Bentley Little: The Association

Another woman paid for the garish dining room set, told him that her husband would be by later to pick it up in his truck, then returned after a half hour and asked for her money back.

The man with the clipboard showed up just after ten.

It was a thick crowd, with cars parked on the street half a block in either direction and the yard filled with intense looking bargain hunters, but the man immediately distinguished himself from the pack by his utter lack of interest in the items for sale. Tall and thin, with a prim face and the brand-name casual clothes of a dyed-in-the-wool yuppie, he seemed more interested in the house, in their car, and in the people milling around.

Barry glanced over at Maureen and caught her eye. She'd noticed, too, and he waited until the man had come near the table before calling out, "Hey there!" and motioning him over.

There was no smile on the man's serious face as he stopped writing, looked up from his clipboard, and focused on Barry. "Is this your house?" the man asked.

"Yeah. I'm Barry Welch. What can I do for you?"

The man nodded. "My name is Neil Campbell. I'm from the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association. I'm writing you up."

Barry frowned. "Writing me up?"

"Garage sales, yard sales, sales of any sort are prohibited within Bonita Vista. The guidelines are very clear on this point."

"I didn't know," Barry said. "No one told me."

"You have not gotten your copy of the C, C, and Rs ?"

"I don't even know what that is."

The man smiled thinly. "You can be excused this time, since you have not yet received our C, C, and Rs , but in the future you will have to abide by the same rules and regulations the rest of us follow." He made a little note on his clipboard. "I'll suggest to the board that you not be fined but merely issued a written reprimand. That should satisfy the requirements and the sticklers on the board." There was another thin smile, as if Campbell was trying to suggest that he was one of the more liberal and lenient members of the homeowners'

association, but the smile suggested no such thing.

Then a woman wanted to pay for a pair of pink pillows, and a teenage boy wanted to buy a beanbag chair, and by the time Barry had taken the money and counted out the change, Campbell was gone.

"What was that all about?" Maureen asked.

"Apparently, we're in violation of the homeowners' association's bylaws. That guy was here to write us up and issue a fine, but we got off with just a warning,"

"A fine? What does that mean? Can they do that?"

Barry shook his head. "I don't know. I guess we'll have to look into it."

"I knew it was bad news when I heard there was a homeowners'

association. Remember Donna and Ed in Irvine? They couldn't even put up a basketball backboard on their garage." Maureen frowned. "I was hoping it'd be different out here. Doris said that the association just paved the roads and did, like, maintenance work."

"She's a real estate agent. And she was trying to sell us the house.

What did you expect, honesty?"

"Silly me."

People came in waves after that. There would be ten minutes with no activity, then suddenly four cars would arrive at once and the driveway would be overrun with parents, children, and single adults all searching through different boxes for different things.

As the crowds thinned and the furniture began to be loaded onto pickups and hauled away, Maureen went inside, leaving Barry to handle things alone.

It was during one of the slow times that a burly older man walked up and started sorting through a box of odds and ends. Friendly looking, with a ruddy face, thick white mustache, and round wire-framed granny glasses, he did not seem to be particularly interested in the few leftover items for sale, and after a quick cursory glance at the box's contents, he wandered over to Barry's table. "Howdy," he said. "You just move in?"

"Last weekend," Barry told him.

The man smiled. "Had a visit from the association yet?"

Barry nodded wearily. "Yeah."

The man laughed, held out his hand. "I'm your neighbor. Ray Dyson.

Sworn enemy of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association."

"My name's Barry. Barry Welch." He shook the proffered hand.

Two cars pulled up on the street and parked. Three elderly women emerged from one, a tired-looking man with a scrawny overalled boy got out of the other.

Barry turned his attention back to his new neighbor. "So you're not a fan of the association either, huh?"

"To put it mildly."

"Thank God. At least I'm not all alone here."

"Oh, hell no. There are quite a few people who have run afoul of those assholes. Most of 'emare too intimidated to say anything, but they're with you in spirit. I can tell you that much."

"Most of the people today have seemed nice," Barry admitted.

"Oh, they're not from Bonita Vista. They're from town. You're not going to get anyone from Bonita Vista brave enough to buck the rules and actually attend a yard sale." He chuckled. "Except me."

Barry looked out at the two cars. "But how did they get through the gate?"

"Someone broke the gate last night. It's open now until they get it repaired. Happens every month or so. Some contractor or roofer who's working on a job here forgets the entry code, gets ticked off, and rams the gate." Ray nodded at his fellow garagesalers . "That's the only reason they're here. If everything was normal and the gate wasn't busted, you would've come out here today and waited and waited and not a damn person would've shown up."

"Except you."

"Except me."

Barry sighed. "We just got here. We haven't even finished unpacking.

I don't want to tick anybody off just yet. Maybe we should just lay low for a while, try to get on the association's good side and hope they don't bother us."

"The association's good side?" Ray chuckled. "No such thing. And these bastards are so used to having things their way that they don't even pretend to be nice. The problem is, the courts always take their part. I threatened to sue once, and I found out that no one would take my case because I had no legal grounds. It seems unconstitutional to me, but apparently homeowners' associations have the right to make you pay dues, to make you conform to their standards, to trespass on your property in order to ensure compliance. They can require you to join and force you to abide by their rules even if it's against your will.

That's especially ironic since we're in what they call a 'right to work' state. Which means that even if you work in a union shop, you can't be compelled to join the union. Exactly the opposite of the situation here." Ray leaned forward. "In case you can't tell, I'm an old union man." "Where are you from?" Barry asked. "I mean, originally. I assume you're not from Corban ."

"New Jersey. I'm a retired transit worker. We moved out west because of my asthma. Besides, my wife has family in Salt Lake City."

"But you like it here, right? I mean, overall?"

Ray shrugged. "Sure, I guess. The scenery's beautiful, we have four seasons a year, I live in a great house, and I've met a lot of nice people, made a lot of friends. It's a wonderful place to retire."

"But?"

"But the association is way too intrusive, and it's such a... pervasive influence here. I blame the board. The association's board of directors is made up of old busybodies with no hobbies and no lives who get their jollies harassing people and snooping around to make sure everyone's conforming." He nodded at Barry. "Who'd they send after you? Who came out this morning?"

"I don't know. The guy introduced himself, but I forgot his name."

"Youngish? Short hair? Serious face? Prissy?"

"Sounds like him."

Ray nodded. "Campbell. He's fairly new, just moved in last year, but already he's their little toadie Hopes to be elected to the board once one of those geezers croaks."