The Association

by Bentley Little

  I've never asked."

  Barry was expecting more, but apparently Mike was through. "That's it?" he said. "There has to be more to it than that. You were at the gate that night. You saw them. Greg and the rest of them were like robots. They looked like they were drugged or hypnotized or something."

  "It's not that," Mike insisted. "I can't explain it, but there's nothing truly coercive involved, no magic or drugs or brainwashing or anything. They really can walk away if they want to, although I have no doubt that they'd have their asses sued off if they did. But they're in so deep to the association that they stay. They'll do anything to get themselves out from underneath mat rock." Another of those looks at Tina. "Anything."

  "But--" Maureen looked at Barry. "--they all seem to be... mutilated in some way. There's something wrong with all of them. They're missing ears or fingers or hands."

  "Volunteering is not the only way to pay off debts," Tina said through tight lips.

  That was as detailed as either of them would get, and Barry wasn't inclined to push them further. There was something else there, but while Mike and Tina were being evasive, it was out of fear, not malice, and he understood their apprehension. Mike, in particular, had to walk a thin line. Although he worked for a national corporation, his office was in town. And while he disagreed with and resented the association, they pretty much left him alone. It was not in his best interest to rock any boats.

  After some innocuous chitchat that allowed them all to depressurize a bit, Barry and Maureen finally took their leave, making tentative plans to play tennis with the Stew arts next weekend.

  They returned home to find Maureen's garden gone.

  They'd only been away for a few hours, but in that time someone the volunteers?

  --had not only torn out and disposed of every bushel vine, sapling, flower, and vegetable that Maureen had planted but had packed down the dirt and placed in dozens of dead and dying manzanita bushes.

  "What is this? Maureen asked incredulously.

  The land on the north side of the house looked like a cruel parody of the property as it had appeared when they bought the house, as though a blight had descended on native shrubs, killed most of them off, and left a few weakened specimens in its wake.

  "Guess what?" Barry said. He pointed toward the screen door.

  A pink sheet of paper.

  "Oh no."

  Maureen reached the door first and ripped off the form. Barry read over her shoulder. They were being fined for noncompliance with regulations and would also be charged for the labor and materials supplied by the gardening enterprise, which replaced the offending plants with acceptable local vegetation.

  ""Acceptable local vegetation'?" Maureen fumed. "They stuck some dead twigs in the ground!"

  "Don't worry. We're not paying it."

  "That's not the point. They destroyed my garden. My tomatoes still had blooms, and another batch was about to ripen. I had zucchini that was ready to pick."

  "I wonder if there's some sort of grievance committee, someplace we could go to complain about an action like this."

  "Fat chance."

  "They should have to take responsibility for this. We were told specifically, after that first time with Barney, that we were allowed to have a garden and to landscape our property."

  "That's not all. Look."

  He read the line to which she was pointing. It stated that all flowers and house plants had to be removed from the inside of the residence within forty-eight hours. Otherwise, additional fines would be imposed. The amount was unspecified.

  They were both agreed that no changes would be made; their plants would be neither moved nor removed. Since the inspection, they'd been tilting dining room chairs and placing them under the doorknobs in order to discourage intruders, but Bill and his buddies had somehow found a way to unhook a chain latch and throw back a keyless deadbolt, so this extra precaution probably hadn't amounted to much. Still, Barry vowed that tonight he would also duct tape the edges of the doors. At the very least, it might tell them if someone had broken in while they were sleeping.

  Maureen decided to walk through where her garden used to be and see if any of her plants had been spared. Barry went inside. He had an idea.

  He was pretty sure that Maureen would not approve, so he waited until she came back in and told her that he was going to walk around the property and do his own inspection "Our homeowners' insurance might cover this," he told her. "So after I look around, I'm going to take some photos and call them to file a claim, see what comes of it."

  She thought it was a good idea.

  He did intend to take pictures and file an insurance claim, but he also had more immediate plans. From underneath the bottom deck where he stored their gardening implements, tools, and leftover renovation materials, he found what he was looking for: a large cardboard box.

  Using a pair of clippers, he raggedly cut off one side and then placed it on the ground, and painted a short, crude message. The only color of paint they had was white, but against the dark brown of the cardboard, the letters stood out and were clearly visible.

  Barry positioned the sign at the base of a scrub oak, using a large rock to hold it in place, and walked out to the street to make sure his message was legible and could be read by passing cars.

  FUCK THE HOMEOWNERS' ASSOCIATION

  It was legible all right. He grinned. This would show those bastards.

  He'd be fined, but it was worth it to him to make sure that they were aware of his defiance, that they knew he was willing to take his dissatisfaction public.

  Besides, he'd just throw the fine notice in a drawer with the others.

  He walked back inside, still smiling, and got the camera out. He took pictures of the damage from different directions, then, just for fun, took a picture of the sign.

  He was cheered up for about ten minutes, but then he started thinking about all the time he'd wasted on this crap, all of the hours spent worrying and responding and thinking and brooding that could have been used for more productive purposes, and suddenly, he no longer felt so good. His thoughts turned to those creepy old men of the board and the futility of fighting against such entrenched institutionalized power.

