Face-Slapping14 min read
The Parking Spot War: My Camera, His Lies, Their Reckoning
ButterPicks16 views
I bought the parking spot to stop my nightly hunt for a place to leave my car.
"Private spot," the metal plate said, the letters bold and blunt.
"I paid for it," I told no one, because parking takes no witnesses.
That first evening I returned to find a black Audi sitting right in front of the elevator, like it owned the whole garage.
"You're in my space," I said to the empty car, because anger needed a name.
"Maybe the owner doesn't read signs," I muttered as I wrapped an A4 note across the Audi's windshield: "This spot sold. Do not park."
The next morning the note lay on the ground like a rejected idea. Water stood in little glass beads on the hood. Someone had been in and out. Someone had been careless in more ways than one.
"Maybe he doesn't see it," I told myself. Then I bought a second note and hung it beneath my slot, a cardboard sign swinging a little too close to the elevator. I wrapped a shoebox around the metal plate and lowered a small hand-painted board on a string. The board swung down like a head bowed in warning.
"That has to be clear," I said.
On a rainy day the Audi was back. I pulled into the lane, called the towing service, and waited.
"Twenty minutes," the operator told me. "The owner should be on his way."
"Tell him it's a private spot!" I barked. "Tell him a sign says take a hint!"
"Sorry, sir. We will continue trying."
"Apology doesn't fill my time," I told the phone. The rain made my patience thin.
Forty minutes later the black Audi had not moved. The tow truck never came. The car never left. Property management shrugged when I complained.
"We can't identify that car," the manager said. "It's not registered here."
"Not registered? Not registered in your system?" I asked. "Then what's this system for?"
"We'll patrol more." He said it like a promise.
"I'll take care of this myself," I answered. I left and bought a chain lock the size of my temper and fastened it to the Audi's wheel.
When I came back up, I was tired. I left my number on a tidy note and decided to be neighborly. Maybe the owner had an emergency. Maybe. But the call never came.
"He cut the chain," I told a friend later, like an accusation. "Someone cut the lock and left it on the floor."
"Heard of this before," my friend Mateo said. "Some people make trouble for no reason."
"Some people deserve trouble," I said.
Weeks went by. The Audi returned and left on a schedule. Twice the car sat in my slot and once I found my tires deflated by two strange nails that were not the kind of nails you find on the road. They were small, black, and with four little legs. The mechanic's quiet face told me what the suspicious shape could mean.
"This is deliberate," he said softly. "Almost like a weapon for tires."
"Someone targeted my car," I said. I pictured a hand under my bumper and a spiteful smile. "Who would do that?"
"Maybe someone who knows when you park," Mateo said. "Someone who knows your space."
I reported to property. They pointed to blind spots. They pointed to limits. "We can't camera that corner," they said.
"Then give me the key to the old lamp box facing my spot," I demanded.
"It's an association asset," the manager said.
"Then pretend I am an association member who will pay for the camera," I said. I handed over a few bills like an offering.
He hesitated, then nodded. "Take it. But don't do private surveillance of people."
"I won't," I lied. "I'll point it at my own spot."
I installed the camera in the lamp box myself and set the feed to my phone so it would ping every time something or someone moved into frame.
For a short while, the camera did its job. People parked, read the sign, and left. The Audi stopped appearing, and for the first time in weeks I let myself forget.
Then the alarm buzzed on my phone: the Audi had returned.
The driver was a thin man with a cigarette hanging at the side of his mouth. He didn't look like a local; he looked like someone who thought rules were a costume to wear when convenient.
"I'll take this as a final warning," I said into my phone.
He came up, joined by a young girl from upstairs who stuck so close to him she might as well be tethered. She looked twenty-two, twenty-three — she fit the kind of people who earn a living online by being liked.
"She?" I said. "She's in on it."
I watched the grainy video of them walking to the elevator and down to the street. He touched her waist like he owned it. He touched her shoulder like he owned all small kinds of boldness.
