Then the trash can.
The trash can was the one that started everything.
Our HOA rules stated that garbage containers had to be stored behind the side gate except on collection days.
I followed that rule.
Every Monday night, I rolled the trash can to the curb.
Every Tuesday morning, the city truck came through.
After collection, I brought it back.
Simple.
Until Brenda decided my trash can was a problem.
She claimed it was "visually disruptive" because my driveway was on the corner and the can could be seen from Maple Street.
I explained that the rules specifically allowed containers at the curb on collection days.
She said she would "review the language."
The next Tuesday, my trash can disappeared.
I found it two houses down.
The following Tuesday, it was behind my mailbox.
The Tuesday after that, it was lying in the grass.
I assumed teenagers were messing with it.
Then Emma found something.
A small black scuff mark on the bottom of the container.
"It looks like tire rubber," she said.
I laughed.
"You're telling me someone is running over my trash can?"
She shrugged.
"Maybe."
I didn't think much about it.
Until the following Tuesday.
At exactly 6:15 in the morning, I heard a loud crash.
I ran to the kitchen window.
A pearl-white Escalade was already halfway down Maple Street.
My trash can was lying on its side.
The license plate was visible.
I knew exactly whose vehicle it was.
Brenda Whitmore.
I went outside.
The lid was cracked.
There were tire marks on the driveway.
I took pictures.
Then I called the non-emergency police line.
An officer came by.
He looked at the photographs.
"Do you know who hit it?"
"I believe so."
"Did you see the collision?"
"No."
"Then there's not much we can do."
He gave me a report number anyway.
The next Tuesday, it happened again.
Same time.
Same vehicle.
Same direction.
Same deliberate turn.
This time I was standing at the window.
I watched Brenda slow down.
She looked directly toward my house.
Then she turned the wheel.
CRACK.
The trash can bounced onto the lawn.
She never stopped.
That was when I understood.
It wasn't an accident.
It was a message.
I emailed Brenda.
I kept the message polite.
"Brenda, my trash container has been struck twice by your vehicle. Please stop."
Her response arrived twenty minutes later.
"Marcus, I have no idea what you're referring to. Perhaps you should be more careful about where you place your trash."
I stared at the screen.
Then I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes a person reaches a level of absurdity where anger becomes almost impossible.
I wrote back.