The Art of Waiting
My name is David, and the day I learned that revenge is a dish best served systematically was the day a complete stranger decided to make my life hell for thirty-seven minutes. What he didn’t know was that those thirty-seven minutes would cost him the next six months of his life.
It started on a Tuesday evening in March, one of those deceptively warm spring days that makes you think winter is finally over before dumping snow on you the next week. I was driving home from my job at the city planning office, looking forward to a quiet evening with my wife Carmen and our eight-year-old daughter Sophia.
We lived in a modest two-bedroom house in a working-class neighborhood, the kind of place where everyone knew their neighbors and people still waved when they passed on the street. Our driveway was narrow, just wide enough for one car, and it shared a property line with our neighbor Mrs. Kowalski, an eighty-year-old widow who’d lived in her house for forty-three years.
Mrs. Kowalski was one of those old-school neighbors who brought you soup when you were sick and kept an eye on your house when you went out of town. She was also fiercely protective of her property, which I completely understood. When you’ve worked your whole life to own a small piece of the world, you tend to guard it carefully.
The problem was that our street was narrow, with parking at a premium, and some people seemed to think that as long as they weren’t technically blocking someone’s driveway, they could park wherever they wanted.
That Tuesday, I turned onto our street to find a massive black SUV parked directly across both my driveway and Mrs. Kowalski’s. Not partially blocking them—completely blocking them. The vehicle was positioned so that neither of us could get in or out of our driveways, and it was clearly deliberate. No one parks that badly by accident.
I pulled up behind the SUV and sat there for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Through my windshield, I could see Sophia’s face pressed against our living room window, waiting for me to come home. Carmen would be starting dinner soon, and I had promised Sophia I’d help her with a science project about volcanos.
I got out of my car and walked around the SUV, looking for any indication of where the owner might be. The license plate was from out of state—New York—and there was a parking pass hanging from the rearview mirror for some upscale Manhattan garage. The vehicle itself looked like it cost more than I made in a year.
I was standing there, trying to figure out my next move, when Mrs. Kowalski came out of her house, moving slowly with her walker.
“David,” she called, “I’ve been trapped in here for twenty minutes. I have a doctor’s appointment at six, and I can’t get my car out.”
I looked at my watch. It was 5:23.
“Did you see who parked this thing?” I asked.
“Some man in an expensive suit. He was on his phone, talking loudly about some business deal. When I asked him to move, he waved me off like I was a mosquito.”
That made my blood pressure rise a few points. Mrs. Kowalski had survived the Depression, raised six children, and buried a husband who’d served in Korea. She deserved basic respect, especially from someone parking illegally in front of her house.
“Where did he go?”
“Into the Brennan place.” She gestured toward the house three doors down. “The one that’s been for sale. I think he’s the realtor.”
The Brennan house had been on the market for eight months, ever since old Tom Brennan moved into assisted living. It was a beautiful Victorian that needed work, priced just high enough to keep most local families from affording it but not quite high enough to attract the developers who were slowly gentrifying our neighborhood.
I walked down to the house and knocked on the front door. After a moment, it opened to reveal a man in his early forties, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment. He was still talking on his phone—some animated conversation about square footage and profit margins.
He looked at me with the kind of impatient expression people use when they’re interrupted by someone they consider beneath their notice.
“What?” he said, not bothering to end his phone call.
“You’re blocking two driveways,” I said politely. “My neighbor has a doctor’s appointment, and I need to get into my driveway. Could you move your car?”
He held up one finger in a “wait” gesture and continued his phone conversation.
“No, no, the comps don’t matter if we’re targeting the right demographic,” he was saying. “These neighborhoods are transitioning. We’re not selling to the people who live here now.”
I waited for what felt like an eternity but was probably only two minutes. When he finally ended the call, he looked at me like he’d forgotten I existed.
“Sorry, what did you want?”
“Your SUV is blocking two driveways. Could you move it, please?”
He glanced toward the street, then back at me with a shrug.
“I’ll be done here in a few minutes. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. My elderly neighbor has a medical appointment, and I need to get home to my family.”
