It was just before 7:30 p.m. and the Thursday evening board meeting of the West Fields Home Owners Association was approaching adjournment. Board Chairman Joe Fryday was feeling particularly good that the meeting had gone so smoothly. Typically the agenda included one or more controversial and time-consuming topics such as misuse of assigned parking spots, untrimmed trees in common areas, and the never-resolved dilemma regarding inconsiderate dog owners who fail to clean up after their animals. This evening’s agenda had addressed all three of these topics but with very little debate or controversy.
Joe Friday had lived most of his life in New York City and had enjoyed very intense job assignments during his career. He was so used to the noise and stress of living in America’s largest city that sometimes it was difficult for him to feel comfortable in the slower-paced, amiable environment of their peaceful Tampa neighborhood. He had joined the HOA Board and quickly became its president as a way to keep busy and help deal with the drollness of retired suburban life.
Prior to calling for Adjournment would be the call for New Business as prescribed by Robert’s Rules of Order and then as was the Board’s custom, they would ask if there were any concerns from any homeowners in the audience that they would like to bring up at this time. This part of the agenda was historically designed to be a casual conversation and information-sharing segment, not as formal as anything in Robert’s Rules of Order.
The call for New Business yielded no input so Fryday proceeded. “Does any homeowner in the audience here tonight have an issue or concern they would like to share?” he robotically chimed having asked this same question every month for the past two-and-a-half years.
As is wont for audiences, people started turning their heads this way and then that way to see if any one of their neighbors had something juicy to bring up. Please don’t let it be about the noise of the landscape crew’s leaf-blowers yet again most of the audience was reciting in their minds. Then a tall, lean, almost athletic man around sixty stood up.
“Yes, sir, I have a concern that I’d like addressed,” the soft-spoken, light-complected, clean-shaven man with a trace of midwestern accent said as he stood. His medium length bushy white hair flopped to one side as he stood and he brushed it away from his right eye.
“State your name and address for the record, please,” drolled Fryday following the usual format for the recording secretary’s benefit.
“Andrew, Andrew Cargill,” said the man as he brushed his drooping mane again. “I live at 8907 Herons Nest Drive.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cargill. And what is the concern you’d like to share with us?” Fryday queried with a slight hint of dread and dismay. Unscripted, spontaneous comments from the audience could run from extremely benign to fervently malignant and generate a few minutes of discussion to an hour or more. Fryday was used to missing Jeopardy on HOA meeting nights, but he really disliked having his dinner much later than 8 p.m.
“Well,” began Cargill, “I had a certain route in the neighborhood that I would walk my dog twice a day. And now I’m not able to follow that route.”
Fryday immediately knew that Cargill was one of those people that would beat around the bush forever before getting to the real issue. Fryday had spent thirty years as a New York City policeman; roughly ten years on the street as a patrolman and the last twenty years as a detective. In all those years he had developed an interview style that some found annoying, but he found it calmed those being interviewed and tended to cut down on rambling and lack of focus. His style was basically to repeat the facts as he could ascertain them from the response of the witness or suspect and then prompt the respondent to move on to the next step.
“I see,” said Fryday dryly, “you used to walk your dog along a certain route and now you can’t. How did that come about?”
“Well,” began Cargill again with the same evasiveness. “I was walking Rocco, that’s my dog. He’s a standard Basenji. I like that breed because they rarely bark. Anyway, we were walking our usual route and we encountered a neighbor that I had never seen before.” Cargill paused as if wanting to say something more and then giving it more thought and then said nothing more.
“So you and Rocco were going for your usual walk and met a new neighbor. What street were you walking on?” asked Fryday.
“Well, we start out on my street and then head down Dragon’s Head Lane, left on Birchwood Glen, make the loop on Sweet Hibiscus Circle, then back out on Birchwood towards Dry Sage Drive.” Cargill sensed Fryday’s intensifying stare. “I see. You want to know what street we were on when we encountered the neighbor.”
“Yes, sir, please.”
“Well, about halfway down Birchwood towards Dry Sage, we do the loop on Cormorant Sound. That’s where we encountered this neighbor.”
“Do you know the name of this neighbor?”
“Well, I know he told me, but I’ve forgotten it.”
“Do you know the address where this neighbor lives?”
“Yes, 19308 Cormorant Sound,” said Cargill sounding pleased as though showing his parents a gold star on a third-grade quiz. He stood tall and brushed his hair aside again.
Fryday nodded to Andi Borenstein, the HOA recording secretary seated to his left and she tapped a few keys then turned her laptop screen so Fryday could see it.
“It appears the residents at 19308 Cormorant Sound are a Mr. Dante Ferrara and a Mr. Benjamin Cherkinov. Was it one of these gentlemen that you met?”
“Yes, yes,” sputtered Cargill excitedly as if stumbling across a lost treasure. “It was the first one. Dante. Now I remember.”
“So you met Mr. Ferrara on his street and now you can’t walk that route any more. Why is that?”
Cargill hung his head as if in deep thought. After a few seconds he briskly lifted his head, swatted at his floppy hair and hurriedly sputtered, “I just don’t think they belong in our neighborhood.” And then Cargill stood defiantly as if challenging anyway to argue with him.
