HOA Chronicles, Vol. 1: The Driveway Inquisition

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"The story of how a driveway, two pastel vigilantes, and a few oil spots made me a political prisoner in a rental unit."

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More than twenty years ago, I found myself temporarily assigned to a company-rented townhouse in a quaint little community ruled not by kindness or common sense—but by bylaws, enforced by two dudes that had watched far too many episodes of Miami Vice (IMO).

It came with all the comforts: furnishings, clean carpet, a thick stack of rules I didn't read, and most importantly, two HOA enforcers who smelled faintly of vinegar, water, and lilac. I assume it was to mask the scent of a Wanna-Be power couple.

The First Visit: The Driveway Affair

It’s a Saturday morning. No coffee yet. The doorbell rings, half awake I stumble downstairs. After all, I don't know anyone here so it must be important.

I open the door to two men—no greetings, no introductions, no neighborly small talk. Just:

“We’re from the HOA. You’ve been leaving your car in the driveway overnight.”

I blink. “Where else should a car be?”

“The bylaws state: in the garage or on the street.”

I’m still trying to figure out if this is a joke, a hallucination, or maybe some kind of suburban performance art.

“It blocks the view,” one of them says, lips tight, eyes serious.

“People can’t see up and down across the lawns when cars are in the driveways.”

That was the moment the caffeineless version of me blurted:

“Are you f*ing serious? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”**

And they just stood there. Completely unfazed, not comprehending the ludicrousness of what they were saying. Like two underpaid, mindless stormtroopers at the gates of a gated kingdom!

Thing 1 continued: You can park in the garage or on the street. I looked up and down the crowded street, blinked and said. "Oh, that is why the street is packed with cars and boats, on both sides". You know that looks like crap. Thing 2, said, the HOA does not control the street. I muttered thank God for that.

They handed me an official warning. Parking in your own driveway overnight, it turns out, was forbidden in the HOA empire. Yes, for short burst to clean the car, or maybe load or unload, but come evening, you best be off that, there, driveway!

They were so serious, I was envisioning any other offense being handled by a black masked, deep breathing, enforcer representing the HOA Emperor and perhaps using some mystical HOA force from the bylaws to force compliance.

THERE WILL BE ORDER HERE!

The Second Visit: Oil Spotgate (I believe this was a wearing linen mixed with some other material crime from Leviticus level infraction).

The next Saturday, same time: Ding dong.

But this time, I was ready.

I looked out, cracked the window and said, be with you in a minute. Then I made a pot of coffee first and waited fifteen minutes. Then, cup in hand, I opened the door. No “hello,” no “thanks for coming by.” I just said:

“Car’s been garaged every night. No visual blockade has been established. Unless you’re here to congratulate me, I assume we’ve found some other near imaginary violation warranting a visit before it is even the approved time to begin mowing one's lawn.”

Thing 1 (clean-shaven) and Thing 2 (porn-stache and pastel polo) were back on their mission from God. Or from the HOA Death Star . Same thing, I guess.

I think they were passing time waiting for a "tee" time from the way they were dressed, or, well let's not dive into this "or" at this time. Let's just say, there are questions.....

“We noticed oil spots on the driveway,” they said, almost in unison.

“The bylaws clearly state—”

I cut them off. “Those were there before I moved in.”

Thing 2 squinted. “I don’t think so.”

“Let’s find out,” I said. I opened the garage door and invited them in.

I offered them a full inspection. No fresh oil drips. No evidence of vehicular misconduct. I even backed the car out—slowly, ceremoniously.

“See? (to this day, I regret not inserting a "TA_DA" in there). Previous car had the dribbles, not me. Maybe issue a posthumous fine to the last tenant, or a strongly worded letter is always in vogue you know?”

Thing 1 nodded slowly, obviously grasping I was not the diabolical oil dribbling criminal they had me pegged for. Thing 2 fumed like a boot camp corporal who just lost a shouting contest to a cactus.

They left quietly. I gave them a cheerful:

“Drop by anytime… except on days that end in Y.” Thing 2 started to turn and say something, Thing 1 caught him and kept him walking to the car.

Aftermath: Pariah Status

A few days later, the company realtor called.

“The owner wants to know if we can cut the lease short.”

I told her to talk to the company, not my call. Well, the company said no. So, I stayed, for the full six months. Yes, six months! But they went by quietly.

I even went to an HOA meeting just to see what true power in force looked like. Oh, the stares. The whispers. The scent of passive aggression mingling with store-brand pastries, Dunkin Doughnuts coffee and folding chairs as the knowledge of "Thats the guy from XYZ address" made its way around the room. Smiles disappeared, greetings dried up, and conversation dropped like a lead balloon. I cheerfully munched on some pastries and shamelessly drank HOA provided coffee.

Me sitting amongst the HOA faithful, listening intently, and oh so low, letting out the occasional ohhh, or ahhh, hmm, wow, and the occasional really. Throwing in a "Have you tried these raspberry ones", when someone made eye contact with me. Totally engaged you know. :)

I never saw Thing 1 or Thing 2 at my door again. From time to time I would think maybe I caught them out of the corner of my eye cruising in the Chevy Chevette that Thing 1 drove. Maybe patrolling to keep the neighborhood visually safe from would be yard view anarchist, and concrete driveways unspoiled and unmolested by would be oil dripping felons.

Epilogue:

The Mystery Endures for me, even decades later.

I often wonder what happened to those two. Did they marry? To each other? Did they go on to form a private code enforcement agency? Were they eventually overthrown in a bloody HOA coup? Did their pastel shirts, khakis, and overpowering cologne fade into memory… or are they still caught from time to time on the background of some other poor guy’s security cam footage, cherry red 4 door Chevy Chevette, clipboard in hand, porn stache primed for battle?

All I know is this:

I’ve vowed to never live in an HOA again if I could help it.

And only once more was I not able to help it and endured the power mad struggle of HOA Barrons over the poor helpless homeowner serfs who lived there and had signed their lives away agreeing to serve them, in exchange for perfectly elevated mailboxes, approved paint colors, and consistently trimmed hedges. (where allowed).

"If you thought that was ridiculous, wait until you hear about the time I got cited for growing sweetcorn — HOA Part 2"

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