Our neighbor, Marlene, had always been that person. The type who measured her grass with a ruler, who reported kids for sidewalk chalk, who glared at our two parked cars like they were a personal offense.We live in a shared cul-de-sac. There are no HOA rules, no restrictions—just a small cluster of homes with common courtesy. Still, Marlene decided she was the parking police.
It started with a passive-aggressive note slapped on our windshield:
“One car per house! Respect the neighborhood!”We chuckled and threw it away. After all, both our cars fit neatly in front of our property and weren’t blocking anything.
But three days later, we woke up to chaos.Both our cars? Gone. Towed.
We ran outside in a panic—and there she was, standing on her porch with a cup of coffee and a grin that stretched across her smug little face.“Wow! You really did it, huh?” I said, half-laughing, half in disbelief.
“What’s so funny?!” she snapped.“Oh, nothing. Just the fact that YOU OWE US \$25,000 NOW.”
Her grin vanished.“W-What do you mean?!” she stammered, eyes narrowing.
I pointed to the bright orange reflective tag on my husband’s car and let out a genuine laugh.“That little sticker?” I said. “That means it’s part of a federal grant pilot program. You just had a government test vehicle towed. Unauthorized. That’s tampering with federal property.”
Marlene paled.I continued, “They’re very particular about who touches their tech. The sensors, the data trackers? Expensive stuff. The fine alone for interfering with the program is twenty-five grand. Minimum. And guess what?”
She stared at me like she might faint.“We already called to report it missing. And they’ve got your face on our doorbell cam grinning while the tow truck took it. Enjoy the visit from the feds, Marlene.”
She dropped her mug.
The best part? That car wasn’t really some top-secret government vehicle—but part of a university smart-car trial we’d volunteered for. Still under federal regulation, still tracked.
Guess who came knocking on her door the next week?
Not us.
The program’s legal rep.
Marlene doesn’t smile much anymore.
And she hasn’t parked her car outside in months.