Clipboard

Then there are the petty dictators among us,

who are so insecure and inwardly nothing at all

that they cannot pass up a chance, no matter how small

to lord it over others as best they may.

It seldom occurs to such diminished characters

that people don’t have to listen to what they say

and their tiny powers vanish like morning vapors

when the targets of their dominion simply ignore them.

___________________________________________________

Don’t pick on those who are trying their best.

___________________________________________________

Clipboard

The cul-de-sac was quiet. Sprinklers ticked. The lawns were well cut with sharp edges, hedges clipped, bins tucked securely out of sight. A notice at the entrance warned everyone: HOA Inspection — Saturday, 10 A.M. Mandatory Compliance. Neighbors were waiting behind their curtains, watching the sidewalk as if a parade might pass.

Frank came first. His heel protectors clicks loudly on the pavement. His khakis were sharply pressed, his shirt white as chalk. He carried an oversized clipboard under his arm. He stopped before each yard, looked the property up and down, and then tapped the clipboard once before writing. His pen scratches were loud and meant to carry.

At number 408, he stopped. A fence post was leaning a bit. A recycling bin peeked out from around the corner of the garage. A few weeds were showing in the sidewalk expansion joints leading to the front door. Frank took note of these small signs of disorder. He wrote in slow strokes, then cleared his throat.

The door opened. A woman stepped out with a child on her hip. Her hair was pinned back. She stood with her worn sandals on the strip of grass where the yard met the walkway.

“You’ve accrued multiple violations,” Frank said. He lifted the clipboard high. “Fence unrepaired. Refuse not stored properly. Weeds uncontrolled. These will be filed with the board.”

She hoisted the child on her hip. “Show me the rule on fences.”

He flipped pages, thumb grazing clauses. His lips moved. Then he jabbed. “Section five, sub-clause B.”

She shook her head. “Section five covers roofs. Fences are section seven. Repairs in progress are exempt.”

A hush spread. Curtains twitched. The man raking next door paused.

Frank’s cheeks reddened. He scribbled again. He gripped the clipboard more tightly.

Neighbors began to appear and walked over—the man with the rake from next door, a woman holding a watering can, the neighbor on the other side who had been tinkering with his engine, two children circling on bikes.

Frank raised his voice. “Failure to comply will result in fines. Fines unpaid will result in liens. Liens may result in removal from the property.” The cadence of threat echoed off mailboxes.

The woman stood her ground. “You’ll have to get a witness signature.” She gestured toward the neighbors. “That’s what the bylaws require.”

He turned, thrusting the clipboard out. The man with the rake glanced at Frank, then at her, then back down. He wiped his palms on his jeans one at a time while shifting his rake back and forth.

The woman with the watering can shook her head. The engine-tinkerer stared Frank in the eye. The children wheeled closer, but they weren’t old enough to be witnesses.

“We all know the rules, Frank,” the tinkerer said. The others nodded and repeated it.

Frank’s hand trembled. He tapped the board again with his pen, but the sound was hollow now. His papers fluttered in the hot breeze. Without signatures, they were useless. He held them out again. No one stepped forward to sign.

“We all know the rules,” they said together.

His shoulders sagged. The clipboard hung slack at his side.

The neighbors turned to woman Frank had picked on. The man with the rake set the fence post straight. The woman with the watering can bent over and tugged the weeds from the cracks. The tinkerer readjusted the recycling bin so that it was completely out of sight. The children dropped their bikes and ran to fetch tools. She lowered her child to the grass and joined them.

Frank lingered on the sidewalk, board clutched tight against his chest. He shifted once, as if to speak, but no one was looking his way.

By dusk the yard was restored—everything Frank found offensive was removed. The neighbors lingered, talking softly in the cooling air, leaning against the fence they had repaired together. The woman thanked them in a soft voice.

Frank stood apart in the half-light. The clipboard sagged under his arm. Peace setlled over the cul-de-sac.