A Burned House Saved My Life

A Burned House Saved My Life

This is a work of fiction and contains NO SEX so it goes in the Non-Erotic Section. Any resemblance to real people, events, names (other than geographical locations) is purely coincidental. The same goes for all legal references in the story. I am not an attorney so have no realistic idea of how the system works. If you feel the need to criticize that, or any other aspect of the story, please feel free, but remember, it is a work of fiction.

I hadn't seen the house for over a year before that afternoon. When I did see it, it was nothing but a pile of rubble and ashes.

I had lived there most of my life and bought it from my parents when they retired and moved to Florida. They offered to carry the mortgage, but I didn't want them to, so I got a loan from a bank. That way they could have their money in one lump sum and use it to supplement their retirement funds. I wasn't rich by any measure, but as a teenager, had inherited a few bucks from my grandparents. With good advice from my father and his investment counselor that money grew over the years and I had a substantial down payment which made getting the loan easier.

I liked the house and the neighborhood. My parents took me there after I was born and I went through school while living there.

After high school I worked as an apprentice until I had enough experience to take the test to become a licensed electrician. I passed the test and worked on both residential and commercial electrical work before I bought the house. I had several relationships during that time including one that was long term and serious. My plan when buying the house was to live there with my wife when I married, and update those parts I thought needed it.

That plan didn't quite work out because I met and married Cheryl.

We were married for just under two years and lived in the house before things went to shit.

Some of the movies on TV are "feel good" movies. They are written so that they have happy endings, of course.

Many of them deal with long lost loves, or old boy/girl friends and, invariably, the lead actor/actress finds him/her self in a situation where they re-meet an old flame. Again, invariably, the spark is rekindled and their first, and truest, love conquers all.

Cheryl loved those movies and watched every one she could find. I only watched enough to recognize the formula of the writing and that all bases were covered by the writers to ensure the eventual "happily ever after" ending. True life wasn't like that, I tried to tell her.

One day we were at our local "store gigantus" and ran in to Richard Herbert. He hugged Cheryl and she hugged him back. When they were finished hugging and gushing over each other, she introduced him to me as an old friend. After that introduction, it was like I didn't exist. They chatted for several minutes as I stood rocking our shopping cart back and forth and studying the rows of cans of beans on a nearby shelf. I learned that there were at least four kinds of pinto beans, a dozen or more kinds of baked beans, four different styles of green beans, pork and beans, lima beans, garbanzo beans, and at least half a dozen other types of beans. While I was studying beans, the two of them were rehashing old times.

After my patience had worn a bit thin, I reminded her that we had to be leaving. When I did that, they made a big deal out of exchanging phone numbers and promising to chat soon.

I assumed the time they spent chatting in the store was pretty much the last we would see of Richard Herbert. Boy, was I wrong.

Cutting to the chase, I found myself in divorce court four months later. Irreconcilable differences was the reason she gave for wanting it. I never saw her and Herbert together during those four months; never heard a single rumor or bit of gossip that anything was going on between them, and none of our friends ever mentioned the two of them together. It was like a virgin birth where no sex took place; but all of a sudden they were miraculously in love and destined to spend their lives together and in a hurry to get a divorce.

In court she never said I was a bad husband or was lacking in any way; she just said that we had irreconcilable differences and she didn't have to define what that meant or give an example of one; the court just seemed to blithely agree they existed and granted the divorce.

My attorney told me that Cheryl would most likely get alimony and the house. I was pissed. I'd heard of stuff like that happening, but never thought it would happen to me. It was my house, and had been all my life and to think that she could live there less than two years, get a divorce for no reason other than she was in love with an old boyfriend, and then be given the house! My house! My attorney couldn't make me believe it. No judicial system in the world would allow that to happen.

In court I told my story to the judge and thought I recognized some sympathy. Ha!

That's when I learned first-hand, that the judicial system sucked as badly as I had heard it did. She did, indeed, get the house, but she didn't get alimony.

