"Ma'am, this vehicle is registered, insured, and parked in my own driveway."
She laughed.
"That doesn't mean it meets our community standards."
"Which standards?"
She pulled a paper from her folder.
"Section fourteen. Unsightly vehicles, commercial equipment, and automotive restoration projects are prohibited from residential properties."
I looked at the paper.
Then I looked toward my Mustang.
The car was painted a deep metallic blue, with polished chrome, original-style wheels, and a restored front grille. It was one of the cleanest classic cars on the street, and I had spent years bringing it back to the condition my father always dreamed of seeing.
"That car isn't commercial equipment," I said.
"It's old."
"That isn't the same thing."
Her lips tightened.
"Don't argue with me about the rules."
I held out my hand.
"May I see the complete document?"
She pulled it away.
"You can request a copy from the HOA office."
"Then how am I supposed to verify the violation?"
She smiled coldly.
"You don't get to decide whether you're violating our standards."
I looked toward her son.
He was leaning against the open garage frame, recording part of our conversation with his phone. When he noticed me looking, he lowered the device and smirked.
His mother stepped closer.
"People spend good money to live in a neighborhood like this. We can't have somebody turning a nice street into a junkyard."
I looked at the spotless blue Mustang.
Then at the perfectly ordinary tools visible inside my garage.
"You've got a strange definition of junkyard."
Her smile disappeared.
"Watch your tone."
"Then watch where you're standing. You're on my property."
She made a short, offended sound.
"You think owning a driveway puts you above the neighborhood?"
"No. It means I own my driveway."
Her son laughed.
"Mom, why are you even talking to this guy?"
The woman glanced toward him.
"Because some people need to be taught how things work around here."
Then she walked toward the Mustang, lifted the violation notice, and slapped it onto the hood with enough force to make the paper flutter against the paint.
"Get this piece of junk out of my neighborhood!"
I straightened.
"Take that paper off my car."
She folded her arms.
"Make me."
I didn't move toward her.