Page 87 of The Gaybor War

…and your ever-vigilant Neighborhood Watch Captain, Benji Stewart

Chapter 22

The Morningwood Monthly sits on my kitchen counter, folded with unnecessary precision.

I didn’t mean to read it again. I meant to skim. I meant to confirm dates and move on. But fifteen minutes later, I’m standing here with coffee going cold, rereading lines as if they’re evidence.

Locktober. Turn in your keys for shiny new ones.

I close my eyes and inhale slowly.

I don’t want to know where Eunice Dobbins learned the word Locktober, and I resent the way my brain insists on filling in the blanks anyway. The phrase shiny new is doing too much work here.

Moving on.

No-Nut November. Clear pinecones and acorns so lawnmowers don’t throw them into cars and windows.

I stare at the page, hoping when I unblink, the words will warp into something sensible.

That is not what No-Nut November means. I am certain of this because I was once stupid enough to participate. And now I’m stuck imagining Eunice, somewhere on the internet, misinterpreting things at alarming speed.

I take a long sip of coffee and keep reading.

Pumpkin Roll.

Friendsgiving.

Safety reminders.

Cider Tasting Night. Explore body, balance, and—yes—the length of finish.

I choke on my coffee and read it again. Length of finish.

I don’t want to know who wrote this line. I want to know who approved it. I want to know how many people read it, nodded solemnly, and said this seems appropriate for a community newsletter.

This community is a liability, and it only downgrades from there.

No more than six inflatable decorations per yard. Excessive inflation is a violation.

I freeze and read it again. Then again once more, slower. And then—quietly, treacherously—I snort.

The sound surprises me. I don’t quite laugh out loud, but something about the sentence lands just right, absurd and smug and perfectly HOA-serious in a way that feels… intentional.

Across the street, Benji’s porch light clicks on, as if he’s summoned by my irritation. Or my amusement. Or whatever dangerous middle ground this is.

I try to shake it off. I really do. I tell myself agreeing with him, even internally, means nothing. But the truth settles anyway.

Limiting inflatables is meaningless.

Locktober is ridiculous.

Length of finish is blatant.

And No-Nut November should never, under any circumstances, be explained by Eunice Dobbins, who likely abstains year-round and not just in November.

I pick up my phone before I can talk myself out of it. I type. Pause. Delete. Rewrite. And send.

Six inflatables feels arbitrary.