After receiving the decree, I decided to not go near the house again. I made that decision after remembering a country song about a divorced man driving by his old house and seeing the new man mowing the lawn. I had no desire to experience that.

Then it burned to the ground, and I sat looking at the ashes. It happened on Thanksgiving Day and Herbert, I probably don't have to say this, had been living there with Cheryl. He apparently wanted to deep fry a turkey for the holiday instead of roasting it, but it was raining and he couldn't cook it outside; so he tried doing it inside. The newspaper and TV said that sometime during the cooking process, the cooker got turned over and the boiling hot oil made it all the way to the wood burning fireplace and started a fire that burned the house down before the fire department could put it out. Rumor was that he tripped and knocked the deep fryer over, but nobody confirmed it.

I took a final look at the pile of ashes then drove to my apartment complex and put a frozen dinner in the microwave. While it was cooking, I took out my copy of the divorce decree and read it. Again. It was like doing the same thing over and over the exact same way and expecting a different result; regardless of how many times I read it, the bottom line was always the same.

But that time when I read it, I saw something and started to grin. Then I re-read it. After the second reading, the grin became a smile.

Umpteen times I had read that fucking document and always ended up depressed, but that time was different. The next few minutes, my smile got bigger as a plan took shape. Maybe the bottom line could be changed after all.

The decree didn't mention any alimony, support, or other monies I would have to pay, but it did specify that Cheryl would "reside in the house at" and gave the address at which it was located, and that I was "required to continue making the mortgage and insurance payments" on said house. It didn't say for how long and it never said what happened to the house after there was no longer a mortgage..... or what would happen in the unlikely event "the house" ceased to exist. After all, who ever thinks about shit like that?

I assumed the intent was that I would continue paying the mortgage and insurance and the house would be hers after the mortgage was paid in full; but it didn't specifically say that. It was like the decree was written in a hurry and assumed that everybody knew what it intended to say and strict adherence to that intent would unquestioningly follow.

Now, I'm not an attorney and have never played one on TV, or anywhere else, so cannot interpret the law, but I can read and generally comprehend what I've read. Also, I'd known all my life that there is both the "letter" and "intent" of the law and I was going to try to exploit the "letter" even though the "intent" might be something completely different.

The decree required me to maintain insurance on "the house", which I had done, so I filed a claim with the insurance company, and told them I needed the claim settled post haste. They asked if I was going to rebuild. I told them no, that I was moving. Since I was the owner of record and there was no evidence of fraud, I picked up a check a week later. That check was for what was left after they paid the bank and it was enough to make me smile.

So my mortgage was paid off, I had a sizable amount of cash, and was the owner of a pile of ashes sitting on a little over a quarter of an acre of land. I went to the truck I had rented and filled with my belongings. I had also rented a car carrier, hooked it to the truck, and loaded my pickup filled with the tools of my trade, onto it.

I had gotten several calls and text messages from Cheryl, all of which I ignored.

I'd always wanted to visit the Northwest, so that's where I headed. I stopped in the first city across the state line and opened a bank account and transferred my money to that account. I had no idea where I stood, legally, and didn't know if they could come after me in a different state, but I was willing to take a chance or two. I had been afraid to talk to my attorney for fear of what he would tell me, so I figured, what the hell and never talked with him. The worst that could happen was the court could make me provide her a house, but my argument, weak though it may be, was the divorce decree specified "the house" at "the address". It did not require "some house" or "any house" at "some address". Since "the house" no longer existed, I figured I was off the hook. In the event the court wanted to try to enforce, or change, the decree they'd have to find me. My bet was they didn't care enough to expend the resources.

On the other hand, Cheryl would most likely try to force the court to find me. And, of course, if they did they would have to want to bring me back. Again, my bet was they wouldn't want to, given all the really serious criminals that were out there. It's not like I was a "deadbeat dad" because had I been a father, I would never leave my children with nothing; at least I don't think I'm that sorry an individual.