“Look, friend,” he said, his tone shifting to something condescending, “I’m conducting business here. Important business. This whole street is about to change, and when it does, people like you should probably think about finding somewhere more… affordable to live.”
People like you. The phrase hung in the air like smoke.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means this neighborhood is moving upmarket. Properties like this one”—he gestured grandly at the Brennan house—”are going to attract a different caliber of resident. People who understand that sometimes you have to accommodate success.”
I felt something cold settle in my stomach. This wasn’t just about parking. This was about someone who believed that his money gave him the right to treat other people like obstacles to be moved out of his way.
“Just move your car,” I said, keeping my voice level. “It’ll take thirty seconds.”
He laughed, actually laughed, and pulled out his phone again.
“Tell you what, friend. I’ve got three more properties to look at tonight, all in this neighborhood. So my car stays where it is until I’m finished with my business. If that’s a problem for you, maybe you should call the police. Although I should mention that the mayor and I play golf together, so I wouldn’t expect much help from the city.”
He started to close the door, but I put my hand on it.
“You can’t just trap people in their driveways because you feel like it.”
“Actually, I can do whatever I want. That’s what success looks like.”
He closed the door firmly, leaving me standing on the porch, staring at the peeling paint and trying to process what had just happened.
I walked back to Mrs. Kowalski, who was still standing by her front door, leaning on her walker.
“He won’t move,” I told her.
“What kind of person does that?” she asked, and I could hear the bewilderment in her voice. “What kind of person traps an old lady in her driveway and doesn’t care?”
“The kind of person who thinks his money makes him more important than everyone else.”
I called the police non-emergency line and explained the situation. The dispatcher was sympathetic but realistic.
“We can send someone out, but unless the vehicle is blocking traffic or creating a safety hazard, there’s not much we can do. Parking enforcement doesn’t work evenings.”
“What about the fact that he’s deliberately blocking two driveways?”
“If the driveways don’t have signs posted, it’s hard to prove intent. The officer can ask him to move, but he can’t force compliance unless there’s a specific ordinance violation.”
I thanked the dispatcher and hung up, frustrated but not surprised. The system was designed to protect property rights, but it wasn’t always quick to protect the rights of people who didn’t have lawyers on speed dial.
Forty-three minutes later, the realtor finally emerged from the Brennan house, walking to his SUV with the casual confidence of someone who’d never faced real consequences for his actions. As he got into his vehicle, he looked directly at me and Mrs. Kowalski, who were both still waiting by our respective driveways.
He rolled down his window as he started the engine.
“Thanks for your patience,” he called out, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “I hope you learned something about how the world works.”
Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card, flicking it toward me like he was dealing cards.
“Richard Hawthorne, Hawthorne Properties,” he said. “When you’re ready to sell and move somewhere more suitable, give me a call. I’m sure we can work out a deal that benefits everyone.”
The card landed at my feet as he drove away, leaving the faint smell of expensive cologne and the echo of his laughter.
I picked up the card and looked at it. Heavy stock paper, embossed lettering, a Manhattan address. On the back was a handwritten note: “Specializing in neighborhood transformation and property acquisition.”
Mrs. Kowalski finally got to her doctor’s appointment, twenty-three minutes late. I got home to find Carmen keeping dinner warm and Sophia working on her volcano project alone at the kitchen table.
“Where were you?” Carmen asked. “Sophia’s been waiting to show you her research.”
I explained what had happened, trying to keep my voice calm so I wouldn’t upset Sophia. But I could see the anger building in Carmen’s eyes as I described Richard Hawthorne’s behavior.
“He said what about people like us?” she asked when I finished.
“That we should find somewhere more affordable to live when the neighborhood moves upmarket.”
Carmen was quiet for a moment, processing. She’d grown up in this neighborhood, had learned to ride her bike on these streets. Her parents still lived six blocks away.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I said, which was true. But I was already thinking.
That night, after Carmen and Sophia went to bed, I sat at my kitchen table with Richard Hawthorne’s business card and my laptop. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I knew I needed to understand who I was dealing with.
