“I should’ve popped some popcorn,” Trista said.
Denise couldn’t have stopped smiling if she’d tried. Her eyes danced, and her wrinkles had smoothed out. Now she looked younger than her fifty-two years. “It’s far better than I’d imagined.”
Her soon-to-be ex-husband was alternately waving wildly and making a pleading expression. His paramour shifted back on one leg, her arms crossed over her chest.
“And now for phase two,” I said, hitting send on a text message.
The girlfriend didn’t move, so I sent another. And another.
He continued talking, and finally she stood up straight and reached for her back pocket. The first text I’d sent simply said,He’s sixty-two and, no, the divorce isn’t final yet.The second said,He hasn’t even filed.The third:Real talk? You can do better.
How had I found her cell phone number? I would love to say I’d used social engineering, a special private detective’s database, or even some kind of hack, but no. Once I knew her name, I found her cell through LinkedIn.
Mr. Dobbs took a step toward her. She took a step back. His anger devolved into abject pleading—at least, if body language was any indicator. She, however, wasn’t having any of it.
As she got back into her car and drove off, I sent a text to a different number. Mr. Dobbs stood in the middle of his driveway, arms akimbo. Finally, he walked over and kicked a flamingo, but it bounced back and hit his shin. He hopped on his good foot, and I could almost make out the four-letter words despite the street, yard, and window between us.
“And now for the pièce de résistance,” I said, as he bent to tear flamingos out of the yard.
Both Trista and Denise looked to me. I pointed outside to a woman walking her dog. She approached the Dobbs house with brisk steps, her corgi struggling to keep up.
“Is that . . . ?” asked Denise.
“Oh yes.” Trista laughed out loud, but the sound was closer to a bark. Probably because it’d been a while since she’d laughed.
We all looked out the window to the woman in question, who happened to be the vice president of the homeowners’ association. At the edge of the lawn across the street, she stopped and pulled out her phone to take a picture. Mr. Dobbs was ripping up flamingos, often bringing up chunks of sod with them. His angry voice echoed off the house where we sat, but we couldn’t make out the words.
Then he froze.
Once she’d taken a picture of the proceedings with her phone, she approached. Her corgi waddled over to a flamingo and hiked his leg to pee on it.
Dobbs’s arms now flailed once again, his face practically purple. Finally, the woman flipped him off and went back to walking her dog.Denise chuckled. Then giggled, then threw her head back and roared with laughter.
I couldn’t help but smile at her unbridled joy.
Trista’s smile now reached all the way to her eyes. I was grinning so wide that my cheeks hurt.
“I think this calls for mimosas,” Trista said. “And then I’d love to know how you crafted this particular piece of karma.”
As we sipped, I explained how some digging on Facebook and Nextdoor had revealed an argument between Dobbs and the woman in question, a woman who had once taken to both platforms to protest the $300 fee he’d had the HOA levy on her when she put up dinosaur lawn decorations to celebrate her son’s coming home from the hospital after a grueling week of treatment.
Best I could tell from the social media exchanges, she’d lost the fight and paid the bill.
Her story might’ve been the reason I’d insisted on the full 120 flamingos.
And if you looked really closely, one little T. rex in their midst.
An hour later, Denise was still sporadically giggling when she handed me the rest of the payment. “Oh, this is the best money I’ve ever spent. Thank you.”
“I have to say it was an absolute pleasure.”
“Good. You know, I have another friend who might need your services.”
“Send her my way,” I said.
“I can’t wait to see what you’ve done for me,” Trista said.
“About that . . .”
