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I hated HOAs on principle, and only moved to a neighborhood with one because my kid was starting school soon. The house was perfect, the location was ideal, and the school system was exactly what my wife and I wanted for CJ. For one blissful year, the HOA stayed out of people's business, for the most part, and the fees weren't too astronomical, until one day Mrs. Cattel decided she was finished with her gig on the board and nobody else wanted to take her place.
I wasn’t too involved at the time and didn’t pay much attention when they signed a contract with Elite Community Partners. This professional management conglomerate became a thorn in everybody’s side, yet nobody opted to do much about it. They used drones and drive-bys to catch minor infractions—unapproved mulch color, trash cans left out for an hour too long, no bushes in the front garden, faded driveway sealant… the list went on. I read the bylaws of the Rockcliffe Mews HOA cover to cover, multiple times over, so that I could tell the stupid management company to shove it when they tried to fine my neighbor for a temporary kiddie pool.
Every week or two, we had another $50 fee for some minor infraction to rules that could have been easily misunderstood, and I grew sick of it. I gathered a few neighbors I’d grown friendly with and we took a month to walk the neighborhood, talking to residents and gathering proxy votes. We invited them to a special meeting and found that many of our neighbors were just as frustrated as we were.
We were successful, gathering well over the quorum necessary to legally fire Elite Community Partners and form a new homeowner-run board to fill the vacuum. And because I was the one to facilitate all of this, I, somehow, was elected president. My wife told me, very frequently, that I had to learn to say no to people, but I could only look at her fond exasperation with a half-smile and a shrug as I told her the news.
Thankfully, the gig wasn’t so bad. At first. Like I said, people took care of their homes, cleaned up after their pets outside, and watched out for each other. There were rarely any complaints, and I even was able to put in new improvements—a couple of conveniently located pet waste stations, an upgrade to the playground in the center of the neighborhood, solar-powered street lights—and folks seemed happy enough to elect me again. The work was actually rewarding, in its own way, so I accepted my re-election and kept doing the good work.
Everything was great, until thorn-in-my-side Mrs. Lynda Gable emailed me at 7:37 PM on Sunday, August 26th, 2018.
Mrs. Gable hated me. Mostly because she was racist, but partially because she wanted the title of HOA president and I simply was not going to finish fighting ECP just to let someone like her busybody self take over. Most of her emails could be resolved pretty quickly, though, and I crossed my fingers as I opened it and began to read.
Dear Mr. Jarome Sullivan, HOA President,
I am writing to inform you of a blatant infraction of Article IV: External Structures and Nuisances. >
My neighbor at 47 Trillium Lane, the Russian individual who recently moved in, has seen fit to ignore the architectural integrity of our street. Over the last forty-eight hours, I have been forced to witness the assembly of a massive, industrial-grade plastic flooring system in his rear garden. It appears to be a makeshift hockey rink. >
Not only is this an unapproved permanent structure—which, as you know, requires a sixty-day review period by the committee—but the aesthetic is utterly jarring. Furthermore, the noise is becoming unbearable. It is 7:30 PM on a Friday, and I can hear the constant, aggressive thwack of pucks hitting walls, and it is frightening my yorkie to the point where he will not come out from under the bed.
“Maybe consider that maybe he just doesn’t want to be around you, Mrs. Gable,” I muttered to myself just as Aisha, my wife, arrived home from work.
“Hey babe,” I called out, "I have a new email from Mrs. Gable!"
She paused he hands as she reached up to take off her hijab, instead bounding over to the sofa to plop next to me, with a kiss on my cheek. She leaned her head on my shoulder to read along and, after a moment, snorted in the cutest, most unattractive way I’d ever heard. I had to pause my reading to kiss her head.
"'This structure and the activities within are disruptive, dangerous, and quite frankly not the aesthetic we pay our substantial monthly dues to maintain.'" She reads aloud. "The dues are some of the cheapest in the province,” Aisha laughed, and we both continued to read in silence.
I am also concerned about the company the Russian keeps. There has been a large black “Jeep” with Quebec plates parked in his driveway where anybody who comes to my home can see. It is an eyesore and the Asian man who I see coming and going will often stay at the Russian’s house for several days at a time. They taunt each other loudly while outside, sometimes even in Russian!
