When my neighbor John let his garbage scatter all over the neighborhood and shrugged off every complaint, I had no idea that karma—and a little help from Mother Nature—was already on the way.
I’ve always tried to be a good neighbor. I bake welcome cookies, help out at local cleanups, and sit through long HOA meetings with a smile (even during Mrs. Peterson’s repeated lectures on mailbox symmetry).
My husband Paul says I’m too patient. But even I have limits—and mine came in the form of ripped garbage bags and sour-smelling sidewalks.
John moved into the blue colonial across from us three years ago. Seemed like a regular guy—until trash day rolled around.
While the rest of us used proper bins, John had a different system: dump black garbage bags at the curb whenever he felt like it. No bins. No lids. Just raw trash sitting out in the open.
“It’s all going to the same place,” he once told Mr. Rodriguez. “Why spend money on bins?”
So the bags sat. Days would go by with them leaking strange liquids and stinking up the block.
Paul was optimistic at first. “Maybe he’s new to this kind of neighborhood. He’ll figure it out.”
But after three years, the only thing John had figured out was how to make every neighbor quietly furious.
Last spring, Paul and I planted gorgeous flower beds. Hydrangeas, begonias, even lavender meant to make our porch coffee ritual extra serene. But instead of fresh blooms, all we could smell was John’s garbage heap across the street.
“I’ve had it,” I said one morning, slamming my mug down. “We’ve asked him three times!”
And we had. Each time, he’d give a half-smile and promise to fix it—but never followed through.
So I decided to rally the neighborhood. Apparently, I wasn’t alone.
That same afternoon, Mrs. Miller flagged me down near the mailbox.
“Amy,” she said, “his trash is a menace. Baxter dragged me straight to it this morning. Found a rotting chicken leg. He could’ve gotten sick!”
The Rodriguezes were in a worse spot. Their backyard was right in the path of every gust of wind from John’s place. Their kids’ swing set was constantly littered with wrappers, cups, and worse.
“Elena found a used Band-Aid in the sandbox,” Mrs. Rodriguez confided, visibly disgusted.