That night the Audi took my space, and I left a note: "Private spot. Park here and there will be consequences."
The girl threw the note down like trash in my camera's witness.
"You're petty," the man said when he found my note, but he said it to the floor. He spat, and his spit landed on the sign. He owned small cruelties.
"You're lucky my record's clean," I told Mateo. "Otherwise I'd have done things differently."
"Don't," he said. "Sometimes the law is the better game."
I watched, and I waited. Then Glenn Bradley, the building's floor captain — the man who always had a cigarette and a frown — came over to talk.
"You want to hear a story?" Glenn asked. He knew the building and its gossip like he knew the pressure points on a bike tire.
"Tell," I said.
"This girl," Glenn said. "She's a tenant. Pretty, loud, and someone complained that her dog pees in the elevator. She pays a cleaning fee and thinks that's a free pass."
"People like that get away," I said.
"She has a boyfriend," Glenn added. "A good one. I saw him here a few times. Poor kid."
"Good. I like that. He'll be useful."
I found him a name: Kevin Cole. I found his patience and what he thought his girlfriend was. The next step was to reach him without showing my fingers.
I pretended to be friendly, and I did what the world does when it wants to know someone: I made contact.
"Hi," I said to him by the side of his car the day he waited beside his white Polo. "Is this your car?"
He kept his wallet in his pocket and his voice honest. "Yes. My girlfriend lives here. We're headed up."
"Sorry, I spilled something on it," I lied. "Let me buy you a wash."
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll wipe it. You sure you're okay?"
"Sure," I said. "Do you come here often?"
"Not really," he said with a smile. "Work's far. I come when she's free."
"Take care of her," I told him.
"I will."
We exchanged phones. He believed me. He was kind, and that made me feel strangely guilty and also more resolved. He deserved better than the girl he loved.
I created a second phone account and sent him a link: "Don't make a scene, just come."
"Who is this?" he asked.
"No name," I said. "Just someone who saw her with another man. Come to the ground floor. Bring nerves."
He came.
I called Glenn and asked him to be my lookout. "If you see trouble, call me," I said.
"Enjoy," Glenn said with a grin. "Let the truth run."
The white Polo rolled back down, and the door of 1202 swung open like a curtain. Kevin walked in and then looked into her living room. He froze.
"What's wrong?" she said to him. "Why did you come down?"
"Who is that?" Kevin asked. "Who is he?"
A shirtless man appeared through the hallway. The scene turned ugly fast. Sounds of things hitting walls. A woman's voice like a breaking string.
Kevin stumbled back, his jaw tightening like a fist.
"Call the police!" he shouted. "Get out!"
I watched the live feed and saw the man in his torn shirt sprint out, followed by Kevin, who was being held back by the girl.
"Goddamn," I said, and I kept my hands calm. I had lit a match and let it grow.
They came downstairs to the garage. The lean man found my car and began to kick it, each stomp like the burn of insult.
"You blocked my car!" he yelled. "Move it!"
The man pointed at my parking sign. "Read!" I said.
"He thinks it's a trap," laughed someone. "Let him feel the trap."
"You damaged my car," I said, not as a question. "You will pay."
He spat and demanded money. He flung a stack of bills on my hood and ordered me to move.
"One thousand," I said casually. "For inspection and peace."
"Are you kidding?" he yelled. "I didn't scratch your car!"
"My camera saw a child carve it and you flip the bird," I answered. "Either pay or we report it."
He paid.
He sped away.
Kevin sat down on the curb, cigarette trembling in his fingers. "Who set this up?" he asked.
"It was me," I said. "You deserved to know."
He picked himself up and signaled the girl's building like a grave marker. She glared at us both from the stairwell.
"Watch her," I told Kevin. "People like her don't change."
"Thanks," he said. "For opening my eyes."
Glenn found out she would be moving out. "She signed early termination," he told me. "It'll be over in a month."
I thought the matter closed.
Then I found three deep scratches down the side of my car one morning, long and rude, like someone had dragged a scythe through enamel.
