I got my 73-year-old neighbor kicked out because his Harley was “too loud” and he looked “too dangerous” for our family neighborhood.
I complained to the HOA board seventeen times. Called the police twice. Even started a petition that got forty-three signatures from other neighbors who were “concerned about property values” and “safety of our children.”
All because Frank Morrison, the leather-wearing, tattoo-covered biker in the house next door, had the audacity to start his motorcycle early every morning.
“It’s inconsiderate,” I told my husband over breakfast that final morning, watching through the kitchen window as Frank wheeled his Harley out of the garage. “What kind of person thinks it’s acceptable to wake an entire neighborhood?”
My husband barely looked up from his phone. “Maybe he works early shifts. You ever think to ask him?”
Ask him? Why would I talk to someone who clearly had no respect for others? The man was at least seventy, probably older, still dressing like he was in some 1960s biker gang. Leather vest, chain wallet, boots that jangled when he walked. In our nice suburban neighborhood where everyone else had the decency to drive quiet SUVs and maintain their lawns to HOA standards.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday when my four-year-old daughter’s nap was interrupted by that thunderous engine. She woke up crying, and I stormed out of the house in my pajamas, not caring who saw me.
“Hey!” I shouted as Frank sat on his idling bike, checking something on his phone. “Do you have any idea what time normal people are trying to sleep?”
He looked up at me through those aviator sunglasses, his graying beard neatly trimmed despite the rough appearance he cultivated. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he simply nodded, put his phone away, and rumbled off down the street.
Not an apology. Not an explanation. Just that dismissive nod, like I was the one being unreasonable.
