Inspector

A car creeps along our narrow one-way, turning around at the dead end. It’s the building inspector. He’s lost. He ends up parking half in our neighbor's driveway, half in the street. Before he gets out, I suggest he move into my drive. The guy seems pissed. He puts the car in gear and shoots the twenty yards forward. But, instead of pulling in, he stops at its mouth, the car now almost fully in the road. Uh oh, I think. This won’t go well. The guy’s short, broad, bald. A bulldog to my Labrador. “Our neighbor’s fussy about where people park,” I start to say, ready to shake the guy’s hand. But he steps back, won’t shake my hand, interrupts: “I need to get inside to check the electrical breakers. You know where they’re at?” I do. (It’s my damn house.) But I’ve been told he won’t need to go inside, and by now I am a little ticked. “I didn’t think you had to go inside.” This is the part itching for a fight. “But I can show you.” The guy still hasn’t introduced himself. As we walk to the back fence, I say over my shoulder. “How’s your day going?” The bulldog says, quietly, “So far, so good.” Meaning, Just as long as you don’t keep pissing me off. I open the gate and say, “The dogs are just pups. They’re nice. Come on in.” He doesn’t follow, but steps back. The dogs rush out of the gate. Only then does the asshole step in. I chase after the dogs: “Thanks a lot.” Bulldog has climbed onto the porch and watches me run after the pups. He’s enjoying the spectacle. Says: “Is this a bad time? You seem busy.” He's played his final card. Full house. I don’t answer, dragging the dogs back to the gate. He asks it again. Now I am fed up. I straighten, let the dogs loose. “Yes, you know what? It is.” A look of shock. Then he smiles a mean little smile. Bulldog’s pissed. He comes down off the porch, seething. “You said it!” He walks out through the gates. I can’t help it. I say to his back, loudly. “You asked.”