My camera feed showed a child doing the drawing with a small garden shovel. The child moved like a thief. The thin man returned after half a minute, grinning and giving the lens a middle finger.
I wanted to break something. Instead, I did what I had been doing: I pulled together facts.
I asked Mateo, my friend, to be my sounding board. "You can't take the law into your own hands," he warned.
"This isn't law," I said. "This is escalation."
He shrugged. "What do you want me to do?"
"Find him," I said. "Find the man behind the Audi."
He did what he could. Kevin dug around and found a name: Braxton Myers.
"He's got a financial company, maybe a dozen complaints," Kevin told me.
I went online and found the company Braxton had used, a glass walled place with the kind of glossy slogans crime loves. I learned that Braxton had people owed money, that he had moved assets and left employees unpaid.
"He's a liar and a coward," I muttered. "And he thinks he's untouchable."
I found a small boy who said he was Braxton's upstairs neighbor's child; Braxton had coaxed the boy into scratching my car, promising toys.
"I thought he was being friendly," the child cried. "He said it would be a secret."
I put my hand on the child's small shoulder. "You messed up," I said softly. "But telling the truth will fix more than hiding."
The boy agreed begrudgingly. We used the boy's help to get into Braxton's building under the ruse of a delivery. Braxton's wife answered the door; she saw the video and slammed it shut in my face.
"Call the cops if you like," she said over the crook of the door.
"I already did," I replied. "And I invited other people."
Braxton's reaction came fast. He called men who came to shove and threaten. They looked like the kind of apologies you make with your fists.
"Stay out of it!" one of them hissed.
"Who sent you?" I asked.
"My boss," the man answered. "Braxton told us to teach you a lesson."
"Teach me a lesson," I said, "like a parking spot is a classroom."
They circled me once, like wolves. The man at the front had yellow hair and a face that never learned humility.
"Go on," I said. "Tell your boss I asked for a meeting."
They called Braxton. I answered.
"You have something to say?" he asked, his voice on the phone like sugar and grit.
"I do," I said. "Tomorrow. One-on-one. A factory out by the ring road. At dusk."
"You're alone? You're brave, if idiot is a kind of brave."
"See you there."
I walked to the factory that night and found Braxton and his crew waiting like cockroaches in the dim. He smiled the smile of people used to men bending.
"You called me out," he said.
"I did," I answered.
He tossed a wad of money on my hood. "Take it and go," he said. "Don't drag me in public."
"No," I said. "Go ahead. Pay me now and keep your quiet."
He thought that was the end. He thought money solves everything.
"I told the people you ripped off to meet me tonight," I said. "They didn't come empty handed."
A van rumbled into the lot. Faces materialized under the sodium lights. An employee who had been paid nothing in months walked out, then another, then a dozen more. Debt collectors I had only met online arrived in person. Neighbors from the street, people with petty stories about blocked driveways and ruined milk deliveries — every small grievance canonical — arrived like a choir.
Braxton's smugness collapsed into a flicker.
"What is this?" he demanded. "Who called these people?"
"I did," I said. "I posted proof, I sent messages. They came. They want answers."
A woman, once a receptionist at his financial office, stepped forward. Her eyes burned like a broken promise.
"You sat in glass," she said. "You promised returns, you promised safety. You took money and left us with nothing."
Braxton's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "That's— that's not true," he stammered. "I wasn't— there were factors."
"Factors?" she snapped. "Factors? You sold dreams!"
The crowd began to shout.
"Scam!" someone yelled.
"Fraud!" another voice called.
Raquel Bowers stumbled out from the doorway behind Braxton. She stepped forward like someone who expected applause.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "This is ridiculous. You have no proof."
"She was your frequent companion," I said, and the idea clicked with the crowd like a domino. "She got gifts. She got attention. She asked not to be noticed."
"Don't—" Raquel tried to smile. "You think you can shame me in public?"
The people around her had already decided.