“Why the fuck is that her business?” I grumbled. Aisha pressed her lips to my shoulder, chuckling.
“It’s not her business, but she thinks it is. I mean, a Russian and an Asian in our good white suburb, Allah yastur!”
“Yes, yes, next they’ll start letting Black people move in,” I joked, holding my arms out to encompass my Black self.
“Or, gasp, there might be a Muslim!” she replied, sitting up to gesture to the hijab she still wore, before pulling it off and shaking out her long hair as we laughed - because what else could we do in a situation this bizarre, encountered by this level of bigotry?
I expect a formal notice to be served by tomorrow morning. We moved to Rockcliffe Mews for peace and prestige, not to live next door to a sports complex and a revolving door of aggressive foreigners! If this is not resolved, I will be forced to bring it up at the next city council meeting regarding local noise ordinances.
Best regards,
Lynda Gable
45 Trillium Lane
I set my phone down and leaned against my wife with a groan, burying my face in her neck.
“I do not want to tell the giant professional hockey player that he might have to take his rink down,” I said. I had been so excited when Ottawa signed the guy, hoping we’d finally win some games. I was even more pumped when I found out he was moving in two streets over. I figured he wouldn’t be a terrible neighbor; with travel and training, he would probably barely be home, and when he was, maybe I'd get to meet him. CJ would be pumped.
“I don’t blame you, he’s Ilya fucking Rozanov. Did you see him check that Vegas player into the boards last season? The guy’s soul left his body.”
“You’re not helping!” I groaned, hugging her tighter to me while she laughed, poking my sides. She’s right about him being aggressive, but that’s because he’s paid millions to be exactly that. "If I go over there and tell him his rink is a nuisance, he’s going to think I’m just another bitter suit.”
Sue me if part of me hoped I could befriend the super cool hockey player, and this seems to be ruining my chances of that.
“Hmm, difficult to be a bitter suit when I can’t name the last time you wore a tie,” she joked. She was right. Staying home with CJ had definitely not done wonders for my fashion choices. I looked down at my shirt and thought I spotted a stain from whatever finger-painting creation we had worked on before his bedtime. “Look, just go. Be the cool guy, tell him you’re a fan. Ask his Quebecois visitor to pull his car up closer to the garage so Mrs. Gable can’t see it and break her pearls from clutching them so hard. See if he can just… I don’t know, put up some sound-dampening foam? Keep the chirping to a minimum after 7:00 PM?”
“I'll try,” I promised.
The next morning, I finished dropping CJ off at school and took a moment to psych myself up for the visit with Ilya fucking Rozanov. I hadn’t even met the guy in person yet; I had only answered a question he'd had about how to pay his dues online when he first moved in a month or so ago.
Aisha was sitting on the sofa watching some garbage TV in her pajamas and folding laundry when I approached the front door.
“If I don’t come back, tell CJ I love him,” I said dramatically. She tossed a balled-up pair of socks at my head. "Leave the laundry, babe, I'll do it when I get back."
“Go on, President Sullivan,” she teased, shooing me out. “Avert this crisis.”
The walk to Trillium Lane was shorter than I wanted it to be. The morning air was already thick with humidity and freshly cut grass, and on any other day I'd relish the hours before the heat really became oppressive, but for now I just wanted this to be over. As I approached, I heard the rhythmic crack-SNAP of a composite stick hitting a puck, with the occasional THWACK of the puck hitting a wall. It wasn’t so loud, really. It was quieter than an echoing arena and barely noticeable over the sound of birds chirping and lawnmowers whirring.
I got to the gate at the end of the driveway, which was already open, but I pressed the buzzer at the entrance anyway. There was no response, so I kept walking, wiping sweaty palms on my jeans as I made my way down the long driveway. Of course, by "house," I should have said "mansion." It was easily the biggest house in our affluent little neighborhood, and it really showed off the NHL salary Rozanov brought home. Parked in the driveway was, indeed, a black Jeep with Quebec plates. It was new, sleek, and all black from the tire rims to the door handles. It wasn't an eyesore by any rubric I followed, but alas, it was not a Mercedes or an Aston Martin, so it was a problem, I guess.
