The Association

by Bentley Little

  Ray smiled. "Hey, stranger. What brings you up this way on a school night?"

  "The homeowners' association."

  Ray's smile faded. He nodded toward the front door. "In or out?"

  "The weather's nice. Let's stay out here."

  "Want something to drink?"

  Barry shook his head. "That's okay. I just had dinner."

  Ray took a sip of his beer, sighed. "So what's happened now?"

  Barry told him about lunch at the coffee shop, the story of the poisoned pets and the conviction of the locals that the homeowners'

  association was responsible. "So what do you think?" he asked. "Do you think they're really killing off pets?"

  Ray thought for a moment. "I doubt it," he said. "It's not that I

  think such a thing would be beneath them. It's just that I don't think they have any interest in things outside of Bonita Vista. The rest of the world could go to hell in a hand basket for all they care. As long as we're still safe up here, as long as the houses are painted the proper color and no one has an extra car in their driveway, all is right with their world."

  "But like you said, they have the sheriff in their pocket. Maybe they want to expand their reach, take over Corban ."

  "Maybe," Ray said doubtfully. "But Hitman's in their pocket only when it comes to Bonita Vista matters. I'm not defending those assholes, you understand. But I really think that their interest lies here, that their only concern is what happens in our little area. They might kill our pets, but I don't think they'd cross the border and go outside their territory." He paused. "You know, it's not power they want, not specifically. It's power over Bonita Vista. It's hard to understand, at least for normal people like us, but they really do seem to have some sort of primal territorial feeling about this place, some sort of myopic localized interest that forces them to focus on Bonita Vista and Bonita Vista only. To the exclusion of everyplace else."

  "The land under a gated community possesses evil energy and has some sort of hold over its residents, making them do horrible, unspeakable things." Barry smiled. "Sounds like the plot of one of my novels."

  Ray nodded seriously. "You're right," he said. "It does."

  "I was joking."

  "I know."

  But Ray was still not smiling, and he sipped his beer as he walked over to the side of the house and looked down on the town of Corban , where lights were beginning to flicker on against the coming darkness.

  Barry watched him. His friend had been acting odd lately. Nothing specific, nothing overt, nothing concrete, but there'd be a vibe, at strange moments, at strange times, that made Barry sense something was wrong. He'd hesitated to mention it before for fear that it was some sort of marital trouble, some problem between Ray and Liz, but that did not seem to be the case, and he cleared his throat and stood next to his friend. "Is ... is there anything the matter?" he asked awkwardly.

  "Nope."

  He tried humor. "You don't seem your usual happy-go lucky self."

  Ray waved his hand dismissively, still not looking at him. "It's nothing. I'm just tired."

  Barry let the matter drop. Maybe it was nothing. If it wasn't...

  well, no doubt his friend would talk to him when he was ready. It wouldn't do any good to push.

  Ray looked away from the edge, glanced over at Barry. "Liz wants to have another party, a neighborhood get together for all us outsiders.

  You and Mo game?"

  "Sure."

  Ray shook his head. "I'm getting too old for this shit. Never thought I'd say that, never thought I'd end up one of those old farts who just likes to sit on the couch and watch Jeopardy, but damn if that's not what I'm turning into." He sighed. "Getting old sucks. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

  "I always knew it did," Barry told him.

  His friend was silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was soft. "You don't want to cross them. The homeowners'

  association. There's no telling what they're capable of. The best thing you can do is just stay out of their way."

  "Something did happen!" Barry said.

  "No. Nothing did. Something could've. But nothing did."

  "Then--"

  "It's one thing for an old-timer like me to be defiant, have a high profile. They know me. I've been around for a long time, and ... I'm tolerated. But someone new, someone like you ..."

  "But nothing. I'm not afraid of those bastards."

  "Maybe you should be."

  "Why?"

