Some people learn through listening, while others need to feel the consequences firsthand. My neighbor Owen definitely fell into the latter category—so I made sure he learned the lesson he deserved.
Every morning, my routine begins with brewing a fresh cup of coffee. The second part? Glancing out the kitchen window to see if a certain silver hatchback is parked in front of my garage again. Lately, it almost always is.
For the past six months—ever since Owen’s son moved back home—my mornings have started with a deep breath, a muttered “you’ve got to be kidding me,” and a walk next door to knock on his door. Six months of him fumbling for his keys in pajama pants, followed by mumbled, half-hearted apologies. Six months of me being late to work.
It all began the week Owen Saunders moved back in with his parents.
I’m thirty-two, and I’ve had my fair share of bad luck in love. Three serious boyfriends so far, each relationship ending with me changing my Netflix password, buying new sheets, and wondering how I missed the warning signs. The last one, Eric, broke things off because he “needed space”—which he apparently found in my best friend’s apartment.
After that, I decided enough was enough. I threw myself into my career, poured my energy into my home, and learned to enjoy my own company. As a graphic designer for a marketing agency in the city, I earn enough to live in a small but perfect house that I’ve decorated entirely for myself—no compromises. Teal accent wall? Done. Vintage movie posters? Framed. Ice cream for dinner? Who’s going to stop me?
The plan was simple: work hard, save money, and next year, take myself on a solo trip to New Zealand. Everything was going smoothly—until Owen’s car became a daily roadblock.
One morning, I peeked through the blinds and, sure enough, there it was: his silver hatchback, parked squarely in front of my garage door. I set my coffee down, shoved my feet into sneakers, and headed next door.
Three knocks. Footsteps. A bleary-eyed Owen opened the door.
“Oh, hey, Marissa,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Am I blocking you again?”
“As I was yesterday,” I replied, “and the day before that, and pretty much every day since you moved back.”
He winced. “Sorry. I’ll move it right now.”
I stood there, arms crossed, while he rummaged around for his keys. At twenty-eight, Owen should have been starting the prime of his life. Instead, he stood there in plaid pajama bottoms and a band T-shirt I’d never seen before.
Word around the neighborhood—thanks to Mrs. Daley, the self-appointed president of the local gossip network—was that Owen had lost his job at a tech startup and “come home to regroup.” The story was sprinkled with phrases like “helping his parents” and “figuring things out.” If he hadn’t been sabotaging my commute, I might have felt sorry for him.
When he finally moved his car, I forced a smile. “You know, this wouldn’t have to happen if you parked somewhere else.”
He sighed. “Where? My dad’s in the garage, the street fills up by the time I get home, and—”
“That’s not my problem,” I interrupted. “Figure it out.”
But the very next morning, there it was again—like an unwelcome case of déjà vu.
That evening, I spotted him outside washing his father’s car. I walked over. “Owen, we need to talk about the parking situation.”
He turned off the hose. “I know, I know. I’m sorry about this morning.”
“And yesterday morning. And the morning before that.”
“I don’t have many options,” he said with a shrug. “If I park down the block, I have to walk back through the woods after my night shift—and that’s where the raccoons hang out.”
I blinked. “You work nights?”
“Yeah, security guard at the mill,” he admitted. “Graveyard shift. It’s not glamorous, but it pays.”
“Still doesn’t give you the right to block my garage,” I said flatly. “One more time, Owen, and there will be consequences.”
He smirked. “Consequences? Like you’ll call a tow truck?”
“Worse,” I replied, a mischievous grin forming on my face.
He chuckled. “You’re kind of intense, you know that?”
By the time I returned home, I was already planning what those “worse” consequences would look like.
That night, I did some research and came across an intriguing article about natural wildlife attractants. It turns out the wooded preserve behind our neighborhood is home to raccoons, possums, deer, and more. They usually keep to themselves… unless tempted.
The next day, I stopped by a pet store and bought a large bag of wild birdseed and a bottle of “Critter Potty Training Attractant.” The cashier raised an eyebrow at my odd combination of purchases. “Got a new pet?” she asked.
“Something like that,” I replied, smirking.
That night, when the street was quiet, I dressed in dark clothes and crept outside. Owen’s silver hatchback gleamed under the streetlight. I sprinkled birdseed over the hood, roof, and trunk. Then I dabbed the attractant on the door handles, mirrors, and around the wheel wells. The smell was foul enough to make my stomach turn.
Satisfied with my handiwork, I went back inside, set my alarm for 6 a.m., and went to bed.
I didn’t even need the alarm.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of shouting. Peeking through the blinds, I saw Owen standing in his driveway, hands on his head. His car looked like a scene from a nature documentary gone wrong. Bird droppings streaked the windshield, the paint was dotted with tiny scratches from pecking beaks, and a plump raccoon perched on the roof, happily munching leftover seeds.