"You're the one on the platform who asked for donations," an outraged voice said. "You sold yourself as an ethical influencer and took what he bought."
Raquel's eyes widened as someone pulled up recorded streams from her channel. Her curated life froze in low resolution: a woman thanking a ‘sponsor’ in the corner; an evening on a couch with a bracelet; a laugh when an oversized gift arrived with a private message.
"You used his money," said a community member, holding her phone high to broadcast. "You were bought."
"Am I supposed to be ashamed?" Raquel snapped. "I did what I needed."
"You took money from people you lied about," cried a man who had lost retirement money. "You waved gifts and hid debt!"
Raquel's voice lost volume. She had fans online, but here in a cold industrial lot, likes meant nothing.
Braxton's expression changed first from defiance to denial.
"This is slander!" he cried. "You can't just—"
"Why?" a woman asked. "Because you think money buys silence? Because you say you transferred assets?"
"I didn't—" he started, but the sound was thin.
People waved screenshots. They waved bank statements. They waved a resignation letter signed by staff who had left because of unpaid wages. Everything was a net closing around him.
"Arrest him!" shouted a man whose mother had lost her savings. "Take him now!"
Braxton tried to laugh, a small, brittle noise. He sought support from his goons, but they looked away. One of the men, the yellow-haired one, begged his boss, "Braxton, say something!"
"Say something," the crowd echoed.
Braxton's eyes moved from face to face. For the first time his confidence slipped entirely.
"It's a misunderstanding!" he hissed. "It's business. Lawyers—"
"You're a crook!" someone screamed.
"You scammed my family," a voice said so low and steady it made the air hard. "You promised my kid a future. You lied."
He tried to name names, to point to some human scapegoat.
"You're wrong," he said, then louder, "You have no right—"
His voice cracked. The crowd's jeers washed forward like surf. Phones were raised, filming. "He scammed us!" someone cried. "He hid assets!"
Braxton took a step backward. He tried to put on a mask of control, but it slid.
"Boss!" called a voice. "Someone called the police."
He saw uniformed officers in the doorway. He flinched.
"You're under investigation," one of the officers said, professional and flat.
"No!" Braxton blurted. "You can't— You don't understand. My wife—"
"Put your hands up," an officer ordered.
His world narrowed to the clip of the camera and the sounds of his own name being said in accusation.
"You're finished," I said softly.
"I'm not finished!" he gibbered. "I'm not—"
He moved through the stages I had seen a hundred times in other lives where people fell: outrage, disbelief, denial, bargaining, panic.
"You're being ridiculous!" he tried.
"Is that a bargain?" someone asked. "Is money all you know?"
"Please," he pleaded suddenly, a thin man under lights, "We'll settle. I'll pay. Give me time."
The woman who had lost months of wages said one thing that stuck.
"You took our months and years," she said. "Not time. Not time at all."
He fell apart in public. He couldn't keep up the act.
He attempted to make a scene, to shout. He called for his wife. She stood back now, blank-faced, the glossy cosmetic of their life stripped.
"What about my reputation?" he cried. "I'm a businessman!"
"You're a thief," someone answered. "Look at your ledger."
"What if I repay?" he begged.
"Repay what you cannot return," the crowd muttered.
He knelt suddenly, a raw, ridiculous movement — not quite begging, not yet collapse. A phone captured it. Another streamed it.
"Please," he sobbed. "Don't take everything."
"Too late for that," said the receptionist, her face white but proud. "Too late."
The police moved in. They read him rights. They cuffed him. Phones kept filming. The man who had been arrogant and cruel now trembled like a leaf. He begged for mercy. He promised restitution. He denied everything. He looked desperately around for someone to blame.
The crowd shifted. Some applauded. Some spat. Some simply watched with the cold satisfaction of justice balanced.
Raquel's punishment followed, but it was of a different kind.
She stood in the glare of live feeds as commenters who once adored her turned into prosecutors. Her comment threads filled with screenshots and accusations. Sponsors pulled support within hours. Her platform's notifications sank like stones. Friends who loved the curated content turned away, reticent.