I had done nothing wrong. I was a good and faithful husband whose wife re-met an old flame, fell back in love with him and divorced me because of it. Along the way, the court took the only thing of value I had, gave it to my undeserving ex-wife who then moved her lover in with her leaving me with a mortgage on a house I would never live in and never own. What a fucked up deal that was for me.

I decided to spend that first night in a motel and get an early start in the morning.

The motel had a Manager's Welcome where they served free beer, wine, and snacks for an hour and a half in the evening. The reception area was crowded with other guests and there were tall, small, round tables scattered around where two or three people could stand, drink and enjoy the snacks. One of the tables had just one man standing at it. I joined him.

"Hi. I'm Jason Truesdell" I said.

"Tim Ryan."

"Do many hotels have free food and drinks?"

He laughed. "About half of the ones I usually stay in do."

"Do you stay in many?"

He laughed again. "I spend half my life in them."

"That sucks."

"Only if you let it. If you like to travel and get laid, it's perfect. I take it you don't"

"Don't what? Like to travel? Or get laid?"

"I'm pretty sure I know the answer about getting laid," he said smiling, "but I was talking about the hotel."

"This is my first in several months."

"Maybe you need to get out more. Wife keep you on a short leash?"

"No wife, so no leash."

"What brings you to a motel tonight?" I spent the next several minutes telling a total stranger about my life and how I ended up chatting with him over beer and chicken wings. "So you're basically 'on the run' and hiding."

"I suppose I am."

"What happens when they catch you?"

"I don't know. I don't even know what I'm going to do now."

"Where are you headed?"

"Seattle, I guess. I've always wanted to go there."

"What are you going to do when you get there?"

"I'm an electrician, so I should be able to find a job."

"Are you in a hurry to get there?"

"I'm more in a hurry to get away from my ex, her attorney, and any possible court problems."

He smiled. "Bring your beer and come with me."

He led me to the parking lot at the rear of the building. Sitting in the farthest corner sat a bus. It wasn't just any bus; it was a multicolored, shiny, behemoth. He unlocked the door and ushered me inside.

"Holy shit!" I exclaimed as I stood looking around. "This is fantastic." It was pure luxury; as nice as any picture of any home I had ever seen.

"Not too bad, eh?" He asked.

"Is this yours?"

"Fuck no. This sucker cost almost a quarter of a million dollars. I could never afford something like this. I'm just delivering it."

"To who? Or where?"

"From the factory to the dealership. The really expensive ones get delivered directly to the customer at the factory, but the cheaper ones, like this, get ferried to the dealerships and put in inventory."

"So that's your job? Ferrying these things?"

"That's it. But it isn't just these big, fancy diesel dudes. I also deliver the smaller R/V's; anything that's too big to put on a truck. I pick them up at the factory and take them to whatever dealership they're consigned, drop them off, get on a plane, fly back to the factory and do it again."

"Ever get tired of the travel?"

"Not so far. I've been doing it for two years and haven't paid a month's rent or made a mortgage payment in all that time. That plus the fact that you have no idea how many women see these things parked in these parking lots and want to look inside."

Just then the doorbell rang. It had a fucking doorbell!! Tim opened the door and there stood two women.

"Hi," said one of them. "We saw you get in this thing and wondered if we could look inside."

Tim looked at me and smiled. "Sure. Come on in."

That ringing doorbell led to a night of unadulterated debauchery. The four of us romped and played in the bus until early morning.

After they left, Tim and I talked. He asked me if I would be interested in doing the same job. If so, he would call his boss and see what he could do. It took me all of two seconds to tell him to make the call. It was too early to call then, so we met for breakfast a couple of hours later and he called his boss. I chatted with him and told him my story. He told me to head to the factory and he would see what he could do about a job. Tim and I shook hands and he headed for Chicago to make his delivery and I headed for Texas.

During the trip to the factory, I mentally went over the possible advantages of doing the job should I get it. First, it should make it more difficult for Cheryl, her attorney, and the court to find me since I wouldn't have a permanent address. Second, if the night with Tim and the two women was any indication, I would be having my share of sex, and third, I'd be saving my salary because the company would be paying all of my expenses; except my car payment and insurance.

