My neighbors are the human version of a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses fever dream. One time a buddy parked his brand-new Tesla in my driveway while he jetted to Portugal, and the couple next door lost their minds.
When they asked whose ride it was, I joked, “Mine—decided to treat myself.” A week later my friend collected the car and the neighbors looked like they’d seen a ghost. Turns out they’d already marched up and down the block announcing I’d “won the lottery” or “joined the crypto elite.”
That was merely the opening act.
I live in a quiet, moss-draped subdivision outside Savannah—older homes, decent lots, folks who generally mind their own mulch. Enter the Rasmis (short for Rashida and Samil). They rolled in five years ago and immediately turned life into a scoreboard. New grill? Samil rushes out for a commercial-grade smoker. Fresh coat of paint? Rashida suddenly spots “mold” and hires a crew the next morning. I tried the friendly wave; they answered with side-eye and measuring tape.
So when Alain’s Tesla appeared, I knew the games would begin. Rashida slinked over, blinds parted like theater curtains. “Wow, electric—fancy! Must be doing really well, huh?” I shrugged: “You only live once.” Cue three days of Samil waxing their aging BMW like it was headed to Pebble Beach.
Then Alain reclaimed his car and the Rasmis went radio-silent for forty-eight hours—mourning period for the imaginary fortune they’d already spent.
But I’d just been promoted. Nothing headline-worthy, but enough to finally repaint the house and replace the leaky roof—basic upkeep I’d delayed. Rashida cornered me at the mailbox: “That kind of money just fall from the sky?” I smiled. “Hard work—you should try it.” (Okay, a little savage.)
That’s when the scoreboard flipped to warfare.
First came HOA love letters: trash bins “left out too long” (fifteen minutes), paint color “not on approved list” (it absolutely was). Turns out Rashida drinks iced lattes with the HOA secretary every Tuesday.
I kept my cool—until the Amazon boxes started vanishing. Ring cam caught Samil strolling up, yoinking a package, strolling back inside like he’d borrowed a cup of sugar. Confrontation time: he played confused, claimed “mixed-up address,” then magically “lost” the $90 router.
I began documenting everything—screenshots, timestamps, saved voicemails. I didn’t know the endgame; I just knew receipts age like fine wine.
Then my cousin Leilah moved in for a semester—twenty-two, quiet, bookish. Samil suddenly developed a helpful streak: appearing during her walks, offering rides, popping up at the back gate with heavy boxes that needed “lifting.” She asked me to walk with her; I installed a second camera.
One evening Rashida arrived uninvited, faux-concern dripping: “Leilah’s been ignoring Samil—he feels disrespected.” I shut the door mid-sentence.
That’s when the rumor mill cranked up: “Nora’s running a side hustle,” “strange men at all hours,” “letting that girl entertain for money.” Church ladies started side-eyeing me from the pews.
I nearly combusted—until I remembered the drone.
A year earlier Samil had buzzed one over my second-story windows “for fun.” I dug into old footage, found clear shots of the drone hovering like a peeping mosquito. I checked local ordinances, bought a signal jammer, and—for good measure—mailed stills to the HOA, Victor’s dental office, and every cousin I could find on Facebook.
Drone vanished overnight. Smiles vanished too.
Quiet lasted a month—then came the coup de grâce: animal-control trucks, police lights, city inspectors. Someone reported “a dog in chains, cries of suffering.” I don’t own a dog. They searched the yard, filed a report, left embarrassed.
I compiled the whole saga—stolen packages, drone peeps, false report, timestamps galore—into one neat PDF and walked it straight to a lawyer. Restraining order filed, HOA packet delivered.
Notifications stopped. Eye contact stopped.
Enter karma, stage left.
Shiny black Audi appears in their driveway. I assume it’s their rebound flex—until it disappears. Turns out Samil had been “rebounding” with Jalila, the car’s actual owner, for over a year. She’d lent him the ride while she cruised the Caribbean.
Rashida found out.
One night she knocked at 10:30, mascara rivers on her cheeks. “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I thought we were happy.” I offered water; she declined, twisting her wedding ring like a faucet that wouldn’t turn.
Two weeks later Samil was gone—divorce filed, house listed.
Street exhaled.
Leilah graduated, landed a job in Raleigh. I adopted a senior beagle from the shelter—lazy, droopy, perfect. Named him Karma. He snores on the porch while I sip sweet tea and watch new neighbors move in: sweet retired couple, wave like normal humans.
I never wanted to win a neighborhood war. I just wanted peace.
Now, porch swing creaking, beagle snoring, I finally have it.
If you’ve ever lived beside envy incarnate, hit share—someone out there needs the reminder that silence and documentation can be sharper than any sword.