Richard was a wealthy businessman who owned three luxury cars. He had a spacious driveway, but for reasons I couldn’t understand, he repeatedly parked his Mercedes on my grass.
The first time, I assumed he had guests.
The second time, I politely asked him to move it.
By the fifth time, deep tire tracks had appeared across the lawn I’d spent years maintaining.
“Richard, could you please move your car? You’re destroying my grass,” I asked him one afternoon.
He laughed.
“Relax, old man. It’s just grass. You should be grateful there’s an expensive car decorating your yard.”
I stared at him, waiting for a sign that he was joking.
There wasn’t one.
Over the following months, I complained dozens of times.
Sometimes he moved the Mercedes, only to bring it back the next day.
Other times, he ignored me entirely.
I tried speaking calmly. I left notes. I even offered to help him rearrange the vehicles in his driveway.