Richard Hawthorne, it turned out, was everything he’d presented himself to be and worse. He ran a boutique real estate firm that specialized in what he called “neighborhood revitalization,” which seemed to be a euphemism for buying properties in working-class areas, flipping them at enormous markups, and marketing them to wealthy professionals who wanted urban authenticity without urban problems.
His company website featured glossy photos of renovated brownstones and testimonials from clients who praised his ability to “identify emerging markets before they peaked.” Reading between the lines, it was clear that Hawthorne Properties made money by accelerating gentrification, buying low from longtime residents who couldn’t afford to renovate their homes and selling high to newcomers who could.
There was nothing illegal about it. It was just capitalism at its most efficient and heartless.
I spent the next hour reading about Richard Hawthorne himself. He’d grown up wealthy in Greenwich, Connecticut, attended an Ivy League school, and started his real estate career working for his father’s development company. He lived in a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side, drove expensive cars, and belonged to exclusive clubs where he networked with other people who’d inherited their way into success.
He was also, according to several online profiles, aggressively expanding his business into what he called “secondary markets”—smaller cities and working-class neighborhoods where property values hadn’t yet caught up to their “potential.”
In other words, places like mine.
I found photos of him at charity galas and society events, always impeccably dressed, usually with a different beautiful woman on his arm. He collected art, supported conservative political candidates, and had been quoted in business magazines about his philosophy of “creative destruction” in real estate markets.
“Sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet,” he’d told Manhattan Business Review. “Not everyone is going to benefit from progress, and that’s just the reality of a dynamic economy.”
Not everyone is going to benefit from progress. Translation: Some people deserve to be displaced for the convenience of richer people.
The more I read, the angrier I got. This wasn’t just about blocking driveways or being rude to elderly neighbors. This was about someone who’d built his entire career on the premise that working-class communities were obstacles to be removed rather than places where real people lived real lives.
I thought about Mrs. Kowalski, who’d missed her doctor’s appointment because Richard Hawthorne couldn’t be bothered to show basic courtesy. I thought about Carmen’s parents, who’d probably be priced out of their neighborhood if people like Hawthorne had their way. I thought about Sophia, who deserved to grow up in a community where people looked out for each other instead of trying to profit from each other’s misfortune.
And I decided that Richard Hawthorne needed to learn what consequences felt like.
The plan came to me slowly, over the course of several days. I’m not a vengeful person by nature—my job in city planning had taught me to think systemically, to look for solutions that addressed root causes rather than symptoms. But sometimes systemic problems require targeted interventions.
Richard Hawthorne had succeeded because he operated in spaces where his actions didn’t have personal consequences. He could treat people badly because he’d never see them again. He could disrupt communities because he didn’t live in them. He could ignore social norms because his wealth insulated him from social accountability.
But his business card had given me something valuable: access to his professional world. And in that world, reputation mattered more than almost anything else.
I started small.
Hawthorne Properties had several online platforms where potential clients could request consultations, property evaluations, and market analyses. I began submitting requests—not fake ones, but legitimate inquiries from the perspective of someone interested in selling property in various neighborhoods.
I used different names, different email addresses, different phone numbers. Some were variations of my own name, others were completely fictional. But all of them were designed to waste Richard Hawthorne’s time in small, individually insignificant ways.
“I’m interested in selling my three-bedroom colonial in Springfield Heights. What do you think it’s worth in the current market?”
“My elderly parents are considering downsizing from their four-bedroom house in Riverside. Can you provide a comparative market analysis?”
“I inherited a duplex in Millview and I’m not sure whether to sell or rent. What would you recommend?”
Each inquiry was professionally written, specific enough to seem legitimate, and time-consuming enough to require a thoughtful response. I spaced them out over several weeks, making sure they came from different email providers and referenced different properties in different neighborhoods.
Within a month, I was receiving detailed responses from Richard Hawthorne himself. Comprehensive market analyses, neighborhood assessments, suggestions for property improvements that could increase value. He was clearly putting significant time and effort into each response, probably hoping to convert inquiries into clients.
But of course, none of the inquiries converted. The potential sellers were always “still considering their options” or “waiting for the right time” or “getting second opinions from other agents.”
