton, though, is a tough one,” mused the bottled blonde. She doesn’t pay on time and when we try to call her about it, she comes out swinging.”
“So I’ll write the letters and Carl can hand deliver them,” the brunette offered. “We’ll take care of these boxes and these dogs and these visible trashcans once and for all!”
“We’re going to have to start calling you The Enforcer!” The balding man chuckled. I snorted from behind my laptop screen, where I was eavesdropping on the group while sipping on a Tall Decaf Skinny Caramel Latte, and the man looked at me suspiciously. Quickly, I glanced down at my computer and pretended to type something.
“You know ‘Those People?’” asked the vested man with a smile. “We’re ‘Those People’ now!”
The group laughed together with obvious satisfaction. They reflected on their power over their neighbors for a moment while I gathered my things together and prepared to leave the Starbucks.
“Did you hear about that snake over on Maplewood the other day?” the brunette asked the group as I headed for the door. “It was stretched out clear across the street. Someone had run over it.”
“You really should write that snake a letter,” I muttered over my shoulder as I left. “I’m pretty sure your covenant prohibits that kind of thing.”
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
