My neighbors are incredibly jealous people. Once, a friend of mine left a new car at my house and they saw it. When they asked me whose car it was, I jokingly said it was mine.
A week later, my friend took it and the neighbors were shocked. It turned out that they had told everyone on the street that I’d somehow “come into money” or won the lottery. That was just the beginning.
I live in a modest neighborhood outside of Savannah, nothing too fancy—older homes, decent yards, mostly longtime residents who mind their business. But not the Rasmis. That’s what I call them—short for Rashida and Samil.
They moved in about five years ago, and from day one, they had a thing for snooping. It’s like their full-time hobby is comparing their lives to everyone else’s. If someone got a new lawnmower, Samil suddenly needed a riding one.
If someone upgraded their siding, Rashida would suddenly “discover mold” on theirs. I tried to be friendly at first, but it became exhausting. Everything turned into a weird competition.
So when my buddy Alain left his Tesla with me for a week while he flew to Portugal, I knew what would happen. The second I pulled it into my driveway, Rashida was peeking through the blinds. She came over with her usual smile—tight, polite, full of calculation.
“Wow,” she said, eyeing the car. “Didn’t know you were into electric. Nice pick.”
I couldn’t help myself.
“Yeah, figured I’d treat myself. You only live once, right?”
She laughed, but it was forced. Like it hurt her teeth.
“Must be doing really well, huh?”
I nodded and shrugged, playing it off. “You could say that.”
They spent the next few days parading by with their own car doors open, polishing their older BMW like it was made of gold. Samil even shouted across the lawn, “Guess we all gotta keep up with the neighbors now!”
Then Alain came back, and the Tesla was gone.
I didn’t see them outside for two days. It wasn’t even about the car. It was the idea of me doing better than them.
Of me having something they didn’t understand. Things got worse after that. Two weeks later, I got a job promotion.
Not a flashy one, but it bumped my income enough that I finally repainted the house and replaced the old roof. It was long overdue. But the Rasmis acted like I’d insulted them personally.
Rashida cornered me at the mailbox. “Noticed all the work you’re doing. Planning to sell?”
“Nope,” I said.
“Just taking care of what I got.”
She raised her eyebrows, all fake-casual. “That kind of money just fall from the sky?”
That was her way of fishing. I didn’t take the bait.
“Nah,” I said. “Hard work. You should try it.”
Okay, that one might’ve been a little mean.
But from then on, they stepped it up. First, it was the HOA. I got notices about “trash bins left out too long” when they were out for fifteen minutes.
Then came a report about “unauthorized exterior paint color,” even though I’d used the exact shade listed on the approved list. I found out later that Rashida is best friends with the HOA secretary. I kept my cool.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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