The crane operator stared at the Mercedes trapped behind my concrete wall. Then he turned to my furious neighbor.

“Sir, this is extremely risky. The lifting angle is terrible. I strongly recommend against it.”

“JUST DO IT!” Richard shouted. “I’LL PAY WHATEVER IT COSTS!”

I stood on my porch, fighting a smile.

Half the neighborhood had gathered across the street to watch. Mrs. Patterson was out in her bathrobe. The Delgado kids were sitting on their bikes. Somebody had brought a lawn chair. Somebody else was filming on their phone.

They’d all come to watch the richest man on Maple Hollow Drive rescue his precious car from my front lawn.

I’d brought a chair out too. And a glass of iced tea.

I thought I was about to see the best afternoon of my life.My name is Robert. I’m forty-eight years old. Six months earlier, I never would have imagined that a parking dispute would bring a forty-ton crane to my doorstep.

I’m not a dramatic person. I want you to know that. I’ve worked as a groundskeeper at the Pine Ridge Golf Club for twenty-two years. I mow fairways. I repair divots. I spend my mornings on a little green cart with a coffee thermos and a rake, making grass look perfect for people who mostly don’t notice it.

I like my job. I like grass. I know that sounds strange, but I do. There’s something honest about it. You take care of it, and it takes care of you. You neglect it, and it shows. Grass doesn’t lie.

There’s one spot near the corner of the porch, right where the new post is, where the grass grows a little differently. It’s a little darker and a little thicker. It’s where the topsoil went deepest, where the ground was torn up worst.

I could fix it. I know how. I’ve been fixing grass for twenty-two years.

I leave it alone.

Every morning when I walk out to get the newspaper, I look at that dark green patch by the porch. It reminds me of the afternoon I sat in a chair with a glass