The Scarlet ARB
By Tracy Winslow
Low Country summer heat and humidity cling to my body like lingering guilt from a crime committed in a past life. They creep into my house through the lukewarm water pouring from the cold side of the faucet, and frizzle my soul before I've left my driveway. My hair immediately develops the texture and temperament of a Brillo pad despite my repeated attempts to shellac it into submission before climbing into my vehicular kiln and heading to work.
Smart people hide during this time of year, venturing out of the safety of the air conditioning only long enough to assure the neighbors that a wellness check is unnecessary. Then, exhausted by the exertion of being alive in eleventy thousand percent humidity, shuffle back into the dark cave our homes become every summer.
That is... with one exception.
The Haters On Alert.
You may know them by their government name: the Homeowners Association. The HOA thrives as temperatures climb, swarming like wasps whose nest was just kicked by Spain in the World Cup final. They strike when we are least expecting it, as we lay stupefied by the heat, barely able to string a coherent sentence together. They know we're at our weakest. Nature documentaries call this "the moment of the attack."
I confess. I broke the rules.
Not by building an illegal shed. Not by painting my house chartreuse.
I put my garbage cans out before the allotted time.
My latest slap on the wrist arrived via email, complete with a time-stamped surveillance photo documenting my life of crime. Apparently, my garbage cans had been caught red-handed...approximately forty-three minutes too early. According to the HOA, this photographic evidence proved I was failing to "maintain a safe, beautiful and harmonious living environment for all residents."
My offense was so egregious that they deployed the HOA's elite tactical unit: the Architectural Review Board, better known on the streets as the Army of Residential Buzzkills.
I imagine the entire operation went something like this:
Somewhere, a walkie-talkie crackled to life at Haters On Alert headquarters.
"Control to all units. We've got an unauthorized early can deployment. Infraction: Trash Tote or Recycle Bin (8.21.1)* at the Winslow residence."
The room erupts into chaos.
"Winslow? Again?"
"Didn't she learn last year when we cited her for the wrong font with her mailbox numbers?"
"Apparently not."
"This level of lawlessness cannot be tolerated."
Silence.
"Call in the ARB."
Audible gasps.
"The Army of Residential Buzzkills?"
"They're our only hope."
Moments later, an ARB agent straightens a reflective safety vest, grabs a clipboard, and whispers, "I've trained my whole life for this." He slips behind my wax myrtle, pretending to inspect a drainage easement while snapping TMZ-worthy paparazzi photos of my garbage cans like they'd just been caught leaving a celebrity rehab clinic.
And I wasn't the only casualty of this latest ARB sting operation. A few houses down, another homeowner committed a violation so flagrant that an emailed reprimand simply wasn't enough.
It called for public shaming.
Like Hester Prynne, they were sentenced to display the suburban equivalent of the Scarlet Letter: a giant JOB SITE CLOSED BY THE ARB sign staked squarely in their front yard for the entire neighborhood to bear witness to their vile transgressions.
I can only imagine the emergency meeting that followed.
"People... we've got a live one."
Silence.
Someone slowly removes their reading glasses.
"An email won't be enough."
Audible gasps.
"You're not suggesting..."
"I'm afraid I am."
The chairman nods solemnly.
"We're going to need... a yard sign."
What followed can only be described as a full-blown crafting emergency.
"We've only got one sheet of corrugated plastic left!"
"Cannibalize Karen's grandson's science fair project."
"But it won second place!"
"There are bigger things at stake here, Martha."
"Who has a Cricut?"
Every hand in the room shoots into the air.
"Excellent. Who has enough red vinyl for twelve-inch letters?"
Silence.
"I'm down to burgundy!"
"This is no time for compromise, Linda! We need red letters... and we need them STAT!"
Somewhere in the distance, the unmistakable whine of a Dremel fires up. It wasn't necessary... but it added gravitas. By morning, another dangerous criminal had been neutralized, and suburban order had once again prevailed.
Civilization had narrowly escaped catastrophe.
I dutifully replied to my notice, acknowledging my descent into total anarchy and promised to delay my future garbage can deployments until the officially sanctioned hour.
The neighborhood was once again safe from my rogue trash cans.
Safe from the fiendish suburban uprising apparently brewing at the Scarlet ARB House.
Safe from the dangerous path I was so clearly headed down next.
At this point, I can only assume my permanent file requires its own three-ring binder.
Nathaniel Hawthorne probably didn’t imagine that, nearly 175 years after The Scarlet Letter, public shame would evolve from an embroidered "A" into a corrugated plastic sign and a time-stamped JPEG.
History doesn't repeat itself. It just joined the HOA.
*Actual code from report
Tracy Winslow is the owner of Low Country Shrimp and Knits and One More Row Coffee Co. in Bluffton. She remains committed to maintaining a safe, beautiful, and harmonious yarn environment for all who enter. She continues to identify as a recovering suburban anarchist. Shrimp and Knits is an unofficial safe house for anyone hiding from the Haters, the heat, or both. Beginner classes and fabulous iced beverages available - shrimpandknits.com.