The Association

by Bentley Little

  So much for small-town friendliness.

  He looked at her retreating back. Now that he thought about it, the sociability quotient of their neighborhood seemed to have gone down over the past week or two, the dinner invitations they'd received upon first arrival no longer extended. He wasn't complaining--they had friends here now: Ray and Liz, Frank and his wife, Audrey, Mike and Tina Stewart--but still it was odd, and he wondered why it had happened, whether they'd broken some unwritten code and made some hideous social faux pas, or whether their newness and novelty had worn off and everyone who wanted to meet them had done so.

  The woman rounded a bend in the road, disappearing behind the pines, and Barry looked down at his notebook, flexed his fingers one more time, and resumed writing.

  The weather changed quickly, as it often did here in Utah. He'd been sweating in the June heat, then suddenly thick white clouds blocked the sun, and there was a measurable drop in temperature--a full eight degrees according to the Sierra Club outdoor thermometer Maureen had installed on the wall next to the door. The sweat cooled on his skin.

  If what Ray said was true, July would bring the monsoons, and then they'd really see some schizo id weather. Barry was looking forward to it. As a native southern Californian, his exposure to different seasons had been through movies, books, and television, entirely secondhand, and it was nice to finally experience for himself the vagaries of Mother Nature.

  He broke off for lunch some six pages later, his right hand starting to cramp. He felt good about what he'd written this morning. If it went this well every day, he'd be able to write for six months out of the year and take the other six off. Or crank out two books a year instead of one. Probably the latter. Writing was a notoriously fickle and unstable business, and no matter how well he was doing, there was always the possibility that he could be stone cold in a year and find his fiction unsalable . It was the nature of the beast, and even if he hadn't had a borderline-obsessive work ethic, he would still feel the need to strike while the iron was hot.

  But inspiration wasn't that consistent, and although there were days when he finished twenty clean pages, there were others when he eked out only a single paragraph that more often than not had to be rewritten the following day.

  This morning had been productive, though. Walking in side, he dumped his notebook on the dining room table and went into the kitchen, searching for something to eat. He opened the cupboards, looked through the refrigerator, but the house seemed to be devoid of snacks and he was too lazy to actually make anything. He finally settled on an apple, chomping it as he walked downstairs. Maureen was in the bathroom, but on the table next to the computer were several stamped envelopes addressed to the IRS, entreaties on behalf of her clients no doubt, and he called out between bites, "Hey! You want me to take these letters out to the mailbox?"

  "Go ahead!" came the muffled response.

  Anxious to be walking, on the move, doing something physical after sitting on his butt all morning, Barry tossed his apple core into the wastepaper basket, picked up the envelopes, and headed outside. At the mailbox, he flipped up the red flag and opened up the rounded metal door to drop off Maureen's outgoing correspondence.

  But he saw immediately that the box wasn't empty. Today's mail had not yet been delivered, so there were no bills, no letters, no postcards.

  But there was an unstamped envelope bearing his name and, in the upper left corner, the printed initials "BVHA."

  Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association .

  He ripped open the envelope, angry before he even knew what was in it.

  There was no form this time but a typed note on letterhead stationery.

  He read the message. Read it again.

  Dear Mr. Welch, It has come to our attention that you have been using 113 Pinetop Rd.

  as your place of business as well as your primary residence. Bonita Vista is a strictly residential community and all commercial or business activities are prohibited. No homeowner may practice his or her occupation on any of the Properties.

  The Board has only recently learned of your specific situation, and after careful review we have determined that as per the Bonita Vista C, C, &Rs you are required to secure an alternate site at which you can conduct your writerly vocation within thirty days of this notice.

  If you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to call me at 555-7734.1 would be happy to assist you in any way I can.

  Sincerely yours, Boyd R. Masterson Committee Chair The paper in his hand was trembling, he was so angry. Barry shoved Maureen's envelopes into the mailbox and shut the door.

  Writerly vocation.

  In his mind, he was revising and rewriting the letter: a pointless exercise but one that he often did when confronted with adversarial documentation. Too many people in this world were unable to compose an effective missive, and it always gave him a boost to realize that his opponents were not as adept at composition as he was. It diffused the threat somehow, gave him, at least in his own mind, a psychological advantage.

  There was the sound of a vehicle coming up the road, and he looked up to see a red Jeep rounding the corner and starting up the hill. It was Mike Stewart. Mike worked in town at the Cablevision office and was obviously on his way home for lunch. He gave a honk and a wave as his Jeep passed by. But something in Barry's demeanor must have alerted him that something was amiss, because a second later Mike braked the vehicle and coasted back down, stopping in front of the driveway.

  "Anything wrong?" he called out.

  Barry walked up to the Jeep, holding out the letter. "What do you make of this?"

  Mike reached out the driver's window and took the paper from his hand.

  He started to read, then snorted. "Those assholes."

  "You know anything about this rule?"

  "No, but that's only because it doesn't apply to me. If they say it's in the C, C, and Rs , you can bet your mama's cooze that it is."

