Some people learn with a gentle nudge. Others need to crash straight into the consequences. My neighbor Richard? Definitely the second kind. So I gave him exactly what he needed.
Every morning starts the same: I brew my coffee, then glance out the kitchen window—hoping, praying—that Richard’s blue Honda Civic isn’t parked in front of my garage again. Spoiler alert: it almost always is.
For six long months, since he moved back in with his parents, it’s been the same routine. Me, knocking on his door at 7:45 a.m. while trying not to scream. Him, still half-asleep, fumbling for keys and muttering, “Sorry, Cindy.”
I’m always late for work. Always.
Relationships haven’t exactly worked out for me—three breakups by 32, each one ending with me changing my Netflix password and buying fresh sheets. After Jason dumped me (and moved in with my best friend, no less), I focused on my career instead.
I’m a graphic designer with a downtown firm, and I make enough to live comfortably in my cozy home—my sanctuary. No one to criticize my teal accent wall or my ice-cream-for-dinner lifestyle. I’m even saving up for a solo trip to New Zealand. That is, if Richard’s parking habits don’t get me fired first.
This morning? Same thing. I look out. There’s the Civic. Right in front of my garage. Again.
Coffee abandoned, I march over and knock. Richard appears, half-awake and wearing his usual plaid pajama pants.
“Oops,” he says. “In the way again?”
“As usual,” I reply through gritted teeth.
He scrambles to move it. I hold my tongue, but not for long.
“You know,” I say, “this wouldn’t happen if you parked literally anywhere else.”
He shrugs. “Street’s always packed. Dad uses our garage. I get home late…”
“Not. My. Problem,” I snap as I slide into my Subaru.
Next morning? Same spot. That’s when I decided—enough.
Later that day, I caught Richard washing his dad’s car and confronted him properly.
He gave the usual excuses: no parking, night shifts, dad needs the garage, and apparently—raccoons roam the woods nearby, making him nervous.
I didn’t know he worked nights. Or feared raccoons. Still, not my issue.
“If you block my garage again,” I warned, “there will be consequences.”
He laughed. “What’re you gonna do? Tow me?”
“Worse,” I said with a smile.
That night, when he parked in my spot again, I sprang into action.
Armed with a bag of wild birdseed and a bottle of “Critter Potty Training Attractant” (yep, it’s real), I tiptoed outside around midnight. I sprinkled the seed generously across his car—roof, hood, windshield. Then I carefully dabbed the attractant around the handles, mirrors, and tires.
It reeked. Mission: complete.
At 6 a.m., I woke to shouting.
Richard was outside, jaw dropped in horror. His precious Civic was a disaster zone—bird droppings streaked the windows, and tiny claw marks were etched into the paint. A plump raccoon sat contentedly on the roof, enjoying breakfast.
I stepped onto my porch with my coffee.
“Car trouble?” I asked sweetly.
“You—did you—Cindy, this has you written all over it!”
I shrugged. “Wildlife seems to love you. Maybe it’s karma.”
To my surprise, he didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten to sue. He just… sighed.
“I probably deserved this.”
Was I hearing this right?
“I’m mad,” he admitted. “But also… wow. That was creative.”
And then, the most unexpected thing happened: he asked for help.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “And an explanation.”
I raised a brow. “From a distance. You stink.”
He confessed he hadn’t just been parking there out of necessity—but also as a weird excuse to talk to me. He noticed the flowers on my porch, my taste in music, the way I helped Mrs. Peterson with her groceries. But instead of saying hi like a normal person, he blocked my garage. Repeatedly.
“Worst flirting strategy ever,” I told him.
He grinned. “I know. But… maybe you’d let me buy you a coffee to make up for it?”
I gave him a long look.
“Help me clean this mess first,” I said. “Then we’ll talk.”
We spent the morning scrubbing, laughing, and talking. He told me about losing his job, feeling stuck, and dreaming of opening his own coffee shop.
By the time we finished, his car was clean—though it still smelled faintly of raccoon.
“Coffee now?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “You still reek. But there’s a wing place two blocks over. We can walk.”
He beamed. “I’d like that.”
Now? He never parks in front of my garage again. These days, he parks in my driveway. And sometimes? He brings coffee too.
Because sometimes, the wildest beginnings lead to the most unexpected endings.
