We moved into the cul-de-sac six months ago. It’s a quiet, suburban street where the lawns are manicured and the drama is usually limited to whose dog barked at the mailman. Then there’s Mrs. Gable. Mrs. Gable is the unofficial president of a Homeowners Association that doesn’t actually exist. She spends her mornings peering through her blinds and her afternoons policing the curb.
My husband and I are both freelance consultants, and we also happen to be gearheads. We own three vehicles: my daily driver, his truck, and a specialized transport van. We keep two in the garage and one on the street, alternating based on who’s leaving first. We’ve checked the city ordinances—street parking is perfectly legal as long as the vehicle is registered and moves every 72 hours.
Last Monday, a neon-pink sticky note appeared on the windshield of the van: “ONE CAR PER HOUSE! THIS IS A NEIGHBORHOOD, NOT A USED CAR LOT!”
We ignored it. We weren’t breaking any laws, and we weren’t about to let a sticky note dictate our lives.
Three days later, at 6:30 AM, the roar of a diesel engine woke us up. I looked out the window to see a tow truck hoisting the rear of our transport van into the air.
We threw on our coats and ran outside. Standing on her porch, coffee mug in hand and grinning like she’d just won the lottery, was Mrs. Gable. She looked positively triumphant.
“I told you!” she shouted over the rattle of the tow truck. “One car! I called the private towing company I use for my rental properties. They’re taking it to the impound lot!”
My husband didn’t look angry. In fact, he started laughing. A deep, genuine belly laugh.
“What’s so funny?!” she snapped, her grin faltering. “You’re losing your truck!”
He wiped a tear from his eye. “Nothing. Just the fact that YOU OWE US $25,000 NOW.“
Mrs. Gable’s face went pale. A nervous gulp was visible even from across the street. “What—what do you mean? It’s an eyesore! I have the right to protect my property value!”
My husband walked over to the back of the van, which was now suspended in the air, and pointed to a specific, high-visibility blue-and-white tag on the license plate, accompanied by a small, official-looking decal on the rear window.
“Bet you didn’t get what that mark means, as it’s not a standard registration,” he chuckled. “That’s a Federal Government Transport Permit.“
The color drained from Mrs. Gable’s face as the tow truck driver—who had finally stepped out of his cab—walked over to see what the commotion was about. When his eyes hit the tag, his jaw dropped.
The “van” wasn’t just a van. Because of my husband’s contract work with a federal agency, that vehicle was classified as a Mobile Secure Workstation. It contained sensitive (though not classified) telecommunications equipment. Under the U.S. Code for Protection of Government Property, interfering with, seizing, or damaging a vehicle under federal contract carries a mandatory civil penalty starting at $25,000, plus potential felony charges for “Interference with Federal Operations.”
“Sir,” the tow truck driver said, his voice trembling as he looked at my husband. “She told me this was an abandoned vehicle on her private easement. I had no idea.”
“I know you didn’t,” my husband said calmly. “But she did. She signed the tow order. She claimed ‘authority’ over the street.”
Mrs. Gable was no longer grinning. She was frantically trying to explain that she “just wanted the street to look nice.”
It took four hours, two police officers, and a very stressed-out supervisor from the towing company to sort out the mess. Because the vehicle had been lifted and the transmission potentially strained, my husband had to call in a federal inspector to “recertify” the equipment inside.
The final bill for Mrs. Gable?
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The Towing Fee & Drop Fee: $450.
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Federal Recertification Inspection: $4,200.
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The Out-of-Court Settlement: To avoid a formal federal lawsuit and a potential felony record for “Grand Theft” (since she had no legal right to tow from a public street), her lawyer advised her to settle with us for a cool $20,000.
She had to take out a second mortgage to pay us. Now, whenever we pull into our driveway, Mrs. Gable doesn’t look through her blinds. In fact, if she sees us coming, she stays as far away from the windows as possible.
We still have three cars. And the street has never felt more peaceful.
