I was stunned. We argued for nearly half an hour, but she refused to budge. No matter how much I pressed, she wouldn’t pay me a cent.
Fine. If she wanted to play games, I could play too.
Twenty minutes later, I returned—not for another debate, but to make a point. This time, I carried a large black trash bag filled with the very garbage I had cleaned from her house.
Under the cover of darkness, I headed to her backyard, where her trash cans were kept. She was out partying—again—so I had the place to myself. Carefully, I emptied the bag, scattering the mess across her yard: greasy pizza boxes, plastic cups, beer bottles. I even arranged a neat little trail leading straight to her back door.
Just as I was finishing up, a voice called out.
“What are you doing?”
I turned to see Mr. Thompson, an older neighbor who had endured more than his fair share of noise from her parties. He stood on his porch, squinting at me in amusement.
“Just returning something that belongs to her,” I said with a casual wave.
He chuckled. “She still owes you for that cleaning, doesn’t she?”
“Yep. She said we didn’t have an agreement, so I figured she’d want her trash back.”
Mr. Thompson shook his head, clearly entertained. “Good for you. She’s been driving the whole neighborhood crazy. Maybe this’ll teach her a lesson.”
The next morning, I stepped outside to grab my mail, only to hear an angry, shrill voice from down the street.
Sure enough, there she was, standing in her yard, hands on her hips, staring at the mess.
She stormed toward me, her face red with fury. “What the hell is this?” she shrieked, pointing wildly at the trash.
I crossed my arms, keeping my expression calm. “Oh, that? That’s the trash I cleaned up from your party. Since you refused to pay, I figured you’d want it back.”
Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. She was grasping for an argument, but there wasn’t one. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her reputation—she had no sympathy here. After a moment, she exhaled sharply, her voice shifting from rage to reluctant negotiation.
“Look, I don’t have time for this. Can’t you just… clean it up again? And I’ll pay you, okay?”
I shook my head. “Nope. You had your chance. But if you want to settle this, I’ll take the $250 we originally agreed on.”
She hesitated, her jaw tight. For a second, I thought she might storm off, but after a long pause, she pulled out her wallet and slapped the cash into my hand. “Fine,” she spat. “But don’t expect me to ask for your help again.”
I counted the money, nodded, and replied, “That suits me just fine. Have a nice day.”
She turned on her heel, muttering under her breath as she stomped away.
Later that afternoon, Mr. Thompson caught me outside again. With a smirk, he gave me a thumbs-up.
“Heard she finally paid up.”
“Yep,” I said with a grin. “I guess she didn’t want to deal with her own trash after all.”
He laughed. “Sometimes people need a reminder that they can’t treat others like dirt.”
“Let’s hope she learned something,” I agreed.
With that, I headed inside, feeling lighter—victorious, even. It wasn’t the way I planned to handle things, but sometimes, a little creativity was the best way to get the respect—and the payment—you deserved.