I worked late, got home after midnight, and found a Porsche parked in my spot. It took me forever to get in touch with the owner. When I finally did, she refused to move it. Her excuses were insane: "That's what you get for coming home so late," "Just find another spot," and my personal favorite, "What if you're a creep trying to rape me?" I thought about it. Then, I had an idea. The next day, I got a call: “Sir, you’re a reasonable guy, don’t stoop to her level.” I laughed. “Don’t say that. I’m not reasonable at all.” 1 I live in an old condo complex. Parking is a nightmare, which is why I paid $30,000 for my own deeded spot. Tonight, I work one overtime shift, and my spot is occupied by a cherry-red Porsche. No parking pass, no note on the dash, nothing. I tried the non-emergency police line for a tow; no luck. I posted in the HOA Facebook group; no response. Finally, the building's property manager dug up the owner's contact info. Her name was Tiffany. I was ready to unleash hell, but she was a woman, and I figured getting her angry wouldn't get my spot back. So, I was super polite. “Hey, uh, Tiffany? Your Porsche is in my private spot. Could you please move it?” She let out an annoyed “Ugh, fine,” and said she was in the shower. She’d be down in thirty minutes. I had no choice. I sat in my car, starving, blasting the AC. Thirty minutes passed. No one. I called again. This time, she came at me, guns blazing. “What is your problem? Can’t you come home earlier? It’s the middle of the night! Where am I supposed to find parking now?” Normally, I would have lost it. But I just wanted my damn spot. I took a deep breath, drove a lap around the garage, and found one empty visitor spot in the far corner. I called her back and told her. Then she said it. “Since you found a spot, just park there! Why do you need me to move? What, is this some kind of trick? Are you trying to lure me to the garage so you can rape me?” 2 That was it. I snapped. I started cursing her out, going back generations. She blocked me. I was so angry I grabbed the tire iron from my trunk. I was about to smash her taillight, but then I remembered that in my state, anything over $1,000 is felony vandalism. I stopped. I parked on the street, fuming. Let it go, I told myself. She's just an entitled idiot. Not worth it. The next day, I get home from work. The Porsche is still there. Gleaming. Like it's mocking me. That's when I decided I was done being the nice guy. I pulled my old Honda Civic right up behind her, bumper to bumper, blocking her in completely. Then I went upstairs. The next morning, my phone rings. It's Tiffany, screaming that she’s late for work and that I have five minutes to get my “shitbox” out of her way. I put on my calmest voice. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry. I’m in the middle of a really bad crap. It’s gonna be at least fifteen minutes.” I hung up. Fifteen minutes later, she calls back, absolutely livid. “Where the hell are you?” I burst out laughing. “Oh wow, you actually waited? You should probably call an Uber. You’re gonna be in trouble.” She started screaming every curse in the book. I hung up. A few minutes later, the HOA manager calls. He says the Porsche is a temporary vehicle, and they charge $100 a day for that. If I don’t move, the fee will be charged to me. I was ready for this. “Parking is a nightmare, and you guys let this car in without a pass. That’s your fault. You want me to pay her parking fee? Fine. I’ll just stop paying my HOA dues. See how that works out for you.” The manager caved. A little while later, a guy claiming to be the head of the HOA board called, begging me to move. “Sir, you’re a reasonable guy. Don’t stoop to her level.” I smiled. “Don’t say that. Neither am I.” 3 I knew she couldn't do anything to me. I have full coverage on my car, and she’s driving a Porsche. I’m in a Honda. In a collision, I make a profit. That afternoon, I get a call from the police. They tell me to move my car, or I could be charged with criminal mischief. I laughed. I wasn't born yesterday. I told the cop I was out of town visiting family. I’d be back next week. If she was in a hurry, they could call a tow truck. I had no objections. I knew the garage ceiling was too low for a tow truck to get in. And they weren't going to drive three hours to my "parents' house" to get me. The cop sighed, realizing I knew the game. “Look, man,” he said, “why are you, a grown man, getting into this with a young woman? You blocked her in for a whole day. You’ve made your point.” I knew I couldn't push the cops too far. So I