I’m 34. My name’s Gideon. Married. One kid. Quiet street. The kind of neighborhood where everyone waves but no one actually talks.
At least, that’s how it was—until my neighbor decided my car offended his eyes enough to turn it into an ice sculpture at two in the morning.
You know those picture-perfect neighborhoods? Trimmed lawns, matching mailboxes, smiles that feel a little rehearsed? That’s us. We’re not wealthy. We’re comfortable in the “everything’s fine as long as nothing breaks” kind of way.
I drive a 2009 Honda Civic. It’s paid off. It’s scratched. It’s not winning any beauty contests—but it starts every morning, and that’s all I’ve ever asked of it.
Across the street lives Vernon.
Mid-50s. Quiet-rich. The kind of guy whose driveway always looks like a car commercial. Spotless house. Not a leaf out of place. He has that air about him—the unspoken belief that he’s doing life correctly, and everyone else is just improvising.
The first thing he ever said to me wasn’t hello.
He squinted at my car and asked,
“Is that… your daily driver?”
That set the tone.