  Ray sighed. "Just try to stay out of their way," he said. "If they come after you, go at them full force. Use everything at your disposal to defend yourself. But don't go looking for trouble, that's all I'm saying. Don't put yourself in harm's way for no reason; for pride or stubbornness or principle. It's not worth it."

  "Don't worry," Barry said. "I'm not stupid."

  "I know you're not. I just want you to keep that in mind, though. Just keep that in mind."

  They were late to the party. At the last second, Maureen got a call from a panicked client back in California who had just arrived home to find an IRS audit statement in his mailbox, and it took her ten minutes to calm him down and reassure him that there was nothing to fear, that everything for the past five years was in order, and that this was merely a random audit, not a red-flag situation. "Don't worry," she told him, "I'll take care of it."

  She spent the next ten minutes quickly accessing computer records and looking through her file cabinets to make sure that what she'd told him was true.

  So they were a half hour late getting to the Dysons’.

  Liz answered the door. She gave each of them a big hug. "We were wondering what happened to you two!"

  "Just some last-minute business," Maureen said.

  Liz winked at her. "I understand."

  "What does that mean?" Barry whispered as they walked into the living room. "Does she think we were fighting or fucking?"

  Maureen hit his shoulder, gave him a stern look, then turned on her smile as she headed over to the punch bowl.

  Barry felt a strong masculine hand slap his back. He turned to see Frank Hodges holding a Heineken and grinning hugely. "How goes it, bud? Haven't seen much of you since you took over the teapot museum."

  "There aren't any teapots anymore. It's now home to perverted sex and violence."

  Frank laughed heartily, slapped his back again. "Glad to hear it.

  That's the way things oughta be." He motioned across the room, where quite a few people seemed to be mingling by the windows. "Do you know Kenny Tolkin ?"

  The name didn't ring a bell. Barry shook his head. "I don't think so."

  "Oh, you gotta meet Kenny." Frank led him through the crowd and around the couch. "He's the only person here with a job cooler than yours.

  Kenny is a career consultant to rock stars. Right, Kenny?"

  The man standing before diem elegantly holding a glass of red wine was tall, gray-haired, and distinguished looking --save for the gaudy blue patch over his left eye. He smiled. ""Artistic consultant' is what I'm calling myself now."

  "Tell Barry here what you do."

  Kenny laughed. "Frank ..."

  "Come on."

  "I make pop stars into artists."

  Frank nudged Barry with his elbow. "Listen to this."

  Kenny shook his head and waved his hand, begging off. "No."

  "Come on."

  "I'd like to hear it," Barry admitted.

  "Oh, all right." He smiled, paused, took a sip of his wine. "There comes a time in the career of most singers and musicians, if they're successful enough, when they want to be taken more seriously. When they have enough fame and fortune and start to crave critical respect.

  That's where I come in. For an outrageously inappropriate fee, I

  choreograph a media campaign, stage interviews, and go over lyrics in order to make rock critics think my clients are senous artists. Music journalists are probably the most gullible people on the planet, and t
hey're desperately willing to buy into the fantasy. I remember one time Kurt Cobain showed up for an interview wasted and wearing a dress, and the interviewer wrote a glowing piece on how Cobain was 'challenging gender stereotypes."" Kenny laughed. "So it's not as hard as you might think to con these people into believing that a twenty-two-year-old high school dropout is now making profound observations about the human condition."

  "So how do you do it?" Barry asked.

  Kenny smiled. "Trade secret. But I will clue you in on two important words: spiritual journey. It's my most tried and-true method. I take some of that godawful drivel these kids are writing, slip in a few references to fate or a higher power, tell them to stay out of the limelight for six months and to inform everyone that they're 'recharging' their spiritual batteries. Voila! Instant artist. They return from their hiatus with a new respect from critics who now laud their artistic growth and ambition."

  It was an interesting occupation, Barry had to admit, and one that he had not even known existed until now. One of those new entrepreneurial jobs that the high-techies were always talking about.