  Maureen was lying on the couch, watching the Home and Garden channel, mourning her lost plants. She, too, seemed drained. She'd been all fired up after their nighttime inspection, ready to go to war with the entire world if need be, but subsequent harassment had taken its toll, and now she looked positively beaten down.

  Was any of this really worth it?

  Maureen must have been thinking along the same lines because she sat up, using the remote to mute the television's sound. "Maybe we should move," she said.

  He didn't respond.

  "We can leave and still save face. We didn't buckle, we didn't cave, we stayed. We showed them. Now let's sell this place and put this hell behind us." There was a quaver in her voice. "Please?"

  Barry nodded tiredly. "Okay." "Thank God," Maureen said. "Thank God." And he found that he felt the same way--off the hook, filled with relief.

  It's over, he thought. It's finally over.

  Barry sat in Doris' office, enduring the hostile stares of her coworkers. The real estate agent was on the phone, discussing a seller's willingness to carry with an obviously jittery buyer, but the fat man and the skinny woman who worked for her had nothing to do and behind her back were fixing him with the type of glare usually reserved for disciples of Adolf Hitler.

  He was pretty sure he'd seen both of them at the rally.

  Doris hung up and fixed him with a bright smile. "Sorry about that.

  What can I do for you?"

  "Well..."

  "It's not Bert, is it? He's not causing you any problems?"

  "I'd ... we want to sell our house."

  "Oh." The real estate agent nodded, stood. "Come on. Let's go into the conference room." She led him into the other half of the trailer, closed the door behind them, and pulled out t
wo adjoining chairs from the table. "Have a seat."

  He followed her lead. "Your agents don't seem too thrilled to see me here."

  "Don't you worry about that. They'll do what I tell them to do and they'll think what I tell them to think, or they'll be fired."

  "I understand their feelings. Been running into a lot of it lately. We're not exactly the most popular people in town right now."

  "I don't care what other people say," Doris told him. "I understand Bonita Vista. I've sold enough homes there." She smiled at him, leaned over, and patted his leg reassuringly. But the hand remained in place a beat too long, and when she finally moved it away, her fingers brushed his crotch.

  He looked out the room's small window, afraid to meet her eyes. He was pretty sure she was coming on to him, but he didn't want to encourage her and tried to think of some way to make it clear that he was not interested, that this was strictly a business meeting.

  "I've found that the people in Bonita Vista are very nice," she said.

  He turned to face her, and she lowered her eyes in a way that she probably thought was sexy but instead seemed crude and embarrassingly obvious.

  It was a class thing, he realized. It was terrible to admit, even to himself, but as much as he hated that damn homeowners' association, he felt more at ease with the residents of Bonita Vista than he did with the people of Corban . He wanted to be a conscientious liberal, to be one with the masses and all that good shit, but when it came down to it, he had money, he was educated, and he just didn't belong with these people.

  He looked at Doris with her big hair and loud clothes and overlarge jewelry and there was not even a flicker of interest, no temptation whatsoever. The fact that she was sympathetic to Bonita Vista turned him off even more, and he wondered if everyone who had dealings with Bonita Vista was automatically corrupted. The sheriff. Doris. It seemed like whoever came in contact with the gated community and the association was ... influenced somehow.

  He'd been reading and writing too many horror novels.

  No.

  He wished that was the case, but it wasn't.

  "Where do you live?" he asked.

  "Out on Barr's Ranch Road." She leaned forward, confiding in him. He smelled too-strong perfume. "But I own a lot in Bonita Vista and I'm going to build a house there in a few years."

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  "Well, we want to sell our house," he told her.

  "I'm sorry to hear that. I really am. Corban is situated in the most beautiful section of the state. We have four full seasons--"

  "I know. You don't have to sell me on the area. We've been living here for over five months now. It's a beautiful place. But we're not happy with the antagonism between Bonita Vista and the town, and to tell you the truth we've been having a few problems with the homeowners' association."

  "I understand," Doris said. Again, she touched his leg. "You had a thirty-year fixed, right? Why don't I just go out and get your file, and we can talk this over."

  He was glad to be away from her, if only for a moment, and he took a deep cleansing breath, only now realizing how tense her unwanted attention had made him. He moved his chair back, away from hers to give himself some space. He wished there was another real estate agency in Corban , but he was stuck. Doris was the only game in town.

  She returned with a manila file folder, closed the door behind her, and sat down in her chair, scooting it forward until they were again right next to each other.

  "Do you have any idea what we could sell it for?" he asked. "We'll let it go for the same price we paid if we have to, but if we could make a profit, that would be even better."

  "I'm sorry," she said brightly. "You can't sell your house."

  "What?"

  "Your homeowners' association has invoked a bylaw that allows it to freeze assets--in this case your house and property--should you be involved in any disagreement or dispute with the association. Apparently, you have refused to pay numerous fines and charges levied against you."

  "They can't do that!"

  "They've done it. I have a note attached here to your file."

  "What if I don't acknowledge that? What if we sell it anyway?"