Fryday read the situation perfectly, remain calm and focused, and inwardly smiled to himself that a game was about to begin. “So you believe Mr. Ferrara and Mr. Cherkinov are not right for our neighborhood?”
“Yes, that’s right!”
“Are they violating any of the HOA codes and regulations? Is their house in disrepair or painted in an unapproved color scheme?”
“No, their house is beautiful. It’s the one at the end of the cul-de-sac and it’s painted in the Classic Gold color scheme. Freshly painted, I believe.” Cargill reported as if Fryday should be knowledgeable of the house in question.
The HOA covered a wide geographic area with over 2,000 residents and many subsections. Fryday did not know Ferrara or Cherkinov and frankly was not even aware of Cormorant Sound. From the map on Borenstein’s screen it appeared to be a small cul-de-sac with no more than six houses. Fryday continued to extract information from Cargill.
“Any loud disturbances coming from the residence? Wild parties? Visitors coming and going at all hours?”
“Not that I know of. It’s a quiet street. I was not aware of who lived there until I met Mr. Dante.”
“It’s Mr. Ferrara; Dante Ferrara. Is their lawn unkept? Debris? Untrimmed trees?”
“No, their lawn is fine. In fact, I believe we use the same lawn guy and he does excellent work.”
“I see. Any vehicles blocking the sidewalk? Work being done on vehicles in the driveway?”
“No, no. He was power washing the driveway when we walked by. That’s how our conversation began.”
“I see. Power washing. More abhorrent neighborly behavior.” Fryday smirked imperceptibly as he said this but several people in the audience giggled at the sarcastic jab.
“Excuse me?” interjected Cargill.
“Nothing. I was just noting that he was power washing the driveway. How did your conversation start?” Fryday queried matter-of-factly.
“I was walking by with Rocco and this man said, ‘Hello. Cute dog.’ So I said, ‘Thank you. His name is Rocco. He’s a standard Basenji.’ I would have kept walking but just then, right there, Rocco had, well, he had a second dootie and I was so embarrassed because I always clean up after Rocco, but I had only brought one bag. He always only goes once when we walk.”
“And then what happened?”
“Well, I was mortified, and I said so. And I said, ‘I live just around the corner on Herons Nest. I’ll run home and get a bag and come right back and pick this up.’”
“I see. And what did Mr. Ferrara say or do at this point?”
“Well, he said, ‘Don’t worry’ and he dashed into his garage, grabbed a used plastic grocery bag, scooped up the pile and tossed it into his own trash can.”
“I see,” Fryday repeated as other audience members tittered quietly. “So Mr. Ferrara in the lovely Classic Gold house, with the nicely kept lawn and the ultra-clean driveway picked up your dog’s poop and deposited it in his own trash can and now you can’t walk by his house?” More tittering and giggling from the audience.
“No, there’s more to the story,” stammered Cargill hurriedly. “I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t just run off, so I stayed a few more minutes for a chat and to seem neighborly. That’s when I learned about him and the other man.”
“I see. You mean Mr. Cherkinov?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did Mr. Ferrara say to you about Mr. Cherkinov?”
“Well, we were just having superficial conversation about the neighborhood. You know, how long we’ve lived here and stuff like that. I said my wife and I have lived on Herons Nest for almost twenty years and then he said he and his husband have only been in the neighborhood for two years. At that point I didn’t know what to say, so I just walked away.”
“And now you can’t walk down that street?”
“Correct. I mean, what if he was out and started another conversation?” implored Cargill.
“Yes, I see your dilemma. What is it that you would like the HOA to do about this situation, Mr. Cargill?” asked Fryday in a searingly intense monotone.
“Well, I just want to be able to walk down that street again.”
“I see. And you feel you can’t as long as Mr. Ferrara and Mr. Cherkinov live there?”
“That’s right,” said Cargill with a bit of optimistic buoyancy in his voice.
“Should we have them arrested?” asked Fryday with no emotion.
“No, no, of course not.”
“No, that’s ridiculous!”
“A neighborhood petition saying they’re not wanted in our neighborhood and ask them to leave?”
“Well, maybe,” Cargill said meekly.
“And will you be initiating this petition?” asked Fryday sternly.
“Well, no, I thought the Board…” Cargill trailed off.
“You thought the Board would package your homophobic prejudice into a vigilante-style document and berate two quiet, peaceful, neat, courteous, responsible neighbors into leaving our neighborhood so you can feel better about yourself and walk your non-barking, driveway-pooping dog down their street?”
As Fryday spoke these words clearly and with increasing volume the audience had become eerily silent and attentive. But with the utterance of ‘driveway-pooping dog’ there was a spontaneous outburst of group laughter. Cargill quickly looked around the room at his guffawing neighbors, tossed his shock of gray hair as he turned 180 degrees on his heel, and briskly left the meeting room. One could almost imagine Rocco close at his side.
Fryday coolly ran his fingers down his chest as if smoothing an imaginary tie and asked the audience if there were any more concerns. Hearing none he grabbed his padfolio, strode out the door, jogged the quarter mile to his home and was just in time to catch the clue in Final Jeopardy. He then enjoyed a delicious meal of homemade Shepherd’s Pie lovingly presented by his husband Kent.