By morning, Richard’s Mercedes sat inside a solid-looking concrete enclosure.
He couldn’t drive forward, reverse, or turn his way out.
I admired our work from the porch.
For the first time in six months, I felt powerful.
That feeling lasted approximately 20 minutes.
Richard came storming toward my house, his face bright red.
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY CAR?! I’M TEARING THIS WALL DOWN!”
I stepped onto my porch and smiled.
“Touch my wall, and I’ll call the police. It’s on my property, remember?”
He threatened lawsuits, cursed at me, and demanded that I dismantle everything immediately.
I reminded him how many times I’d asked him to move his Mercedes.
“You’re going to regret this,” he said.
“Funny. I’ve been saying something similar for six months.”
He examined the concrete sections, kicked one, and quickly discovered they weren’t moving.
Fletcher arrived while we were arguing.
“I can arrange a crew to remove one section,” he offered. “We can have the car out safely.”
