This morning had been productive, though. Walking in side, he dumped his notebook on the dining room table and went into the kitchen, searching for something to eat. He opened the cupboards, looked through the refrigerator, but the house seemed to be devoid of snacks and he was too lazy to actually make anything. He finally settled on an apple, chomping it as he walked downstairs. Maureen was in the bathroom, but on the table next to the computer were several stamped envelopes addressed to the IRS, entreaties on behalf of her clients no doubt, and he called out between bites, "Hey! You want me to take these letters out to the mailbox?"
"Go ahead!" came the muffled response.
Anxious to be walking, on the move, doing something physical after sitting on his butt all morning, Barry tossed his apple core into the wastepaper basket, picked up the envelopes, and headed outside. At the mailbox, he flipped up the red flag and opened up the rounded metal door to drop off Maureen's outgoing correspondence.
But he saw immediately that the box wasn't empty. Today's mail had not yet been delivered, so there were no bills, no letters, no postcards.
But there was an unstamped envelope bearing his name and, in the upper left corner, the printed initials "BVHA."
Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association .
He ripped open the envelope, angry before he even knew what was in it.
There was no form this time but a typed note on letterhead stationery.
He read the message. Read it again.
Dear Mr. Welch, It has come to our attention that you have been using 113 Pinetop Rd.
as your place of business as well as your primary residence. Bonita Vista is a strictly residential community and all commercial or business activities are prohibited. No homeowner may practice his or her occupation on any of the Properties.
The Board has only recently learned of your specific situation, and after careful review we have determined that as per the Bonita Vista C, C, &Rs you are required to secure an alternate site at which you can conduct your writerly vocation within thirty days of this notice.
If you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to call me at 555-7734.1 would be happy to assist you in any way I can.
Sincerely yours, Boyd R. Masterson Committee Chair The paper in his hand was trembling, he was so angry. Barry shoved Maureen's envelopes into the mailbox and shut the door.
Writerly vocation.
In his mind, he was revising and rewriting the letter: a pointless exercise but one that he often did when confronted with adversarial documentation. Too many people in this world were unable to compose an effective missive, and it always gave him a boost to realize that his opponents were not as adept at composition as he was. It diffused the threat somehow, gave him, at least in his own mind, a psychological advantage.
There was the sound of a vehicle coming up the road, and he looked up to see a red Jeep rounding the corner and starting up the hill. It was Mike Stewart. Mike worked in town at the Cablevision office and was obviously on his way home for lunch. He gave a honk and a wave as his Jeep passed by. But something in Barry's demeanor must have alerted him that something was amiss, because a second later Mike braked the vehicle and coasted back down, stopping in front of the driveway.
"Anything wrong?" he called out.
Barry walked up to the Jeep, holding out the letter. "What do you make of this?"
Mike reached out the driver's window and took the paper from his hand.
He started to read, then snorted. "Those assholes."
"You know anything about this rule?"
"No, but that's only because it doesn't apply to me. If they say it's in the C, C, and Rs , you can bet your mama's cooze that it is."
"But don't you think this rule was probably made to keep people from selling stuff out of their house, or setting up some sort of manufacturing unit in their garage, or doing things that would disrupt the neighborhood? I mean, I write, for God's sake. I type. That's it. It doesn't harm anything. No one would even know I do it if I
hadn't told them."
Mike sighed. "You're probably right, but these are letter of-the-law guys. Intent doesn't mean shit to them. They're just into throwing their weight around and enforcing their rules, and the more infractions they find, the more people they can crack down on, the happier they are. They're grateful you slipped through that loophole and they could pounce."
"God damn it!"
"You know," Mike said, "it's my goal to win the lottery. There are quite a few empty lots up here, and if I won, I'd buy them all. Not just to keep the open space, but also because for each lot you own you get one vote in the association election. I'd have a massive voting block, probably more than all the existing residents put together." He grinned. "I haven't decided whether I would vote to disband the homeowners' association or just vote myself president and exempt myself and my friends from all existing rules while enforcing them to the max for everyone else."
"That," Barry said, "sounds like a plan."
"Lottery's every Wednesday and Saturday."
Barry smiled. "I'm a friend, right?" "Damn straight. And I'll make those bastards pay for this." He handed back the letter.
"But until then?"
Mike grew more sober. "I think you're screwed." He held up a hand.
"Don't go by what I say, though. I'm no expert on this shit. You should talk to a lawyer or something."
"Yeah."
"Hey, I gotta get home and eat lunch. I only get a half hour, and fifteen minutes're gone already. I'll call you later."
"All right. Thanks, Mike." Barry waved good-bye as the Jeep took off up the hill, and, still clutching the letter in his fist, headed up the driveway and into the house.
Maureen, after he'd told her, after she'd read the letter, didn't seem all that upset. At least not as upset as he thought she should be. She agreed that it was unreasonable to force him to stop writing at home, but she admitted that she understood the logic behind it. "They can't very well let you off the hook and make you the exception. They're obligated to apply the rules fairly and evenly, not pick and choose who they're going to harass. That would be selective enforcement and there'd be lawsuits galore after that. I know it sucks that you fell through the cracks, but I don't think it's intentional, I don't think they're after you, I think they're just trying to enforce their regulations--as unfair as they are--in a way that proves they're not singling anybody out for prosecution or favors."
"Jesus Christ."
"It's not the end of the world."
"Thanks for the support."
Maureen shrugged. "All I'm saying is that it might not be all that bad for you to get an office, at least not from a tax perspective. The rent's deductible--"
"That's not the point."
"I know that. I'm just saying that we're doing pretty well these days, and your business expenses are almost nonexistent. That's why we took such a big hit last year on taxes. But if you got yourself an office ..."
"Stop trying to be practical and calm me down. I'm pissed off here, and, goddamn it, I have a right to be. Knock off the every-cloud-has-a-silver-lining crap."
Her mouth tightened.
"If I was retired, I could sit here all day and write crank letters to the newspaper or the government or whatever, and I wouldn't be breaking any rules. But because I make my living writing, I can do the exact same thing for the same amount of time and suddenly I'm in violation of the regulations. Don't expect me to be happy about that."
A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he took the letter from her hand, read it over again. "You know what?" he said. "It only mentions me. What about you? You're using this as your office, too.