I live on a corner lot. Two years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Davis, a newlywed couple, moved into the house next door. Right from the start, they made snide comments about my bright yellow house.
They would laugh and say, “Whoa! That’s the brightest house we’ve ever seen! Did you paint it yourself?”
“Yup, me and a gallon of sunshine!” I’d say, shutting them up. “What do you think? Should I paint the mailbox next?”
But let me tell you, those two next door wouldn’t stop harassing me about the house color. Every time Mr. Davis walked by, he’d have to crack a joke.
“Bright enough for you, Victoria?!” he’d sneer, nudging his wife who’d chime in with a cackle like a hyena.
She was not any better. Instead of the jokes, she’d give me a pitying look and say, “Victoria, have you ever considered changing it?” Maybe something more neutral?”
Like my house was an eyesore that needed its charm surgically removed.
Their hatred was obvious from the start. They pretended that my house’s color was a platter of rainbow sprinkles served at a funeral.
One day, Mrs. Davis marched up to me while I was planting petunias. Her smile was about as bright as a rainy Tuesday, and she pointed a manicured finger at my house.
“That color is just an eyesore… it clashes with everything, Victoria! It’s gotta go. How about something like… beige… for a change?” she declared.
Clutching a watering can, I raised an eyebrow.
“Goodness, Mrs. Davis, is that what all the commotion outside is about? I thought a UFO had landed judging by the expressions on everyone’s faces. But it’s just a little paint!”
“Just a little paint? It looks like a giant banana landed in our neighborhood! Think about your property value! Surely you can see how… garish it is!” she frowned.
I shook my head, trying to remain calm. “There is no law prohibiting that, Mrs. Davis. I like yellow. It was my late husband’s favorite color.
Her face got very crimson. “This isn’t over by a long shot, Victoria!” she exclaimed before storming out.
Mrs. Prim and Proper and Mr. Boring couldn’t take my cheerful yellow house. They protested to the cops about the “blinding” color, filed a complaint with the city about a “safety hazard” (presumably happiness), and even attempted to sue me! That lawsuit, like a snowball in July, quickly disintegrated.
Their final attempt? Homeowners Against Bold Colors association, but my neighbors are awesome, and told them to shove it.
Now, those two are about as popular as a skunk at a picnic and alienated from everyone.
“Can you believe it?” my old neighbor Mr. Thompson boomed, striding over with a grin as wide as the sun on my yellow house. “Those two actually thought we’d jump on their beige bandwagon! Absurd!”
Mrs. Lee from across the street chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “Honey, a bright house and a happy heart, that’s the motto around here, not whatever shade of bland they’re peddling.”
“Yeah, well, maybe this will finally shut them up!” I exhaled. Little did I know, that was only the beginning of their disapproval.
Buckle up, because things were about to get much, much worse.
I had to be out of town for two weeks for work.
Two freakin’ weeks stuck in that stuffy metropolis. Finally, the road stretched out in front of me, directing me back to my haven. My yellow house, as vivid as a sunflower against the monotone beige of the neighborhood, should have been the first thing I saw.
Instead, a massive, GRAY brick protruded from the curb. I almost drove straight past it. My house, which my late husband had painted a cheery yellow, was now painted a color appropriate for a forgotten tomb!
My steps echoed on the sidewalk as I marched straight to the Davises’ house. They were the prime suspects, the beige bullies who couldn’t handle a splash of bright color in their bland world.
I practically threw myself against their door, pounding on it with a clenched fist. No answer. The audacity! To think they could change my home, my spirit, with a can of paint.
My neighbor Mr. Thompson came over, shaking his head. “I saw the whole thing, Victoria. Got pictures too. Tried calling you but the call wouldn’t get through. Called the police, but the painters had a valid work order. Nothing they could do.”
“What do you mean, a valid work order?” I asked, my voice shaking with anger.
Mr. Thompson nodded apologetically. “They showed the police the documentation. Apparently, the Davises claimed you hired them to repaint while you were gone.”
I felt my blood boiling. “They forged my name on the work order?”
Mr. Thompson nodded. “Looks like it. I’m very sorry, Victoria. I tried to stop them, but they refused to listen.
“Let me see those pictures,” I asked, my gaze narrowing.
He showed me photos of the painting company setting up and working on my property. “They had a work order in the name of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Davis,’ paid in cash,” he added.
I clenched my fists. “Of course they did.”
I checked my surveillance footage. And guess what? The Davises never set foot on my property. Clever. No trespassing. No charges. I called the police again, but they couldn’t do anything since the painters acted in good faith.
I stormed to the painting company’s office with my ID and house documents.
“You painted my house without my consent and did a lousy job. This could ruin the house’s exterior. You know what… I’m gonna sue you,” I barked.
The manager, Gary, was aghast and trembled an apology before stammering, “But… but we thought it was your house.”
I furrowed my brows and yelled, “Of course, it’s MY HOUSE but I DIDN’T ask for any paint job.”
I was seething at this point and asked for a copy of the work order. Sure enough, it was in the Davises’ name. The manager was surprised when I told him what happened.
“Mr. and Mrs. Davis claimed it was their house and declined the scraping service to save money… said they’d be out of town and wanted it done while they were gone,” Gary explained.
I could feel my blood boiling. “And you didn’t think to verify any of this with the actual homeowner? You didn’t think to check the address or the ownership records?”
Gary looked genuinely apologetic. “We usually do, but they were so convincing. They even showed us pictures of your house, claiming it was theirs. I’m really sorry, ma’am.”
“And you didn’t check with anyone around? You just sent your men to paint my damn house??” I snapped.
Gary looked flustered. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We had no reason to doubt them.”
I took a deep breath, trying to keep my composure. “Well, now you know. And you’re going to help me make this right. This is beyond unacceptable, and someone needs to be held accountable.”
The manager’s temples beaded with sweat. “Absolutely. We’ll cooperate fully. We had no idea. This should never have happened.”
I nodded. “I want your workers to testify in court.”
When I filed a lawsuit, the Davises had the nerve to counter-sue, claiming I should pay for the paint job. Unreal. Pathetic.
In court, the painting company’s workers testified against them. My lawyer laid out how the Davises had damaged my house and committed fraud by impersonating me.
The judge listened intently, then turned to the Davises. “You’ve stolen her identity and damaged her property. This is not just a civil issue but a criminal one.”
The Davises looked like they’d swallowed lemons. They were found guilty of fraud and vandalism. They were sentenced to community service and ordered to repaint my house back to yellow, covering all the costs, including court fees.
Outside the courthouse, Mrs. Davis hissed, “I hope you’re happy.”
I smiled sweetly. “I will be when my house is YELLOW again!”
And that’s the tale of how I took my plan. Sometimes, standing your ground pays off. What do you all think?
