The wooden gate cracked open at exactly 2:17 on a Saturday afternoon, and the woman in bright-pink satin pajamas stepped into my backyard carrying a large blue bag that should never have been anywhere near my swimming pool.
She was fifty-six years old, with a perfectly maintained silver-blonde bob, expensive black designer sunglasses, and the kind of confident expression that made it obvious she believed other people's rules existed only when they were convenient for her. A loose pink satin robe fluttered around her shoulders, black gloves covered her hands, and her expensive white sandals scraped against the concrete as she pushed the damaged gate closed behind her.
She didn't knock. She didn't call my name, and she certainly didn't have permission to enter. She had already received a formal court order directing her not to set foot on my property, but that afternoon she behaved as though a judge's signature meant nothing compared with the authority she believed came from being president of the homeowners association.
From my kitchen window, I watched her move toward the water.
At first, I thought she'd brought another bag of pool-treatment supplies to support one of her endless complaints about my property's condition. Then I saw her glance toward my house, look over both shoulders, and begin tearing open the top of the blue bag while standing at the edge of the pool.
Something about her expression made my stomach tighten.
She looked nervous.
Not frightened of being caught, exactly, but anxious to complete whatever she'd come to do before someone interrupted her.
I was thirty-five years old, a Black American homeowner who'd spent nearly twelve years building a successful civil engineering business. I stood six feet three inches tall, with broad shoulders, a muscular athletic build, short faded black hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. That afternoon, I was shirtless, wearing bright-yellow swimming trunks with a black drawstring, because I'd been preparing to enjoy the pool before my sister and her children arrived for a family barbecue.
I had been carrying a glass of iced tea.
When I saw what the woman was about to do, I set it down.
Then I grabbed my phone.
She lifted the blue bag.
A stream of pale granular material poured from its opening, struck the water, and spread across the turquoise surface in a widening cloud before beginning to sink.
I froze.
For a fraction of a second, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
Then the woman laughed.
"Enjoy your swim now!" she shouted toward the house.
I opened the patio door.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She turned.
Her sunglasses reflected the sunlight, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.