Some people learn through reason. Others need chaos and consequences to understand a simple boundary. My neighbor Richard? Very much the latter. So, I gave him the lesson he apparently needed.

Every morning, my routine was the same: brew coffee, glance out the window, sigh heavily at the sight of a blue Honda Civic blocking my garage. Again.

This had been going on for six months—ever since Richard moved back in with his parents next door. Six months of knocking on his door at 7:45 a.m., waiting while he sleepily muttered apologies and fumbled with his keys. Six months of me being late to work and trying not to commit a misdemeanor.

I wasn’t some cranky old lady with binoculars. I was 32, single by choice, and a graphic designer with a solid career and a teal accent wall I refused to compromise on. Relationships hadn’t worked out—especially not the last one, Jason, who cheated and then asked for space. (Spoiler: he found it in my best friend’s bed.)

So, I focused on myself. My job. My solo New Zealand trip fund. And getting to work on time. Or at least, I tried.

That morning, I sipped my coffee, looked out, and yep—Richard’s Honda was parked like it paid rent in front of my garage.

I knocked. He answered in flannel pajama pants and sheepish guilt.

“Again?” I said, arms crossed.

He gave the usual mumble, promised to move it, and I left, teeth clenched. But something in me snapped that day.

That evening, I caught him outside washing his dad’s car.

“We need to talk,” I said.

He sighed, turning off the hose. “I know, Cindy. I’m sorry—again.”
The street’s full, my dad needs the garage, blah blah blah,” I recited. “Richard, this is the last time. If it happens again, there will be consequences.”

“Consequences?” He grinned. “You’ll have me towed?”

“No. Worse.”

He laughed. “Cindy, you are intense.”

That night, I stayed up researching. I didn’t want police or drama. I wanted poetic justice. And that’s when I found the perfect plan: wildlife attractants.

See, behind our homes there’s a forest preserve. Raccoons, birds, opossums. With the right bait, I could give Richard the most unforgettable parking lesson of his life.

Friday night, after everyone was asleep, I slipped outside with a bag of birdseed and a bottle of critter attractant. I doused his Honda—hood, mirrors, handles. The smell was horrific. I nearly gagged.

By morning, I didn’t need coffee to wake up. The shouting did that just fine.

I peeked through the blinds and nearly cried laughing. His car looked like a nature preserve had thrown a party. Bird poop streaked every panel. Feathers were stuck to the wipers. A raccoon was sitting on the roof, enjoying breakfast.

I stepped outside with my mug. “Trouble with the locals?”

He stared at me, slack-jawed. “Cindy, did you…?”

“Who’s to say? Maybe nature’s just… reclaiming space.”

He looked devastated, then suddenly… amused. “Okay. That’s impressive. I probably deserved this.”

I blinked. “You’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m furious. But also? Kind of in awe.”

He disappeared inside and returned with buckets, gloves, and cleaning supplies. Then—shockingly—he handed me gloves.

“Help me?” he asked.

“Why would I help clean your mess?”

He hesitated. “Because I owe you an explanation. And an apology.”

I raised a brow.

“The truth is,” he said, “I didn’t park there just because of my dad or the street. I was… trying to talk to you.”

My jaw dropped. “You blocked my garage to flirt?”

“I panicked! You’re intimidating.”

I snorted. “You could’ve just brought cookies.”

“I can’t bake,” he said. “But I make decent coffee.”

He looked sincere. Kind of cute, even under layers of bird poo.

I sighed, took the gloves, and said, “You’re taking me for coffee after this. That’s your penance.”

We spent the next hour scrubbing feathers, raccoon prints, and unidentifiable gunk off his car. It was disgusting. It was ridiculous. It was… kind of fun.

Richard talked about his failed startup, his night shifts, and his dream of opening a coffee shop. I talked about my awful ex, my job, my dream of hiking in New Zealand.

By the end, we were both soaked, exhausted, and laughing.

“Coffee now?” he asked.

“Not until the car stops smelling like a zoo,” I replied.

He grinned. “Wings, then?”

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

As we walked side-by-side toward the chicken wing place two blocks down, I realized that revenge wasn’t just sweet—it might just be the beginning of something new.

And Richard? He never blocked my garage again. These days, he parks in my driveway.