offered a deal: “I just want an apology. If she apologizes, I’ll move the car right now. I just want her to admit she was wrong.” The cop agreed. I went down to the local precinct for "mediation." The second Tiffany saw me, she went ballistic, screaming and swinging her Gucci handbag at my head, breaking the strap. Then she started sobbing to the cops, claiming I was a stalker, that I’d been following her and taking pictures, that I tried to assault her last night, and that I was blocking her car as revenge. The cops were done. “Ma’am, I’m going to ask you one time: will you apologize or not? If not, we’re washing our hands of this. You can figure it out yourselves.” Tiffany's face went rigid. “Apologize to him? He should be apologizing to me! I’m warning you, you can’t just violate my will because you're a cop! This is harassment! You’re raping me!” 4 Even for these seasoned officers, this was a new level of crazy. They just told her to leave. As she was storming out, the cop who’d been on the phone with me pulled me aside. “Buddy,” he said, in a low voice, “Block her in good. Make it tight. Take Ubers for a few days. Don’t you dare let her out. I’ll personally cover your Uber receipts.” I told him it was my pleasure. Community service. We’re all in this together. With the cops on my side, I was all in. I blocked her for seven straight days. Tiffany tried everything. She called a tow truck (couldn’t fit). She called a mechanic (couldn’t do anything). She even hired a group of day laborers, who spent an afternoon trying to push the Porsche out. They moved it maybe two inches. She started leaving threatening voicemails. Said her father was a "big deal" in city government. Said her mom was on the board of regents. Said they could end me. I almost laughed. “I’m a single guy. No wife, no kids. What have I got to lose? But if I have a bad day... you should be careful.” I never thought she’d go after my family. The next day, my sister, Sarah, called. She asked if I was in a fight with someone. I was stunned. “How did you know?” Sarah hesitated. “My principal just pulled me aside. He said I need to 'advise' my brother to move his car... or my probationary contract won't be renewed next month.” My hand was shaking. I couldn't believe Tiffany had found my sister and was threatening her job. My dad died when we were young. I was the only man in the family. I practically raised Sarah. She’d worked her ass off to get this teaching position. It was her dream. I couldn't be the one to ruin it. I moved the car. Tiffany, predictable as ever, swaggered over as I was getting in. “Aw, what happened? Not so tough now, are you? Next time you see me, you better be polite, or I’ll have your sister…” I exploded. I grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the garage wall. “I’m warning you,” I snarled, “you come after me, fine. But if you ever touch my sister again, I will end you.” “You want to file a report about a rapist? Fine. I’ll be the rapist.” 5 She scrambled into her Porsche and peeled out, terrified. I immediately regretted it. She’d played me. That afternoon, I got the call. The police were formally opening an investigation into me for assault and attempted sexual assault. My heart pounded. I ran to the station. I told them she’d threatened my sister, that I just lost my temper. I never intended to assault her. But the cop on duty just shook his head. My fingerprints were on her neck. The garage had security cameras. The evidence was iron-clad. Luckily, Officer Diaz—the cop who’d told me to block her in—was on shift. He knew what Tiffany was. He believed me. With Diaz’s help, the DA’s office declined to press felony charges due to "insufficient evidence of intent." But I still got booked for assault and spent seven days in lockup until my sister could post my bail. Diaz warned me. “You’re not out of the woods. She can still sue you. If she pushes the attempted rape charge in civil court, you’re screwed.” The only way out was to get her to sign a settlement. I was hopeless. This woman wasn't going to settle. She wanted me in prison. My sister, Sarah, insisted on handling it. She was afraid I’d explode again. She bought a $3,000 La Mer gift set—a year's worth of her salary—and went to Tiffany to beg for forgiveness on my behalf. After weeks of effort, Tiffany agreed not to sue. On one condition. “From now on, your parking spot is mine. And, you will personally wash and detail my car. Every. Single. Day. If I find one fingerprint on the glass, I’ll send you to prison. I mean it.”
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