There are few things that can ignite a neighborly war faster than a parking dispute. It’s a primal battle for a small patch of asphalt, and it can bring out the absolute worst in people. When polite notes and reasonable conversations fail, you’re left with few options. One reader, pushed to the brink by an entitled neighbor who treated her assigned spot like his own personal valet service, decided to forgo the tow truck. Instead, she invested $15 in a piece of plastic that became a legendary symbol of petty justice.
When I signed the lease for my new apartment, I was ecstatic about one thing in particular: my very own, assigned parking spot, #27, right near the main entrance. It felt like winning the lottery. I didn’t realize that my new neighbor, Mark, thought #27 was a public amenity. After asking him nicely to stop parking there, I decided I needed to speak his language. And that language, apparently, is bright orange traffic cone.
Spot Number 27
The problem started the first week I moved in. I came home from work to find a huge pickup truck parked squarely in my spot. My spot. The one with a big, painted “27” on the ground. Annoyed, I had to park three blocks away and haul my groceries in the drizzle. I left a friendly note on the windshield: “Hi! This is an assigned spot (#27). Please don’t park here. Thanks!”
The next day, the truck was gone, but my note was crumpled on the pavement. That evening, the truck was back. I saw the owner, Mark from the third floor, getting out. I approached him politely. “Hey, I think that’s my spot you’re in.” He barely looked at me. “Yeah, I know. It’s just for a bit. My spot’s way on the other side of the lot, this is easier.” He was so dismissive, so completely unapologetic. This became his routine. He would use my spot whenever it was convenient for him, forcing me to park on the street. My polite requests were completely ignored.
The Cone of Justice
I complained to our building manager, who was useless. They promised to “send a building-wide email reminder.” Mark clearly did not read his emails. I knew I had to escalate, but I didn’t want to get his car towed and start an all-out war. I needed something… pettier. More symbolic.
The solution came to me in the aisles of a hardware store: a single, majestic, bright orange traffic cone.
That night, like clockwork, I came home to find his truck in my spot. I did my usual trek from my new parking spot down the street, but this time, I came armed. I walked right up to the back of his truck and placed my shiny new cone directly behind his rear tire. It wasn’t blocking him in, but it was a clear, unmistakable message. Then, I went inside and waited.
A Change of Heart (and Parking Habits)
About an hour later, I heard a car door slam, then another, then some muttering. Then, my phone rang. It was Mark. He was not happy. “Hey, did you put a cone behind my truck?” he asked, his voice dripping with aggression.
I responded with my sweetest, most unbothered voice. “Oh, hi Mark! I did. Is it in your way?”
“Yes, it’s in my way! I’m trying to back out. Can you come move it?”
“Oh, of course,” I said. “I’d be happy to. Unfortunately, I had to park quite a ways away since my assigned spot was taken. It’ll probably take me a good ten, maybe fifteen minutes to walk back over. I’ll head out now.”
I could hear him sputtering on the other end of the line, but what could he say? I made myself a cup of tea. I scrolled through social media. And exactly fifteen minutes later, I sauntered outside, slowly and deliberately moved my cone, and gave him a cheerful little wave as he angrily peeled out.
He has never parked in my spot again. Not once. Now, every morning when I leave, I place the Cone of Justice in the middle of my spot as a silent, orange guardian, and it’s always empty when I return.
My friends think this is the most brilliant thing I’ve ever done. My dad, however, thinks I was playing with fire and that I should have just been the bigger person and waited for management to handle it. I think I found a simple, effective, and non-destructive way to teach a selfish person a lesson in boundaries. AITA for my cone-based warfare?
In the pantheon of petty revenge, this is a first-ballot Hall of Famer. The narrator tried to be reasonable. She tried to be polite. When that failed, she didn’t resort to anger or expensive solutions. She responded with a simple, elegant, and powerfully symbolic act of malicious compliance. The cone wasn’t just a piece of plastic; it was a physical manifestation of her boundary, a silent, orange warrior that won the war without ever needing to raise its voice.
What do you think, readers? Was the Cone of Justice a stroke of genius, or a petty and childish move that could have escalated the situation? Let us know your thoughts below!
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