  "But don't you think this rule was probably made to keep people from selling stuff out of their house, or setting up some sort of manufacturing unit in their garage, or doing things that would disrupt the neighborhood? I mean, I write, for God's sake. I type. That's it. It doesn't harm anything. No one would even know I do it if I

  hadn't told them."

  Mike sighed. "You're probably right, but these are letter of-the-law guys. Intent doesn't mean shit to them. They're just into throwing their weight around and enforcing their rules, and the more infractions they find, the more people they can crack down on, the happier they are. They're grateful you slipped through that loophole and they could pounce."

  "God damn it!"

  "You know," Mike said, "it's my goal to win the lottery. There are quite a few empty lots up here, and if I won, I'd buy them all. Not just to keep the open space, but also because for each lot you own you get one vote in the association election. I'd have a massive voting block, probably more than all the existing residents put together." He grinned. "I haven't decided whether I would vote to disband the homeowners' association or just vote myself president and exempt myself and my friends from all existing rules while enforcing them to the max for everyone else."

  "That," Barry said, "sounds like a plan."

  "Lottery's every Wednesday and Saturday."

  Barry smiled. "I'm a friend, right?" "Damn straight. And I'll make those bastards pay for this." He handed back the letter.

  "But until then?"

  Mike grew more sober. "I think you're screwed." He held up a hand.

  "Don't go by what I say, though. I'm no expert on this shit. You should talk to a lawyer or something."

  "Yeah."

  "Hey, I gotta get home and eat lunch. I only get a half hour, and fifteen minutes're gone already. I'll call you later."

  "All right. Thanks, Mike." Barry waved good-bye as the Jeep took off up the hill, and, still clutching the letter in his fist, headed up the driveway and into the house.

  Maureen, after he'd told her, af
ter she'd read the letter, didn't seem all that upset. At least not as upset as he thought she should be. She agreed that it was unreasonable to force him to stop writing at home, but she admitted that she understood the logic behind it. "They can't very well let you off the hook and make you the exception. They're obligated to apply the rules fairly and evenly, not pick and choose who they're going to harass. That would be selective enforcement and there'd be lawsuits galore after that. I know it sucks that you fell through the cracks, but I don't think it's intentional, I don't think they're after you, I think they're just trying to enforce their regulations--as unfair as they are--in a way that proves they're not singling anybody out for prosecution or favors."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "It's not the end of the world."

  "Thanks for the support."

  Maureen shrugged. "All I'm saying is that it might not be all that bad for you to get an office, at least not from a tax perspective. The rent's deductible--"

  "That's not the point."

  "I know that. I'm just saying that we're doing pretty well these days, and your business expenses are almost nonexistent. That's why we took such a big hit last year on taxes. But if you got yourself an office ..."

  "Stop trying to be practical and calm me down. I'm pissed off here, and, goddamn it, I have a right to be. Knock off the every-cloud-has-a-silver-lining crap."

  Her mouth tightened.

  "If I was retired, I could sit here all day and write crank letters to the newspaper or the government or whatever, and I wouldn't be breaking any rules. But because I make my living writing, I can do the exact same thing for the same amount of time and suddenly I'm in violation of the regulations. Don't expect me to be happy about that."

  A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he took the letter from her hand, read it over again. "You know what?" he said. "It only mentions me. What about you? You're using this as your office, too.

  I'm not the only one working out of the house here."

  "And what's that supposed to mean? You're going to turn me in?"

  "Of course not."

  "What, then?"

  "Nothing."

  "Then why'd you bring it up?"

  "Because they're not applying the rules fairly, because they are singling me out."

  "So what are you going to do? Sue them over it?"

  "Threaten them with it at least. You're right, it is selective enforcement. And maybe if I play my cards right I can get a waiver."

  He had Maureen call Chuck Shea, her association buddy, to feel him out, to see if something could be arranged, a sort of don't-ask-don't-tell policy that would allow him to continue working at home, but Chuck said the work rule was hard and fast. The only exceptions were those explicitly spelled out in the C, C, and Rs ; specifically real estate agents and accountants, who were not allowed to meet clients at home but were allowed to do paperwork--which was why Maureen had not been cited in the letter. Barry was the first writer to live in Bonita Vista, and it was conceivable that there could be an exception made for his occupation in the future, but Chuck said the matter would have to be brought before the voting membership at the annual meeting in September. Until then, he would have to abide by the rules.

  "Not selective enforcement after all," Maureen told him after relaying the message, and wasn't that a hint of triumph in her voice?

  No. He was being paranoid. He was angry at her, though he didn't really have any right to be, and he went upstairs to the kitchen to get himself something to drink and to calm down before he said something he might later regret.

  Afterward, he called Ray, who was of the same opinion as Mike:

  underneath all the sympathy and sincerity and heartfelt offers of assistance, the association people were loving this.

  "Think I should talk to a lawyer?" Barry asked.

  He could almost hear Ray's shrug over the phone. "It's your call. But if I were you, I'd save my money. These C, C, and Rs have been challenged in court too many times to count, and they've survived every attempt made on them. You might go over the regs yourself with a fine-tooth comb, see if you can figure out a loophole, but my guess is that they've got you on this one."