  Still, it was Kenny's eye that had really piqued Barry's curiosity.

  Horror writer-it is rearing its head once again.

  He casually glanced at the blue patch. How many people lost eyes these days? And how many of them wore patches? It seemed anachronistic, slightly exotic, like something out of another era. But he knew it would be impolite to ask about, and he was resigned to the fact that neither Frank nor Kenny was likely to bring up the subject.

  Hell, maybe the man's eye was fine. Maybe pirate chic was big in the rock world these days and Kenny was just riding the cresting wave of the trend.

  Once again, he felt Frank's hand slap his back. "Barry here's a writer. Like Stephen King."

  Kenny looked intrigued. "Is that so?"

  "I'm a horror writer," Barry admitted. "Published, I assume?"

  He smiled. "I wouldn't call myself a writer if I wasn't. In fact, I

  wouldn't be calling myself a writer unless I was making a living at it."

  "You're a rare breed. I know writers who've never even written anything."

  Barry chuckled. "So do I."

  "Have any of your novels been optioned for film?"

  "Not yet, no."

  "I have some contacts in the film industry," Kenny said. "I'll ask around for you. Put in a good word. If I'm not imposing or overstepping my bounds."

  "Wouldn't you like to read one first to make sure I'm not a complete hack?"

  "Hacks sell their stuff to Hollywood all the time. Hackdom's no drawback in the film industry. Not that I think you are one," he added quickly.

  Barry smiled. "No offense taken."

  "Besides, if Frank and Ray vouch for you, that's good enough for me.

  I'm always ready to help a fellow outcast."

  Frank was beaming.

  It seemed odd to Barry that someone with connections in the music and film industries would have a place out here in the middle of nowhere--but he was a novelist and refugee from California himself and should be the last person to generalize and stereotype about the type of people attracted to Bonita Vista. Again, he wondered about the patch, and he thought that maybe, despite the professorial appearance, Kenny Tolkin was like Norman Maclean , one of those outwardly cultured men with a rough-and-tumble rural background. It made as much sense as anything else.

  "You know," Frank said, "with talents like you two, we oughtabe able to bring the fucking homeowners' association to its knees."

  "I take it you're having a problem with the association?" Kenny derisively pronounced the word ASSociation "You could say that. I got a notice yesterday that I have to repaint the trim on my house. I just painted it last year, but apparently their inspectors found minute spots that are peeling on the south side, the side exposed to the sun. So either I try to find a massive ladder tall enough to reach the roof on the hill side and risk breaking my neck, or I shell out big bucks to have it painted."

  Kenny shook his head. "That certainly sounds familiar. Last fall, I

  received notice that I was to resurface the asphalt on my driveway. I'd had it done only the month before."

  "So did you?"

  "Hell no. I hosed off the driveway, sprayed off the dirt, and it looked as good as new. I called up and told them I'd done it, and I

  haven't heard back from them since."

  "Maybe I should just tell them I did it," Frank said. "Make them go up again and inspect it. Then have it done."

  They all laughed.

  Barry told how he'd gotten a notice to paint the chimney cap for their wood-burning stove and to pick up pinecones on the property. "There was one damn pine cone he said. "One! And for that they gave me a written notice?"

  "Did you paint your chimney cap?"

  "I had to hire someone to do it. Some guy named Tom Peterman, who didn't even come out himself but sent his son up to do it. A week late."

  "Be prepared to paint it again next year," Frank said morosely.

  "Peterman's the one who did my trim."

  Kenny chuckled. "Welcome to rural America."

  Gradually," other partygoers started gathering around, people with their own complaints, their own tales of confrontation and capitulation, and, like the previous party, it soon became a round-robin, with one homeowner relating a horror story while the others listened, and then another taking his turn after that. It was what they all had in common, this hatred of the homeowners' association, it was why the Dysons had brought them all together, probably why they had become friends with Ray and Liz to begin with. Barry had never been a joiner, had always had a deep fear and distrust of groupthink, but the tribal aspect of this made him feel surprisingly positive. It was empowering, knowing that there were others like you, that different people felt the same things you felt, had the same reactions to things that you did.