"You're a liar," someone shouted as a small group of neighbors confronted her at the side entrance of the complex.
"How could you?" asked Kevin, his voice small and extremely real.
She tried to say, "I needed the money," but even that felt hollow.
"I thought I mattered," Kevin said. "You used me as an alibi. You used me for stories."
"That's unfair," she said. "You don't understand—"
"I see photos," he said. "I saw your messages. You lied to me. You lied for gifts."
That was punishment enough for Kevin: the slow, private collapse of trust. For Raquel, the world turned cold and small. Her numbers fell. Her invites dried. People walked past her like she had a contagious rumor.
She was asked to move. The landlord said explicit words about image and noise. The neighbors who had tolerated small trespasses now hardly would speak.
People filmed her leaving with suitcases; the footage spread like detritus. Some people cheered at the memory of the day Braxton was cuffed. Others bristled at public punishment. But few defended Raquel.
"I thought I'd be famous," she said once, tears meaning to climb. "I didn't think—"
"I didn't think either," Kevin said. "But whether I thought or not, I won't be used."
She left with her dignity in boxes. Her follower count was a brittle remnant of applause.
Braxton's downfall and Raquel's exodus were not identical. Braxton lost money, freedom, and the very structure of his life. He faced criminal charges. He faced victims walking up to him and calling him a name he could not take back.
Raquel lost trust, income, and a reputation she had sold for glitter.
As for me, I stood with a crowd, breathing the blue of night, watching a man reduced to pleading.
"Was this messy?" Glenn asked me the next day.
"It had to be," I said. "Otherwise he would keep doing it."
"Did you feel bad about using Kevin?"
"A lot," I said. "But the alternative was letting Braxton keep hurting people."
"You were in the wrong place to right the wrongs sometimes," Glenn sighed. "But you did it."
Police took statements. The news ran a short piece the next day — "Local financier Braxton Myers arrested after community action," it read, small and precise at the bottom of the city's newsfeed. The men who had been owed money came forward; the police began to reopen boxes that had been sealed in lawyers' offices. Braxton's accounts were audited. Assets once thought safe under wives' names were examined.
"You didn't break the law," Mateo said finally. "You pushed people into acting where rules wouldn't. Good thing you kept your camera and your receipts."
"People ask why I did it this way," I said. "They ask why I didn't call the police sooner."
"Because sometimes the law moves slowly," he answered. "And sometimes the shame of being exposed is faster."
I cleaned my car one morning, running my hands over the side where the scratches had been. They had been buffed out by a shop that understood how to make a body whole again.
"I put the camera back in the lamp box," I told Glenn one evening. "I tightened the screws."
"You'll keep watching?" he asked.
"I will," I said. "Not to be a spy — to be a witness."
"You look tired," Glenn said.
"I slept better last night," I admitted. "Not because of what I did, but because he won't be able to do it again."
Kevin came back by once, to pass me a thermos of coffee in winter.
"Thanks," he said.
"It's not thanks I need," I said. "It's that you don't have to be used."
"I won't," he said. He looked like someone who had lost an illusion and kept his backbone.
Months later the news had more on Braxton. The investigation found more than financial fraud; there were reports of traffic abuses, of reckless offenses, of patterns of harassment. The records piled.
I kept the camera's feed for a year after. Not because I enjoyed footage of other people's mistakes, but because the world needed witnesses now and then.
Sometimes I walked past that lamp box and smiled at the little notch where the camera fit, and I thought of small things that see big lies.
That camera's soft click as I tightened the screw was the last sound of that chapter. The spot was mine again, but it felt like more than asphalt and painted lines. It had become a place where someone had swallowed arrogance and dared to apologize. It had become a margin where the city wrote a small justice.
"Keep your lights on," Kevin said once, as if I could control what daylight reveals. "Keep your witness ready."
"I will," I told him. "I will keep the little camera in the lamp box. It remembers."
The End
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