  She laughed. "Oh, sugar! It's in the agreement you signed."

  "What agreement?"

  "Why, your homeowners' association agreement." She sorted through the sheaf of papers. "Hold on. I have it right here."

  She handed him a legal-sized sheet of densely packed type. Buried in the reams of contracts and documents they'd signed when initially buying the house was an agreement to abide by all of the bylaws, rules, regulations, covenants, conditions, and restrictions of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association. Barry read through the carefully written legalese. They had effectively ceded to the association rights and powers that no sane or halfway intelligent person would ever grant anyone else. How could he and Maureen have signed such a thing? He didn't remember the document at all and couldn't imagine he would put his signature on an agreement without reading it, but there it was in black and white.

  "Here," she said, "I'll make you a Xerox."

  He nodded, acting calmer than he felt. "Thank you."

  Five minutes later, he was outside, holding his copy, blinking in the hot August sun. If before he'd felt paranoid about living in Bonita Vista, now he felt positively trapped. There was no way out. They were doomed to remain here unless they caved in and forked over money for the excessive and unjust fines imposed by the association. He drove back to Bonita Vista distressed, unhappy, and filled with a bleak resignation.

  At the gate, the guard smirked at him, as if knowing exactly what had occurred.

  He parked the Suburban in the driveway and sat for a moment. He sighed heavily. Maybe they should pay off their fines. Such a thought would have been inconceivable even an hour ago, but principles no longer seemed quite so important. If they could pay off their fines and then sell the house at a profit, they might emerge from this mess at least no worse off than when they started.

  He unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the vehicle, walking over to check the mail before going back inside the house. In the mailbox, in addition to bills and a horror newsletter, was a homeowners'

  association form ordering them to trim and/or replace all dead Manzanita bushes on their property or face a stiff fine of up to five hundred dollars for each day the problem was not rectified.

  Something snapped within him.

  "Fuck!" he yelled. "Fuck! Fuck!" He tore up the notice, ripping the sheet into ever-smaller pieces. They were the ones who put in those dead manzanitas ! They had purposely replaced Maureen's plants with sick and dying bushes and now they were blaming the two of them for the manzanitas' unacceptable condition, using it as a pretense for imposing even more unwarranted fines. "Fuck!"

  "Barry?"

  He must have been yelling louder than he thought, because Maureen was on the porch steps looking worriedly in his direction.

  "They're fining us for the dead manzanitas !" he shouted. "Those fuckers ripped out our plants and charged us for it, replaced them with dead bushes, and charged us for it, now they're fining us five hundred fucking dollars a day!"

  She walked over to him, took his hands. "Don't worry.

  We're getting out. We don't have to put up with this lunacy anymore."

  "No, we're not."

  "We're not what?"

  "Getting out. Doris said they have some type of lien on our house. We can't sell it or rent it out or do anything with it until we pay off the money we supposedly owe the association."

  Maureen paled. "You're kidding."

  "No. We're stuck here until we pay the fines. Unless we want to just bail and take a loss on this place, leave it here and let the fines pile up."

  "We can't afford that. I mean, we could afford it-barely--but it would be financially irresponsible and self destructive." The accountant in her had kicked in. "The fines would pile up. And all of this would go on our credit
record."

  "I'm not paying them a dime," he said.

  "I know how you feel, but--"

  "I would have!" he shouted, in case someone was listening in. "But I'll be damned if I'll let those monkey dicks pull this kind of stunt."

  "Then what are we going to do?"

  "Nothing. We're staying right here and we're not paying a fucking dime. Let the fines accumulate!" he yelled. "We don't care!"

  "What if they try to collect?" Her voice lowered. "What if they send volunteers?"

  "Bring 'em on!" Barry shouted out as loud as he could. "You hear me, assholes? Bring 'emon!"

  The next morning, the manzanita bushes were gone, replaced with an assortment of thorny, rough-looking shrubs. A notification form stated that the deteriorated condition of their property was unacceptable and that voluntary entreaties had been ignored at this address in the past, so the association had taken upon itself the job of bringing the yard up to code. A bill for both the plants and the labor would be sent to them within two working days.

  His anger had faded, and in its place was a familiar sense of hopelessness. He'd been seesawing between those emotions far too often lately, and he had no rational explanation for it. Was it this place doing it to him? He could not dismiss the possibility. He recalled a theory he'd once read about the Superstition Mountains in Arizona.

  Prospectors looking for the Lost Dutchman invariably went crazy searching for the mythical mine, becoming paranoid and murderous.

  According to this hypothesis, the mountains were magnetic and it affected the brains of anyone who stayed within their borders for too long. Maybe something like that was happening here.

  Maybe not.

  Days passed, and Barry felt as though they were not only under siege but isolated and completely alone. Neighbors waved to them on the street when they walked; Mike and Tina came over with a list of all the anti-association people they could remember from Ray's parties and stayed for dinner; they played a pickup game of tennis with another couple they met on the court. But everything seemed false and superficial. He and Maureen were putting on public faces that masked the real feelings underneath, and he had the sneaking suspicion that everyone else was doing the same.