She extended her hand.
I shook it.
“Welcome.”
She smiled.
The smile never reached her eyes.
“I wanted to introduce myself and make sure you received your architectural standards packet.”
“I did.”
“Wonderful.”
She looked toward the curb.
Then back at me.
“There is one small issue already.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“Your mailbox.”
I looked at it.
Black powder-coated steel.
Minimalist rectangular post.
It matched the house.
“The approved community model is Heritage Colonial Green.”
I thought she was joking.
She was not.
“My house is not Colonial.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“The mailbox standard maintains visual continuity.”
I looked across the street.
One house had white stucco.
Another red brick.
A third fake Tudor beams.
“What continuity?”
Barbara’s smile tightened.
“The board does not selectively enforce.”
“The noncompliance fee is fifty dollars per day after notice.”
“You’re going to fine me fifty dollars a day because my black mailbox matches my black-and-glass house?”
“The color is not the only issue.”
She tapped her clipboard.
“The finial profile is also incorrect.”
I stared.
“The what?”
“Top shape.”
That should have been the moment I pushed back formally.
Asked for the exact covenant.
Read the rules.
Reviewed enforcement history.
Challenged selective application.
Instead, I was exhausted from moving.
My work schedule was packed.
I did not want suburban politics.
So I bought the approved mailbox.
One hundred eighty-seven dollars.
Forest green.
Fake brass numbers.
Ridiculous beside my house.
Barbara returned two days after installation.
She inspected it.
Actually inspected it.
Then said:
“See?”
“Much better.”
I had no idea that my willingness to avoid conflict would be interpreted as permission.
The notices began.
Trash container visible forty-five minutes after pickup window.
Warning.
Package left on porch too long.
Courtesy notice.
Japanese maple not listed on approved plant schedule.
Violation.
Temporary contractor van parked overnight while my electrician finished work.
Violation.
Exterior light temperature “appeared cooler” than community recommendation.
Warning.
One letter complained that my garage door had remained open for twenty-eight minutes on a Sunday afternoon.
I called Barbara.
“How did you know it was open twenty-eight minutes?”
“I was driving past.”
“For half an hour?”
“Several times.”
That should have bothered me more.
My neighbor Arthur Feldman laughed when I told him.
Arthur was seventy-two.
Retired professor of electrical engineering.
Widower.
Lived alone with a dog named Tesla.
He had lived in Oakline for twenty-three years.
“Barbara treatment.”
He said.
We stood beside his fence while I measured my grass because a notice claimed it exceeded four inches.
“Is everyone treated like this?”
“No.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“She selects projects.”
“People?”
“People.”
“Why me?”
Arthur looked at my house.
Then toward the original section of the neighborhood where Barbara lived.
Her house was comfortable.
Small compared with the newer homes.
“Well.”
Arthur said.
“Barbara believes she is the guardian of civilization.”
“And you have a house she thinks civilization distributed incorrectly.”
I laughed.
He did not.
“She’s jealous?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You absolutely said that.”
Arthur smiled.
“She once fined the Harris family over ‘excessive balloonage’ during their granddaughter’s birthday party.”
“Excessive what?”