  "What are they going to do if I refuse, if I just ignore the letter?"

  Ray chuckled grimly. "You're opening up a whole other can of worms there. What they'll do first is hit you up with fines. That'll go on for quite a while, until the total is an outrageous sum that's almost impossible to pay. Then they'll call in then- lawyer and put a lien on your property--"

  "Can they do that?"

  "Oh yeah."

  "Are you speaking from experience?"

  "They haven't done it to me. Not yet. But it's been done around here and I've known the people. Believe me, it's not pretty. If you can't find a legitimate loophole or find some way to argue your way out of this with the board, I suggest you start office hunting."

  Barry spent the rest of the afternoon poring over their copy of the C, C, and Rs but to no avail. He called Mike that night, who called someone else who supposedly knew someone on the board, and though neither waivers nor petitions of appeal were mentioned in the association handbook, he was hoping to find someone in authority willing to let him slide.

  No such luck.

  He went to bed that night angry and frustrated. If he'd known he wouldn't be able to write in his own home on his own property, they never would have bought a house in Bonita Vista, he told Maureen. No matter how beautiful the scenery might be, this defeated the entire purpose of moving here, and if they hadn't already sunk so much money into it, he'd put the damn place up for sale and put Utah in his rearview mirror.

  She didn't argue, didn't agree, remained silent, and they fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed, not touching.

  In the morning, Barry once again tried to wade through the dense doublespeak of the C, C, and Rs , hoping the fresh perspective of a new day might grant him insight and allow him to see something he hadn't before, but if anything, the association's case looked even more airtight than before.

  Maureen put a hand on his shoulder. "Find anything?" she asked.

  He touched her hand, gave it a squeeze, last night's simmering hostility forgotten. "Not yet," he said.

  "So what's the plan?"

  He shook his head. "I don't know."

  Jeremy was a lawyer, and Barry considered calling his friend for some free advice, but he thought about what Ray had said and decided to hold off for now.

  He had a sneaking suspicion that he might be needing a lot of legal advice in the future.

  Barry put away the handbook and stared out the window at the trees. He wondered if he might be able to set up a little office in their storage unit, and he drove down to Corban to check. As he'd known, the small space was completely full, piled high with boxes and furniture and all the extraneous crap they could not fit into the house. He stopped by the office on his way out and asked the old man behind the counter if it would be possible to rent another space and use it as a work room.

  The old man shrugged. "No law against it, I guess. But you'd have to keep the door closed except when loading and unloading. Company policy. And there's no lights inside and no electrical outlets. Gets pretty hot in there come June and July." He squinted as if visualizing something and shook his head. "Now that I think on it, maybe it ain't such a good idea."

  Barry nodded.

  "Not a bad thought you come up with, though. Storage units rented for office space. Somebody could make a fortune. Not here, though, not in Corban. Maybe in St. George or Cedar City ..."

  "Thanks for your time," Barry told him.

  He got into the Suburban, looked out the dusty windshield for a moment, thinking. Realistically, there was only one option open to him, and he drove down to the real estate office, poked his head inside the trailer. "Is Doris here?"

  The skinny woman seated behind the desk nearest the door called out, "Boss?" and a second later a familiar face peeked around the corner of the conferen
ce room.

  Doris saw him and smiled. "Hey!" she said. "How's it going?"

  "Fine."

  "Give me a minute, will you? I'm sending a fax to one of the sellers.

  You can sit down at my desk there." She pointed. "Or you can--"

  "That's okay," he told her. "I'll stand."

  "I'll just be a minute."

  Barry glanced around the office, saw an autographed photo of Pat Buchanan in a frame on one of the desks, amateur paintings of fish and wildlife on the paneled walls.

  Doris emerged from the back room. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Is this business or pleasure?"

  "Uh, business," he said, caught off guard.

  "Just teasing. So how do you like living in Bonita Vista?"

  "We love it," he said.

  "No problems?" She smiled. "How do you like the homeowners'

  association?"

  "Well..."

  "Sorry I had to soft-pedal that, but it's my job."

  "That's kind of what I'm here about."

  "What can I do for you?" she asked sweetly.

  "I need an office. The homeowners' association says I can't work at home, it's against their rules and regulations, so I have to find someplace else to write. I was wondering if there's a small room or something I can rent in town, maybe a--"

  She put a hand on his arm. "Oh, I've got just the place! It's, right in back of the coffee shop. Used to be a teapot museum, if you can believe that. Old Man Pruitt, who owned a lot of land in these parts some years back, had a wife who collected teapots. Antique teapots, china teapots, teapots from Russia and all over the world. Well, she got this idea in her head that she wanted to open up a teapot museum. I

  don't know who she thought would come to visit it. There aren't exactly a horde of tourists passing through here, and even if everyone in town came to see her collection--which not all of them did--it wouldn't take more than two days. But Old Man Pruitt built her a little building and set her up. It was hardly ever open, but she kept it until the day she died. That was back in the eighties. It's been empty ever since. Want to go over and take a look at it?"