The Last Detail
It started with the grass clippings.
I’d just finished mowing the front yard. True, the rows lacked the zigzag symmetry of the adjacent lawns, and the edges were a bit on the shaggy side—I hadn’t yet invested in one of those trimmer gizmos—but I was nonetheless pleased with my accomplishment.
Not that I had a choice. I could barely afford the rent on this place, let alone a lawn service, my finances depleted by a long, drawn-out divorce and a litany of legal fees. In hindsight, it would have been fiscally prudent to accept our lawyers’ proposed division of assets from the get-go. To settle things in an amicable manner. But it’s hard to be gracious when your husband’s former administrative assistant derails your thirty-five years of marriage. Last I heard, the bulimic bride and geriatric groom were honeymooning in Bermuda, may her bleached blonde bob turn green from the hotel’s chlorinated pool.
But I digress.
I’d no sooner stashed the mower back in the shed when my next-door neighbor—Cliff? Carl? One of those “C” names—came charging over, red-faced and sputtering.
“I need to show you something,” he said, and pointed toward his house.
Cliff/Carl is a car guy, with four vehicles parked in his driveway, and some sort of vintage fixer-upper inside his garage that he’s been restoring for the past three years. The cars “on the pavement,” to quote him directly, include a dark blue Mustang with red pinstriping, a silver-gray SUV, and a jet black pickup truck he only drives in winter. In summer, he told me, he stores the truck in a friend’s garage to avoid fading, black apparently being bad for that. And here I was thinking the worst thing about a black car was that it showed every speck of dirt and then some.
There’s also a white Lincoln with a “For Sale” sign in the front windshield that’s been there since I moved in. I don’t pretend to know anything about cars, but to my mind, if something hasn’t sold in six months, you’re either asking too much or you’re being unreasonable, and probably both.
Had he seen me bump the Lincoln’s front tire with my mower? I was still getting used to the self-propelled setting, but honestly, it wasn’t more than a light tap. I avoided looking at the tire–no point in giving myself away.
“Cliff,” I said.
“It’s Carl.”
Well, I’d had a fifty-fifty chance.
“Carl. What seems to be the problem?”
He harrumphed—really there was no other word for it—and gestured dramatically to the hood of the Lincoln. “Look.”
I looked. Didn’t see anything.
“I just had this car detailed yesterday,” he said.
I’d noticed the mobile car-washing van at Carl’s house. Took the guy the better part of a day, what with taking out the floor mats and vacuuming every square inch of each vehicle’s interior. My house should be so clean.
I ventured, “They did a nice job.” Not sure what the appropriate response should be. Apparently, that wasn’t it, at least not based on the way Carl’s cheeks puffed out with an exaggerated sigh. He pointed at the car’s hood again. I looked closer, and I saw them. Six blades of grass. Okay, maybe seven. Certainly no more than a dozen.
“Are you referring to these?” I asked and did some pointing of my own.
Carl’s head bobbed up and down.
“I’m not sure what you want me to do,” I said, because I honestly did not know.
“I would like you to be more careful in the future.”
Fair enough. “I’ll do my best. I’m new at—”
“And you could offer to pay for the detailing.”
“Excuse me?”
“You could offer to pay for the detailing.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all. You were careless, and carelessness comes at a cost.”
A wiser person might have found a way to de-escalate the situation. A way to settle things in an amicable manner. But I’ve already told you I’m not wired that way. I leaned over the hood of the Lincoln and blew, the same way someone might blow out the candles on a birthday cake. Watched as the offending wisps of grass drifted onto the asphalt. I stood tall and smiled.
“Consider it detailed.”
Like I said, it started with the grass clippings. If only it had ended there.
I received an invoice from Deco’s Detailing three days later. The vehicle listed was a 2020 Lincoln Navigator, color “Pristine White Metallic.” The description read “detailing touchup” with a cost of $85 plus tax.
Dream on, Carl. That’s more than I can afford to spend on groceries in a week. I ripped the bill in half, tossed it into the recycling bin, and didn’t give it another thought.
Until the second invoice arrived from Deco’s Detailing, this one stamped “PAST DUE” in blood red ink, along with a reminder that invoices outstanding for over thirty days were subject to a ten percent late fee.
Good luck with that, Deco’s Detailing. I grabbed a pen from my junk drawer, crossed out my name and address, and in bold uppercase letters wrote, “BILLING ERROR. WRONG RECIPIENT.” Then I reinserted the invoice into the envelope, scribbled “Return to sender” across the front, and marched to the mailbox, where I slid it into the slot with a flourish.
Mission accomplished.
Or so I thought. Two weeks later, another invoice arrived, this one marked “FINAL NOTICE” with an additional ten percent tacked onto the total. Tired of playing mail tag, I got in my twelve-year-old Tucson, which had never been detailed and never would be as long as I was the owner, and drove.
Deco’s Detailing turned out to be a coin-operated car wash with five bays, two on either side of a narrow building with an “Open” sign over the door, and a larger bay reserved for full service. I parked to one side, careful not to block any of the bays, hopped out of my vehicle, and entered the building. A coverall-clad man stood behind a scarred laminate countertop, riveted to his phone. He waved to an ATM and a bill-changing machine without looking up.
“I have no intention of paying this invoice,” I said, pushing the “Final Notice” in front of him. That got his attention.
“Ah,” he said.
