My neighbors’ old ’67 Chevy Impala wasn’t quite what I would call a rusty heap, but I still thought it was more than that. What started out as an argument over a “eyesore” turned into something none of us anticipated. It did things to our quiet suburban street that we never would have predicted.

I inherited an old, dilapidated 1967 Chevy Impala from my father. While most others just saw it as a rusting car, I saw it as a project I wanted to restore and a memento of my father. The car was in my yard since my garage was overflowing with extra parts and supplies. I knew it looked terrible, but I’d been trying to find time to work on it and save money.

But this worried my neighbors far more than it worried me. One sunny afternoon, as I was checking out the Impala, I immediately realized something. My dad, Gus, was showing me how to change the oil. His thick mustache quivering, he smiled. “You see, Nate? Science isn’t that difficult here. Just hard work and perseverance,” he had said. As I stroked my fingertips over the faded paint, I became lost in thought until a sharp voice snapped me back to reality. A man leaning against the front end of an old automobile.

Nate, please forgive me. Could we talk about that? When I turned around, I saw Karen, my neighbor next door, pointing disgustingly at the Impala. Hi Karen. What is happening? I asked, knowing where this was going.That car. It has an offensive aesthetic. “It’s destroying the appearance of our street,” she said, crossing her arms. I let out a breath. “I know it looks a little rough now, but I’ll work on it. Karen interrupted him, adding, “I don’t care whose it was,” even though it was my dad’s. It needs to be taken out. or, at the absolute least, stay hidden. Before I could answer, she turned around and marched back to her house.