“Fill Up My Range Rover.”
I had met plenty of entitled people in my fifty-two years.
But Brenda Ashworth was different.
She didn't simply believe she deserved special treatment.
She believed everyone else was obligated to provide it.
That was why, on a cold Tuesday morning in Willowbrook Estates, she walked across my driveway in designer heels and announced:
“Fill up my Range Rover, Marcus.”
I looked up from the diesel nozzle in my hand.
For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood her.
Brenda stood beside the black SUV parked at the edge of my property. She held her familiar clipboard against her chest and wore the expression of someone conducting an inspection rather than asking a favor.
“Excuse me?”
She sighed impatiently.
“My tank is nearly empty. You have fuel.”
I looked at the pump.
Then at her.
Then back at the Range Rover.
“This is private fuel.”
“I know.”
“It belongs to me.”
“I know that too.”
“So why would I fill your vehicle?”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Because I'm the HOA president.”
I almost laughed.
“Congratulations.”
Her lips tightened.
“As HOA president, I have a responsibility to the community. Residents shouldn't be forced to pay inflated fuel prices when fuel is already available here.”
“You're not getting fuel from my pump.”
She stared at me.
“You're refusing?”
“Yes.”
“After everything I've done for this neighborhood?”
“I don't remember asking you to do anything for me.”
Her face hardened.
“Marcus, don't make this difficult.”
“I'm not.”
I returned my attention to my truck.
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn't.
Brenda pulled out her phone.
“I need police assistance,” she said.
I turned slowly.
“What?”
She spoke loudly enough for the dispatcher to hear.
“This man is being hostile and threatening me. I'm afraid he may become violent.”
I stared at her.
I had spent years around real emergencies.
I knew what an emergency sounded like.
This wasn't one.
The only dangerous thing happening on my driveway was Brenda's inability to hear the word no.
I shut off the pump.
“Brenda.”
She covered the phone.
“What?”
“You're making a mistake.”
She smiled.
“No, Marcus. You're making one.”
She returned to the call.
“I want officers sent immediately.”
I stood there in silence.
She had no idea who she was dealing with.
And she certainly had no idea what the next few weeks would cost her.
My name is Marcus Kellerman.
For most of my adult life, I had lived by three principles:
Document everything.