I followed the noise to a propped-open side gate. I tried to knock, then called out 'Hello? It's Jerome from the HOA!' but it didn’t seem like I had been heard, so, with a sigh, I stepped over the threshold. Then I stopped, and I stared.
I stared because Ilya fucking Rozanov had Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Metros, pushed up against the crossbar, hockey sticks abandoned at their sides...and Rozanov was kissing the daylights out of Hollander. Full on the mouth.
I was fairly certain that I saw tongue.
Before I could make a hasty retreat and put my business with Ilya in an email instead, Hollander’s eyes cracked open and he jolted, pushing Rozanov off of him.
“Yebat!” Rozanov exclaimed when he saw me. Both men looked panicked.
“Sorry! I saw nothing,” I said hastily. “I’m so sorry. I tried buzzing the gate and I knocked on the fence and—Oh god, I shouldn’t have just walked in here, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Calm down,” Rozanov said, holding his hands up like I was the one who had been caught making out with my rival. "You say you saw nothing. I say I believe you."
Shane Hollander didn’t look convinced, and I tried to give a reassuring smile. It must not have looked right because Hollander scowled.
“What did you need from me?” Rozanov asked. I sighed, really, really not wanting to have this conversation. I decided not to take my wife’s advice and tell him I was a fan. That didn’t seem helpful now.
With a steadying breath, I stepped forward, holding my hand out.
“I’m Jarome Sullivan, the HOA president? I think we emailed a few times.” They are just guys, Jarome. I think to myself. The best hockey players in history, but still just guys. This was fine. Shane always had seemed level-headed; he surely wouldn’t let Rozanov kill me. “Look, I’m not here to be a narc. I don’t really care about what you do on your own property. I don’t even like HOAs, honestly, but one of your neighbors is on a warpath.”
Ilya’s expression went from a wary openness to a simmering annoyance. “Mrs. Gable? With the small, angry dog with no teeth?”
I huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that’s her. She cited an article in the bylaws, saying that your rink is an unapproved permanent structure and the noise is a nuisance she’s going to call the city about if I don’t get a handle on it.”
I tried to express how much I thought the whole thing was bullshit with my face and my body language.
Ilya shook his head, looking amused as he glanced back at Hollander, who seemed to be trying to shrink into himself. It was difficult, considering he was still very tall and formidable, despite being shorter than Ilya’s hulking frame.
Ilya turned back to me and shrugged. “It is not permanent. It is tiles. I snap them together, I snap them apart. In a week, maybe two, I will take it all down. Before training camp begins.”
“Really?” I asked, so relieved I could have dropped to the ground. If it was temporary, I could classify it as seasonal equipment – like a trampoline, or a kiddie pool, or one of those giant inflatable Santa Clauses. “If you can guarantee it will be down by Autumn, I can tell her the board reviewed it and it is compliant.”
“It is coming down,” Ilya confirmed. I started to wonder why a man with access to a professional practice facility needed a backyard set up, and like a mindreader he added, “I am only testing it for something later. To see if it works for the kids. But for now, it goes away soon.”
“That works for me, thank you. And…one more thing. The Jeep? You’re not breaking any rules or bylaws with it where it is but…can you do me a favor and park it further up the drive, or in the garage, so that Mrs. Gable can’t see it from her house? It would save me a headache or two.”
Hollander gave a short, sharp nod. “I can do that,” he said, staring at a point on the ground instead of anywhere near my face. I got it.
I started to back away, eager to leave them to their…training. “Great. Thanks. Sorry again for the intrusion, and I really did not see anything.”
“Wait,” Ilya called out, looking at me with more curiosity now. “You have a kid, yes? I have seen you around, he has tiny roller blades?”
“Yeah, a son. CJ.”
Ilya tilted his head, a small crooked smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “CJ Sullivan? That is a good hockey name. Sully, probably, in the locker room. If he wants to learn to play, let me know, yeah?”
I stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Yeah, sure, definitely. I’ll let him know. Have a good one, guys!”
I walked back toward the gate, feeling ten pounds lighter in some ways, but a ton and a half heavier with the weight of a secret I had to hold onto now.
Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander.
How about that.