By the end of the second month, I could detect frustration creeping into his responses. The detailed analyses became shorter. The follow-up emails became more aggressive. He started including testimonials from satisfied clients and emphasizing his track record of successful sales.
That’s when I moved to phase two.
I began submitting applications to rent properties managed by Hawthorne Properties. Richard Hawthorne didn’t just sell houses; his company also managed rental properties for wealthy investors who wanted passive income from real estate.
I created detailed rental applications, complete with employment verification, credit references, and personal essays about why I’d be an ideal tenant. Each application required Hawthorne’s staff to conduct background checks, verify employment, and coordinate showing appointments.
I scheduled property viewings and then canceled at the last minute due to “unexpected work obligations” or “family emergencies.” I submitted applications for properties I had no intention of renting, forcing the company to process paperwork and run credit checks that would never result in signed leases.
I wasn’t doing anything illegal or unethical. I was just being the kind of high-maintenance, indecisive customer that every service provider dreads—the kind who requires maximum effort for minimum return.
Phase three involved online reviews.
I began leaving detailed, thoughtful reviews of Hawthorne Properties on every platform where such reviews were possible. Google, Yelp, Better Business Bureau, real estate websites, social media platforms.
The reviews weren’t negative. They weren’t positive either. They were meticulously neutral, the kind of lukewarm assessments that damn with faint praise.
“Hawthorne Properties provided adequate service during my property search. Richard Hawthorne was professional but not particularly responsive to my specific needs. The company seems more focused on high-end clients than on providing personalized attention to individual customers.”
“I worked with Hawthorne Properties for several months while considering selling my home. While they were knowledgeable about market conditions, I found their approach somewhat impersonal. Other agencies provided more comprehensive service for the same commission rate.”
“Richard Hawthorne scheduled several property showings for me, but I found his availability limited and his communication style somewhat dismissive. The properties were well-presented, but I ultimately chose to work with an agent who was more attentive to my timeline and preferences.”
Each review was different, but they all conveyed the same message: Hawthorne Properties was fine, but not exceptional. Competent, but not remarkable. Professional, but not particularly impressive.
In the reputation-driven world of high-end real estate, “adequate” is often worse than “terrible.” Terrible reviews can be dismissed as outliers or attributed to unreasonable clients. But a pattern of lukewarm assessments suggests systematic mediocrity, which is fatal for a business that depends on word-of-mouth referrals and premium pricing.
By month four, I’d moved to the most sophisticated phase of my campaign: competitive intelligence.
I began monitoring Hawthorne Properties’ business activities, tracking their property listings, attending open houses, and observing their sales strategies. Then I started providing that information to their competitors.
I would call competing real estate agencies and pose as a potential client who was “comparison shopping” between different firms. During these conversations, I would casually mention specific properties that Hawthorne Properties was trying to sell, along with details about their marketing strategies, pricing approaches, and client demographics.
“I noticed that Hawthorne Properties is listing a lot of properties in the Riverside area. Do you think that neighborhood is becoming oversaturated? I’m concerned about whether there’s enough demand to support all these listings at the prices they’re asking.”
“Richard Hawthorne told me that the Millview market is about to explode, but I’ve seen similar properties listed for months without selling. What’s your assessment of realistic pricing in that area?”
“Hawthorne Properties seems to be targeting a very specific type of buyer—young professionals with high incomes who want urban convenience but suburban aesthetics. Do you think that market segment is large enough to support their current inventory?”
I wasn’t sharing confidential information or breaking any laws. I was just being the kind of well-informed consumer who does extensive research before making major decisions. But the effect was to give Hawthorne’s competitors detailed intelligence about his business strategy, allowing them to undercut his pricing, target his clients, and position themselves more effectively in the market.
The cumulative effect of all these activities was to create what business analysts call “friction”—systematic inefficiencies that increase costs, reduce productivity, and drain resources without producing corresponding benefits.
Richard Hawthorne was spending more time responding to inquiries that wouldn’t convert. His staff was processing applications that wouldn’t result in rentals. His online reputation was being subtly undermined by reviews that were too reasonable to dispute but too lukewarm to ignore. His competitors were gaining strategic advantages that he couldn’t identify or counter.
