"He's young."
"So?"
"Young people make mistakes."
"This has happened nine times."
She frowned.
"Are you counting?"
"Yes."
"That seems obsessive."
I almost laughed.
"Your son is using my driveway."
"He'll be gone soon."
"He is gone. Then he comes back."
She sighed.
"Mr. Cole, if you have a problem with my son, speak to him."
"I have."
"And?"
"He ignores me."
She shrugged.
"Then perhaps you should be more neighborly."
I looked at her.
"What does that mean?"
"People help each other."
"I don't mind helping someone."
"Then let him park there."
"No."
Her smile disappeared.
"Why not?"
"Because it's my driveway."
She stared at me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said something I would remember for a long time.
"You people are always so territorial about property."
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't have an answer.
Because I knew exactly what she was trying to do.
She wanted me angry.
She wanted me defensive.
She wanted the conversation to become about my attitude rather than her son's behavior.
So I simply said:
"Tell Tyler not to park there again."
Then I walked away.
The following morning, the Mercedes was back.
I took a photograph.
Then another.
Then another.
That afternoon, I installed two cameras.
One faced the driveway.
The second covered the street.
I made sure the cameras were visible.
I wasn't trying to spy.
I was creating a record.
My father had taught me another lesson.
"Never argue with memory."
"Write it down."
So I started documenting everything.
Date.
Time.
Duration.
Photographs.
Video.
Conversation.
Vehicle plate.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing illegal.
Just facts.
The next time Tyler parked in my driveway, I placed a laminated sign near the garage.
PRIVATE PROPERTY
NO UNAUTHORIZED PARKING
VEHICLES MAY BE TOWED AT OWNER'S EXPENSE
Tyler read it.
Then he laughed.
He took out his phone and photographed the sign.
Five minutes later, Meredith crossed the street.
She didn't knock.
She walked straight up my driveway.
"Take that sign down."
I was standing beside my workbench.
"No."
Her face hardened.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"You are deliberately embarrassing my son."
"Your son is deliberately parking on my property."
"He lives here."
"Then he can park there."
I pointed toward her house.
She glanced back.
There was an empty space in front of her garage.
"That isn't the point."
"Then what is?"
She lowered her voice.
"You should be careful about making enemies."
I looked at the camera mounted above my garage.
Then back at her.
"I'm not making enemies."
I paused.
"I'm documenting behavior."
Her eyes moved to the camera.
For the first time, she looked uncomfortable.
"You're threatening me?"
"No."
"I'm calling the police."
"That's your choice."
She stared at me.
Then she walked away.
I watched her cross the street.
I returned to my work.
And I waited.
The Mercedes appeared twenty-three times over the next nineteen days.
I know because I counted.
The cameras recorded everything.
Tyler arriving.
Tyler leaving.
Tyler laughing at the sign.
Tyler occasionally looking directly at the camera.
Once, he stood in front of it and gave it a thumbs-up.
I saved that clip.
Not because it was important.
Because it showed intent.
On the twenty-fourth morning, I called the non-emergency number for the county.
I explained the situation.
The dispatcher transferred me to parking enforcement.
The officer I spoke with gave me straightforward advice.
"Post a clear warning."
"I have."
"Make sure the driveway is visibly private."
"It is."
"Keep your records."
"I am."
"If the vehicle remains after notice, contact a licensed tow company and follow their procedures."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
I thanked him.
I didn't want revenge.
I wanted my driveway back.
That afternoon, I called a towing company.
The dispatcher sent a driver named Marcus Hill.
Marcus was a large man with gray hair, a calm voice, and the patience of someone who had spent twenty years dealing with angry people.
He inspected my sign.
"Visible?"
"Yes."
"Private property?"
"Yes."
"Your ID?"
I showed him.
He looked at the driveway.
Then the vehicle registration information.
"Keep everything."
"I will."
He nodded.
"Call us if it happens again."
Two days later, Tyler parked in my driveway.
He didn't even look at the sign.
I stood inside my garage and watched him through the camera monitor.
At 7:16 a.m., he got out.
At 7:17, he looked directly at the warning.
At 7:18, he laughed.
At 7:19, he walked away.
I picked up the phone.
"Marcus?"
"Morning."
"He's back."
Marcus sighed.
"Send me the address."
I did.
Then I waited.
The tow truck arrived at 7:43.
Tyler appeared at 7:46.
He came running down the sidewalk.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Marcus stepped down from the truck.
"I'm here to remove the vehicle."
"You're not touching my car."
Marcus pointed toward the sign.
"Private property."
Tyler turned toward me.
"You called them?"
"Yes."
"You can't do this."
"I warned you."