Filed on September 19, 2026
(Satire. Fiction. No real HOA, Board, person, or pylon — only the idea of a neighborhood that is definitely not this one. Entertainment only.)
To understand the war for the Chair, you must first understand the men who sell the improvements. House Pylon has no sigil on a lawn, no covenant to enforce, and no vote at the February meeting. What it has is a phone number, a handwritten quote, and a gift for being present at every single escalation.
I met their man at the fence line. He was not a resident. He was “a neighboring professional,” a phrase that in the Hollow means someone who will be gone by winter.
“Nice property,” he said, laying a business card on my mailbox post. “That mulch fence? I’d give it two seasons. Say the word, I’ll do the whole run for a flat rate. Cash. No receipt.”
I told him I did not need a fence.
“Everyone needs a fence,” he said. “That’s the thing about a fence. It makes you a side.”
He was, I realized, not selling me a fence. He was trading in information. Fences are not for keeping people out; they are for making you look like you have something to protect. And a protected yard is a yard that is already at war.
A week later, I saw his truck double-parked outside the Board President’s house. An hour after that, it was outside House Flamingo’s compound. I ran into him at the hardware store, where he was doing a truly remarkable amount of nothing while studying the snow-pushing schedule.
“You’re everywhere,” I said.
“Opportunity,” he said. “The Hollow has a gift for conflict. I just supply the bolts.”
“But you’re not in the HOA.”
“That’s the point.” He rolled up a price quote so it looked, from a distance, like a scroll. “A fence between two neighbors, and suddenly there’s a dispute. A dispute needs a mediator. A mediator needs a vendor. A vendor needs a fence. It’s a beautiful circle. It’s a ladder.”
“Chaos is a ladder,” I said, surprising myself.
“I’ve never said that,” he said. “But if you’re writing it down, get the spelling right.”
He handed me a second card — one with an embossed seal and a roster of “approved vendors,” though no one could say who had approved them or when. The seal was the same golden pylon he used on every quote.
“Whatever happens at the February vote,” he said, “the winner is going to need a driveway. And a driveway is a throne, in its own way.”
He got in his truck and left, and I stood there holding a business card for a fence I had never wanted, from a man who had no side, in a war that had no winners — only an invoice.