Most importantly, he had no idea why any of this was happening. From his perspective, he was just experiencing a run of bad luck—difficult clients, time-wasters, increased competition, and an inexplicably challenging market environment.
The beauty of the approach was its invisibility. Each individual action was normal, legal, and perfectly reasonable. But collectively, they created a pattern of disruption that was slowly strangling his business.
I knew the strategy was working when I saw Richard Hawthorne at a coffee shop near my office six months after our original encounter. He was sitting alone at a corner table, looking tired and frustrated, speaking in urgent tones to someone on his phone.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” he was saying. “The leads aren’t converting, the applications aren’t closing, and the reviews are just… mediocre. Everything is mediocre. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He looked older than he had six months earlier, more worn down. The expensive suit was still there, but it seemed somehow less impressive, like armor that was no longer quite as shiny.
I bought my coffee and sat at a table within earshot, pretending to read emails on my phone while listening to his conversation.
“No, I haven’t changed anything about our approach,” he continued. “If anything, we’re working harder than ever. But the market just seems… resistant. Like there’s some kind of invisible force working against us.”
An invisible force. I almost smiled.
“I’m starting to think we need to focus on different neighborhoods,” he said after a long pause. “Maybe the secondary markets aren’t as promising as we thought. Maybe we should stick to Manhattan, where we understand the dynamics better.”
When he hung up, he sat staring out the window for several minutes, looking like a man who was seriously reconsidering his life choices.
I finished my coffee and left without speaking to him. There was no need for confrontation, no moment of dramatic revelation. The consequences were speaking for themselves.
Two months later, I learned from Mrs. Kowalski that the Brennan house had been sold—not to Hawthorne Properties, but to a young couple with two children who worked as teachers and planned to restore the Victorian’s original character while raising their family in the neighborhood.
“Nice people,” Mrs. Kowalski told me. “They came by to introduce themselves and ask about the neighborhood. The husband helped me carry my groceries in last week.”
The kind of people Richard Hawthorne would probably consider unsuitable for his vision of neighborhood transformation.
A year after our original encounter, I saw Richard Hawthorne one last time. I was dropping Sophia off at school when I noticed him standing outside a real estate office about ten blocks from our house. He was dressed more casually than I’d ever seen him, in khakis and a polo shirt, talking to what appeared to be a potential client about a modest ranch house with a “For Sale” sign in the yard.
He looked… ordinary. Like any other real estate agent trying to make a living in a competitive market. The arrogant confidence was gone, replaced by the kind of eager attentiveness that comes from needing every commission.
I didn’t approach him or make any attempt to be recognized. But as I drove away, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Not because I’d destroyed his career—I hadn’t—but because I’d forced him to experience the same kind of powerlessness he’d imposed on other people.
For six months, Richard Hawthorne had been at the mercy of forces beyond his control. For six months, he’d faced frustration, inefficiency, and inexplicable setbacks. For six months, he’d learned what it felt like when the system worked against you instead of for you.
It was a lesson that most people learn early in life, but that his wealth and privilege had allowed him to avoid. Now he understood what it meant to be trapped in your driveway by someone who didn’t care about your schedule. He understood what it meant to have your time wasted by people who considered you insignificant. He understood what it meant to be treated like an obstacle rather than a person.
Most importantly, he’d learned that actions have consequences, even for people who think they’re immune to accountability.
That evening, as I helped Sophia with her homework and Carmen prepared dinner, I felt grateful for our modest house in our working-class neighborhood. Grateful for neighbors like Mrs. Kowalski, who cared about each other’s well-being. Grateful for a community where people looked out for each other instead of trying to exploit each other.
Richard Hawthorne had tried to teach me a lesson about how the world works. Instead, I’d taught him one about the difference between power and strength, between wealth and worth, between success and significance.
The best revenge isn’t always dramatic or immediate. Sometimes it’s patient, systematic, and educational. Sometimes it’s showing someone that their actions matter, that their choices have consequences, and that the world is full of people who are smarter, more determined, and more principled than they ever imagined.
Sometimes revenge is just giving someone exactly what they deserve: a taste of their own medicine, served one spoonful at a time, until they finally understand the flavor.
THE END