“Ah, indeed.” I glanced at the name tag on his coveralls. “Sam.”
“I’m afraid I must insist,” Sam said. “Mr. Carl, he’s a very good customer. And he instructed me to bill you for the work. Which is what I did.”
“I’m well aware. But again, I have no intention of paying this.”
Sam shrugged. “Then Mr. Carl will sue you.”
“Sue me? Because I won’t pay for work on his car that I didn’t authorize?”
“I gather there was some…” Sam searched for the word, then came up with it. “Desecration of property.”
“Desecration of property? Are you kidding me? A few blades of grass from my lawn landed on the hood of his car. I assure you, it was unintentional.”
“Was repeatedly ramming your mower into his front tire unintentional?”
I’ll admit the question caught me off guard. I hadn’t noticed a security camera. Had one of the neighbors ratted me out?
“I’m still getting used to the self-propelled setting.”
Sam gestured to the final notice. “Carelessness comes at a cost.”
The exact words Carl had used. I balled up the bill, tossed it on the floor, and stomped on it for good measure.
I was done being careless. It was time to be deliberate. Right down to the last detail.
Pun fully intended.
I waited until Carl left for work and then took a casual stroll past his house, pausing to retie my shoelace while surreptitiously checking for a security camera. If he had one, I couldn’t spot it. Anyway, he was the sort of guy who’d have a “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera” sign. A neighbor must have caught me.
But who?
I went through a mental list of possible suspects and decided it had to be the old guy who lived across the road. Not only was he outside a lot, reading the paper, but I’d seen him chatting with Carl. And while his porch-sitting times were unpredictable, he always seemed to come out the minute I started mowing the front lawn.
Good news for me, the old guy’s house was always dark by ten p.m. That meant my plan of attack had to be done at night, and on a cloudy, moonless night when there was no rain in the forecast.
I could wait until the conditions were perfect. In the meantime, I had some research to do and some supplies to purchase.
This was going to be fun.
Not all plans are brilliant upon execution. My original idea–to scatter birdseed on the hood of Carl’s Lincoln, whereby the birds would land, eat, poop, and scratch–was not without its flaws. The shells left behind would be difficult to explain. Sunflower chips were another option, but according to the birding website I’d visited, they could spoil quickly and harbor dangerous bacteria. I was many things—not all of them good—but a bird killer wasn’t one of them.
The least suspicious solution seemed to be grass seed, and while I appreciated the irony, it was unlikely all traces would be gone before Carl left for work in the morning. As much as I desired revenge, I couldn’t afford to have anything point back to me. After all, this was a guy who’d sue for an $85 detailing. Less, I’d since learned, than the cost of filing a small claims court application.
To Carl, this was about the principle of the matter.
I might have abandoned all hope of retribution had it not been for the headline in our local newspaper, the one delivered weekly with the flyers: “Graffiti Artists Tag Local Vehicles.”
According to the article, there had been a spate of vehicles targeted by taggers in the west end of town. True, we lived in the east end, but that was a point in my favor. The police were less likely to surveil our area.
I waited until Saturday afternoon, figuring it would be the busiest day for the big box buying crowd, and paid cash for a can of matte black spray paint. Admittedly, not the most imaginative choice, but selecting something bolder might have been remembered. I also took the precaution of wearing nondescript clothing: jeans, runners, and a logo-free gray sweatshirt. A ball cap with hair tucked inside, along with a pair of metal-framed “fashion” eyeglasses from the dollar store, completed my subterfuge.
The evening sky finally cooperated midweek. I’d kept my house lights off, indoors and out, and waited until one a.m., shaking the paint can a few hundred times, the rattle of ball bearings calming my nerves. At two o’clock, dressed head to toe in black, I crept out into the pitch dark night, reminding myself to go low and slow as I slunk across my yard to Carl’s driveway, paint can firmly in hand.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have hung around to admire my handiwork, but humility has never been my strong suit. I looked up to find Carl standing on his front stoop. But instead of rage on his face, I detected amusement.
He was laughing at me. Frustration and fury, I could have accepted. But openly mocking me? That was a bridge too far.
And then I heard sirens. Carl had called the police. I picked up the empty spray can and considered my options. The way I saw it, I had two. Fight. Or flight.
I sprinted to my Tucson, started her up, and tore out of my driveway, pedal to the metal. Turned the steering wheel at the last possible second, and careened wildly as I catapulted head-on into Carl’s precious Lincoln.
Gonna be tough to sell that car now, eh Carl, old buddy?
I watched with satisfaction as the smirk slid off Carl’s face. That sight alone was worth every penny, every day spent in court. Besides, thanks to my hotly-contested divorce, I already had a lawyer on speed dial.
Editor’s Note
I swear it’s just a coincidence that we scheduled Judy Penz Sheluk’s darkly humorous “The Last Detail” for this week. It has nothing to do with the street in front of my house being closed for three months, or with the loud machinery that has been grinding away at the pavement and my nerves. The timing is in no way related to the story’s theme of feuding with a rude neighbor, or with the simple pleasure of exacting a delicious revenge. Not at all. I promise.
-Josh Boldt, Editor
Books by Judy Penz Sheluk
Story Track
The title says it all for this week’s song pairing: Queen’s “I’m in Love With My Car.” Neighbor Carl has an unhealthy relationship with his automobile. If you spot him lurking in your driveway, you better cover that tailpipe!