My neighbor, a young woman who had just moved in and had a reputation for throwing wild parties, approached me recently with a favor. After one of her chaotic gatherings, she had to leave town for work and asked if I could clean up the mess. She promised to pay me, and I, naturally, agreed—extra cash is always welcome, right?
What started as a simple task turned into a two-day ordeal. When she returned, I went over to collect the payment, only to be met with the shocking response: “We never had any agreement.” We argued for nearly half an hour, but she stubbornly refused to pay.
She wanted to play games? Fine. I left her place, but I wasn’t done. Twenty minutes later, I returned—this time, not for a polite conversation. I brought a heavy-duty black trash bag, ready to make my point. If she thought she could get away without paying, she had another thing coming.
I walked straight to her backyard, where her trash cans were kept. It was dark, and I knew she’d be out partying with friends. I opened the bag and began placing the trash I’d cleaned up from her house all around her yard: dirty plates, plastic cups, half-eaten pizza, beer cans—everything. I spread it out carefully, creating a trail of garbage leading straight to her back door.
I had spent two days scrubbing, cleaning, and hauling out junk from her home, and now all of it was back in her yard—only worse. As petty as it seemed, the thought of her coming home to find her own mess scattered outside gave me a satisfaction I couldn’t describe. She didn’t want to pay? Fine. Let her clean it herself.
As I was finishing, I heard a voice. It was Mr. Thompson, a neighbor who had witnessed countless parties at her place. He was watching me from his porch, squinting in confusion. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Just returning something that belongs to her,” I replied with a casual wave.
