One 4th of July night, Greg, a new resident, organized a loud fireworks display in a quiet neighborhood. Longtime resident Emma had enough and took action, starting an epic fight.
My name is Emma. Our neighborhood is normally quiet. My family does a little 4th of July BBQ every year. It was simple—good food, friends, and sparklers. Our barbecue was popular. It ended, everyone went home, and we rested.
Loud explosions woke us at midnight. My heart raced as kids wailed. Greg, our new neighbor, went all out with pyrotechnics.
Not the corner store ones. These required permissions, and he was launching them at night. Everyone was frightened by its loudness and brightness.
The wait lasted hours. Kids were crying, dogs were wailing, and our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Carter, required anxiety medication because it was unbearable. I asked Greg to stop, but he laughed and said, “It’s the 4th of July! Calm down!”
Then I decided enough was enough. Greg needed neighborhood respect lessons. I made a plan.
First, I bought 12 garden gnomes online. The gaudiest, most colorful, garish gnomes I could find. These gnomes were the perfect jab for Greg’s obsession with his flawless lawn. That was only the start.
I waited till Greg was out for the gnomes. We spread the gnomes throughout his yard with a few pals, arranging them like a gnome party with little star-spangled banners.
My buddy Sophie questioned, “You sure about this, Emma?” with a firecracker-holding gnome.
“Definitely,” I said, planting a gnome in the garden bed. “Greg needs waking up.”
We stood back to enjoy the commotion thereafter. Greg had a gnome festival lawn. We laughed and went home before he came.
Greg’s response the following morning was perfect. After seeing the gnomes outdoors, he became beet crimson. His marching to my residence included hammering on the door.
“Is this your doing, Emma?” He demanded, waving at the gnomes.
The 4th of July! Calm down!” Smiled, I repeated his comments from the night before.
Greg huffed and stormed home without speaking.
Step two targeted his cherished automobile. Greg regularly polished his automobile, his pride and joy. I knew how to irritate him.
I used washable chalk paint to decorate his automobile with 4th of July slogans and doodles at night. Best part? While safe and readily rinsed off, it looked awful.
With a chalk paint can, my pal Mark remarked, “Are we really going for this?”
“Absolutely,” I drew a huge, cartoonish Lady Liberty on the hood. “He gets this.”
Greg returned home to a gnome-infested yard and chalk-decorated automobile that night. He was furious. He rushed to my residence for explanations.
“Emma! How did you damage my car? He shouted.
The 4th of July! Calm down!” I repeated, enjoying the irony.
Greg glared at me, glanced at the gnomes and his vehicle, then made off, grumbling.
I smiled on my porch as Greg tried to wash chalk off his vehicle. I was not done. Greg must bear the full consequence of his conduct. That’s when I had the yard sale idea. Greg often slept late on weekends following his loud parties. I knew how to disturb his sleep.
I recruited my neighbors and friends, who agreed. Everyone had things to sell or contribute, and teaching Greg stirred everyone up. The yard sale was scheduled at 7 a.m.
Sophie arrived first. “Brought some old toys and clothes,” she continued, putting up a table outside Greg’s home.
“Awesome,” I said, spreading my belongings on a blanket. “Make this the best yard sale ever.”
More neighbors arrived with tables, chairs, and boxes. Mrs. Carter, who seldom left home early, brought old books and souvenirs. Even Mark brought unnecessary equipment and devices.
He dropped down a box of vinyl albums, saying, “Emma, this is gonna be epic.” Greg won’t anticipate it.”
By 7 a.m., the yard sale was busy. People spoke, laughed, and bargained everywhere. Kids raced, yelling and playing. The atmosphere outside Greg’s home was busy and raucous.
Greg staggered out, exhausted. Totally perplexed, he blinked at the mayhem.
“What’s all this?” he hoarsely demanded.
“Good morning, Greg!” Brightly, I called. A yard sale is happening. Come join!”
Greg massaged his eyes to digest the chaos. “Why so early?”
Waving at him, Mrs. Carter replied, “Best time for yard sales.” Early bird gets the discount!
Greg saw the tables and throng and realized he was outnumbered. He sighed and went inside, saying, “This place is nuts.”
Everyone laughed at Greg’s expense throughout the hours-long yard sale. We sold a lot and felt connected at the end.
A knock at my door followed a few days later. Greg was carrying a bottle of cider, looking guilty.
“Can we chat, Emma?” he said.
“Sure, Greg,” I let him in.
He gave me cider. Sorry about the fireworks. Not realizing how much they disturbed everyone. Got carried away.”
I nodded. Greg, it’s okay. We wanted you to observe its disruption.”
He grinned slightly. “I got the message. Point taken on the gnomes, automobile, and yard sale. I’ll think more carefully.”
We laughed and felt lighter. Greg learnt his lesson, and our neighborhood calmed.
Greg has been more considerate since. Our late-night disruptions have stopped since he limits his pyrotechnics. The neighborhood is peaceful again, and Greg sometimes attends our cookouts.
Sometimes artful retaliation is enough to educate. Greg’s shift confirmed it. Our community is closer than ever, and we can joke about that chaotic 4th of July.
