I add one of the blue flamingos I’ve painted with white stars into the wagon I pulled out of the garage.
“Because this is Ohio, Mom.” I don’t understand what she’s not getting. “If I’m going to win, I have to be in touch with what my constituents want.”
In a stroke of genius I’m still amazed I came up with, I decided that plain old yard signs simply wouldn’t do.
No, no, no.
I needed something bigger.
Something with pizzazz.
A statement!
With one quick trip to an internet conglomerate I shall not name, I was one click and free overnight shipping away from not only bulk red, white, and blue flamingos, but also a ten-foot-tall inflatable Ben Franklin. And you tell me, what’s a better way to prove I’m for homeowners’ rights and freedoms than a giant inflatable of a slave-owning turned abolitionist founding father?
That’s right. Nothing.
Added bonus? Nate’s going to fucking hate it.
“Oh! I almost forgot.” I grab the handle of the wagon piled high with yard signs and flamingos and pull it behind me. “I made one especially for you. I already put it in front though.”
We make it through the gate, and even though I set everything up, I’m still taken aback by the intense display my parents allowed me to put in front of their house.
The not-so-quiet hum of the motor filling Ben Franklin and his American flag kite is noticeable even over the few cars driving by. Campaign signs and graffitied flamingos litter the lawn. It’s like Uncle Sam threw up in front of the house.
It’s glorious.
I hit the back brake on the wagon and park it on the sidewalk. I take my mom’s hand, leading her through the flamboyance of flamingos until I get to the one I made for her.
“Ta-da!” I gesture to her flamingo with the flourish of a Price Is Right model presenting a new car.
“Oh, I love it, Collins!” Be it an oak tree, latte, or plastic lawn tchotchke, Kimberly Carter loves a gift. And to be fair, this one is really cute.
Her flamingo is more sparkly than the rest. I glittered its beak and superglued rhinestones for eyeballs. However, the true pièce de résistance is the quote art I painstakingly hand-lettered across its wings.
“What does that say?” She’s not wearing her glasses and her eyes aren’t what they used to be. She leans closer and reads out loud. “Live. Laugh. Flamingle. Oh my goodness, I love it!”
See?
Do I know my audience or do I know my freaking audience?
“I knew you’d like that.” I point to a flamingo that I painted with tomatoes and put a mini gardening hat on. “That one’s for Dad.”
Just a guess, but I don’t think he’ll be as excited to see his.
“They’re so cute! And the signs are wonderful.” She fawns over everything with the same enthusiasm she had when I was in elementary school. “I’m so impressed with how seriously you’re taking this.”
We make our way out of the yard and I disengage the brake on my childhood wagon.
“Thanks, Mom.” I can’t decide if I’m impressed with myself or have reached a level of self-loathing so deep that I can’t tell up from down. But I have been working really hard, and honestly? At this point, I’ll take any compliment I can get. “Now, wish me luck. I have a campaign to win.”
And an enemy to destroy.
* * *
? ? ?
By the time I made it to house number four, I figured out that not only is the internet’s read on homeowners’ feelings toward HOAs correct, but that my campaign promise of doing the absolute least is exactly what people want to hear.
Also, while my mom was impressed with my craft skills, the rest of the neighborhood couldn’t care one way or the other. If I offer to set the flamingos up for them though? That changes everything. My neighbors give me carte blanche to do whatever I want as long as I guarantee that I won’t pull any “Big Brother crap” if they vote for me. I tell them I won’t even watch it on CBS, they chuckle, I chuckle, and that’s that.
Now two blocks are covered in flamingos and glittered yard signs and my wagon is topped with fresh supplies to take over a third. To make things even better, when I leave my backyard, I see my favorite opponent walking my way.
And he looks furious!
“Well, Benji-boy,” I say to the giant inflatable that is equal parts hilarious and terrifying as I wait for Nate to approach. “Time to let the fun and games ensue.”
“Wow.” Nate doesn’t miss a beat before going in. He stares up into Ben’s eyes before turning his incredulous stare to me. “So this is what we’re doing now?”
“I’m sorry?” I ask. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I know exactly what he’s talking about.
“Really?” He gestures to Ben and my wagon full of flamingos. “You have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“Not a clue.” I shrug, knowing damn well that people feigning ignorance is one of his biggest pet peeves. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have neighbors to talk to, signs to distribute, and issues about the current HOA leadership to discuss.”
The last is total BS, but he doesn’t need to know that. It’s fun watching his pale skin turn hot pink. Messing with him is too damn easy.
Instead of turning around and heading home like I assumed he’d do, he steps in front of me, effectively preventing me from getting back on the campaign trail.
“You need to stop,” he whispers, and I know it’s to keep himself from screaming. “This is starting to get ridiculous.”
“Starting to get ridiculous? Seriously?” He attempted to blackmail me through the HOA at my parents’ barbecue. This has been ridiculous from the beginning! “You’re hilarious.”
“I’m failing to find the humor here.” He takes a step closer and I can practically feel the heat of his ire radiating off him.
“Nate, come on. Pull the stick out for a second and look around.” I drop the handle to my wagon and gesture to my parents’ front yard. “I spent two days decorating flamingos and making yard signs to run against you for the HOA. There’s a giant inflatable of Benjamin Franklin holding an American flag kite on my parents’ front lawn. Everything about this is hilarious.”
“To you!” he shouts, finally losing his temper and what’s left of his mind. “Everything’s a joke to you! You don’t take anything seriously. You can’t even take care of yourself. How are you going to run an HOA?”
“Get over yourself!” I step into his space, yelling right back. “Look around, Nate. It’s the fucking HOA! Nobody cares about it. In fact, most of the neighborhood wants it abolished.”
“That’s what they think they want until it happens and our property values decrease by five to six percent!”
“Are . . .” I trail off, momentarily dumbfounded by what’s happening here. “Are you shouting statistics at me?”
He inches toward me, closing the remaining space separating us, his face as red as my dad’s tomatoes. “I’m shouting facts!”