Then I made a list of disadvantages. It was a short list. Delay in getting to Seattle was the only thing on it, but that didn't carry much weight all else considered.

I arrived at the factory in Texas, filled out an application, and was interviewed by four people who held various positions with the company. I even went to the local police station to be fingerprinted for a criminal background investigation. I hoped that neither Cheryl nor the court had yet initiated any legal action against me.

The next day I spent several hours with the company Safety Director. He made a copy of my driver's license and sent it to a company that investigated the work history of drivers for some of the bus and trucking companies in the country.

They were trying to make sure that the people who drove their buses all over the country were safe, honest, and reliable. I was safe and reliable, but after what I did to get out of town might not be considered honest. To my credit, I made no secret of how I came to be at their factory looking for a job. Everyone I talked to sympathized with me.

The Safety Director and I went through one of the buses from front to back, side to side, and top to bottom. It was then I learned that they were 'coaches' not 'buses', and he and I went through one of them with a fine toothed comb. Forty-five feet long, eight and a half feet wide, and weighing over 30,000 pounds: they were impressive.

Then he told me to get in the driver's seat and take him for a ride. We started in the big parking lot and graduated to state highways, county roads and, finally, city streets. The biggest thing I had driven prior to that was a 26 foot rental truck. Some people are born to be teachers, doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs even. Me? I was born to drive motor coaches. I had a ball.

Up to then, I had no idea how big the recreational vehicle industry was. My company (I was calling it that even though I had not yet been hired) sent out at least ten coaches and R/V's a week to their dealerships all over the country. The average retail cost of their smaller R/V's was such that they were within reach for lots of people. The retail cost for their coaches, however, ranged from $150,000 to over $2,000,000. The high dollar coaches were all delivered to the customers at the factory. High dollar meaning $1,000,000 or more. All others went to the dealerships' inventories.

At the end of a three-day process, I was told that I was hired pending the criminal check. I was also told that as of that day they would be paying my motel costs.

My criminal check came back clear and I was hired. The next week was spent in the factory watching how the coaches were built and learning all of their systems. I also had to take Commercial Drivers License (CDL) written and driving tests. During my evenings I studied for the written tests and during the day I spent time learning what I needed to pass the pre-trip inspection and driving portions of the test. There was a person from the Safety Office who helped me with those things. I took and passed all the tests and received my CDL.

In order to work there, I had to know every inch of the basic models and have working knowledge of the more advanced models and systems. I learned that they could almost drive themselves. In fact, research was being done on that very thing. The owners of the company believed that if cars could do it, why couldn't motor coaches?

One morning, Tim Ryan tapped on my shoulder. He had just flown in and would be leaving the next day for Florida with another coach.

"Well, what do you think?" He asked.

"I don't understand why they have to look for people to do this job. You'd think they'd be standing in line for it. It seems perfect."

He chuckled. "It is for some of us, but most find it boring and repetitive after a while. They get tired of the travel and motels and no time at home. Even most truck drivers who have tried it don't care for it. But for you... hell, it should be perfect. It will be like the Foreign Legion; a lost man looking to stay lost and forget his past. People can look for you, but if you don't want to be found, you won't be. The only paper trail for you will be your paycheck and since it will be direct deposited even that won't be available to the public or anyone looking for you. You will be using company credit cards for motels, fuel, and food on the road and when you're here. If you only use cash for your daily personal expenses, only you will have no paper trail. If you have any bills to pay, you can even do that through your bank. It's perfect."

I had thought of all of those things before and had come to the same conclusion he had. As long as I did nothing stupid like have a traffic accident or use my own credit cards for daily expenditures, I would be invisible. Invisible that is until I had to renew my driver's license and since I had just gotten a new one in Texas, I was 'good to go' for several years. And even if I was traced to Texas, I had no permanent address because the one I used as my residence on my license was a motel.