  Greg Davidson dropped the evening's biggest bombshell.

  "We're leaving," he said. "We can't afford to live in Bonita Vista anymore." He put an arm around his wife, Wynona.

  The Davidsons had been quiet through most of the diatribes, not registering much interest or enthusiasm in the anti-association rants that had become the party's focal point. That was unusual. Barry didn't know Greg well, but from what he'd seen at the Dysons’ earlier get-together, the man was not shy about speaking his opinion and was a very vocal opponent of the association.

  Mike Stewart put a hand on Greg's shoulder. "What happened?"

  Greg glanced around the room without meeting anyone's eyes. "It's the association. They've been targeting us for a long time, and ... we just can't fight them anymore." He sounded as though he were about to cry.

  "It's the gate," Wynona explained.

  Barry was confused. "You can't afford to live here because of the gate?"

  "They put that gate in to get rid of us."

  Mike shook his head. "I don't think--"

  "Hear me out." Greg took a deep breath. "We voted against the association on the last ballot. We knew it was a risk, but I couldn't justify supporting them anymore, and I didn't want... I was tired of just caving in." There were nods of understanding all around, but Greg must have seen the look of incomprehension on Barry's face. "You're new," he said. "You haven't been through one of their elections. Or one of the farces they call elections."

  "No," Barry admitted.

  "They coincide with the annual meeting on Labor Day weekend. You'll get a ballot, and on it will be the names of the current board members.

  Next to each name will be a box that says "Approve." And that's it.

  There are no other candidates running, there is no space to put in a write-in candidate, there's not even a "Disapprove' box. So all you can do is ratify the existing board."

  "It's true," Mike said.

  "I don't know why they even waste time on such a charade, but I suspect there's some sort of legal requirement that homeowners' associations hold yearly elections and this is
their way of getting around that.

  Anyway, I was tired of supporting those assholes. In the past, we just didn't bother to vote. We threw away our ballot. But this time, I

  made my own boxes next to the "Approve' boxes, and I wrote in, "Impeach." Needless to say, it did not go over well. I received a threatening letter warning me to cease and desist from making libelous and disparaging remarks about board members. I wrote back that I could find no bylaw forbidding me from saying whatever the hell I wanted about board members, and I pointed out that my attempt to institute a free election was hardly disparaging or libelous."

  "Then they put in the gate," Wynona said.

  Greg nodded. "Then they put in the gate. Well, not right then. A few months later. But we knew the reason."

  Barry looked over at Maureen, who was frowning. "I'm sorry," he said.

  "I'm lost."

  Greg glanced around embarrassedly. "We don't exactly" He sighed.

  "Bonita Vista is a little out of our range. We loved this place and we wanted to live here, and with a little creative financing we were able to swing it, but we were always hanging on by a thread. The association knew that. So they decided to just... push us over the edge. They couldn't get us on any of their precious technicalities, they couldn't find a single rule or regulation that we'd broken or even bent, so about six months ago, they decided to turn Bonita Vista into a gated community." He held up a hand. "I know they said it was for other reasons, and, who knows, that might have been part of it. I'm sure they did want to prevent vandalism and burglaries and keep out the locals and prevent outsiders from driving on our fair streets, but the timing of it..." He shook his head. "What they really wanted to do was increase the property values of the homes up here in order to increase property taxes. They knew we couldn't afford an increase, that it would drive us out.

  "And now it has."

  "We got our property tax bill from the mortgage company," Wynona said.

  "And we owe nearly a thousand dollars. There's no way in hell we can pay that. We're in debt as it is."

  "Maureen here's an accountant," Mike offered. "Maybe she'd be willing to look over your finances, see if there's some way--"

  "Sure," Maureen said quickly. "I'd be happy to."