Redneck Rich

Some people can't handle money

*****

Sometimes I just stop and think about how it happened.

It was a hobby more than anything else, a chance to escape into fantasy, where anything was possible, and not the daily grind to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. I wasn't a white-collar guy, not a lawyer, or accountant, a tech mogul, a special ops military guy who could kill you with a paperclip, or maybe a doctor. But in my mind and in my stories, I could be all that and more.

I started out self-publishing on Amazon and I'm ashamed now how crude some of them were. As I got better and could pay for professional help, I pulled them, reworked them into something readable, and reposted.

The money I made the first year was a joke. I didn't break even; it was costing me more than I made to publish. I was about to give up when the income stream improved as I began to get noticed. Then I wrote a four-book action/adventure series that really took off. Suddenly publishers who wouldn't give me the time of day were wanting to be my new best friend. I signed with one on the advice of my shiny new agent and intellectual rights lawyer. No advance, but the money coming in was enough that I could quit my regular job and concentrate on my newest effort. It was a Western and fared pretty well. Then I branched out and wrote a romance that went up the lists like a rocket, ending up in the top twenty lists of several papers. Sunday Morning did a review and sales went up yet again.

Then the movie people got involved, and my agent worked out a deal with Amazon for the action/adventure, to be filmed in three segments. I was to receive roughly two hundred fifty thousand per segment. My agent grinned at the look on my face and told me that Netflix was looking at my Western, and Hollywood was watching the progress of my romance, and that if it got any hotter the offer would be in the low seven figure range.

Darla and I went from making seventy thousand a year combined to a seven-figure income that kept going up. It didn't take much for me to convince her to quit her job and become one of the idle rich, or maybe just one of the idle nearly rich.

We bought toys. She got a convertible BMW. I got a new Jeep truck and a motorcycle. Then an opportunity came up and we bought a lake house. It was a distress sale and we got a hell of a deal. The owners had legal problems and needed the cash as quickly as they could get it. It was valued at four hundred and fifty grand, and we got it for three. Then Darla wanted a sailboat even though she had no idea how to sail one. I bought a decent size model for a lake and she joined the local yacht club, taking lessons twice a week.

I still kept the work ethic ingrained from years of manual labor. I tried to write six hours a day, five and six days a week. Sometimes all I accomplished was wasting a day, other times it flowed from my fingers on to the keyboard. If I was really on a roll, I'd write twelve hours straight.

It might look like I was slinging money around like a drunken sailor, but I wasn't quite so reckless. I paid cash for the lake house. Even if we never used it the deal was too good to pass up. I knew in today's market I could almost double my money if I had to sell. I paid cash for the vehicles, knowing I would take a beating in depreciation. A new car is one of the worst investments in the world, they did nothing but lose value from the time they left the lot, but we had never owned anything newer than six years old and we splurged. I and was surprised at how unimpressed the dealers were. People who paid cash were bad for their business because they made money off the banks, finance companies, even the insurance companies for steering a customer in their direction.

My motorcycle wasn't new but it was worth a lot more than I paid for it and it was a damn good ride, and scary fast.

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So, there I was, thinking I had the world by the tail. Then it all came apart. We still lived in our little house because we had too much tied up in it emotionally to let it go. It took us five years to save up the down payment and we got really lucky, buying it when the recession hit in the early two thousands and the housing market collapsed. We paid probably 60% of what it was actually worth and we worked on it relentlessly, pouring every extra dime we had into it. Since we had money now, we were talking about expanding it, adding a bedroom or two and hopefully filling them before too much longer. I was 33 and Darla was 31, and the clock was ticking.

I worked from the house, in a shed I built expressly for that purpose. It was well appointed and comfortable and had all the amenities of a working office. I told Bobbi I needed a private space and it was true. I tried to work in the house but she was always wandering in and talking, seriously interrupting my flow at times.

I particularly got a lot done on sailboat days, which happened to be today. When we spent time at the lake house I still worked, and had a small office on the ground floor. I used the internet almost exclusively for research, but there was a small collection of books that had helped me tremendously, and I held on to them. It seemed I needed one for a story I had been developing, and after searching the office and part of the house it hit that I'd left it at the lake house. Since I was just going to run over and get it and come straight back, I took the bike, tearing up the twenty-five miles in a remarkably short time. Of all my toys, this was probably my favorite.

There were no vehicles in the driveway but then I didn't expect any. I parked the bike and dashed in, running by the bedroom on the way to the office. Something I saw made me stop and back up.

She was standing at the patio door, gazing out at the lake. She had on one of my tee shirts, and one side was falling off her shoulder, exposing the straps of her black bra. The matching panties were lying on the sofa, and the light made it very clear there was nothing under the shirt.

"I just love this view."

She'd obviously heard me.

"So, did I. Now, not so much."

She screamed and twirled around, letting the hem ride up and show her luscious bottom.

"Miles! What are you doing here?!"

"A better question would be what are you doing here, almost naked, when you're supposed to be on a sailboat in the lake. I know that look, I used to love giving it to you. Who is he?"

She started stuttering excuses when the door flew open and her sailing instructor breezed in. "Damn, hot sex sure works up an appetite, doesn't it babe? I got what you wanted, and..."

His voice just stopped when he saw me, then panic set in. "Mr. Molson! It's not what it looks like! I..."

"What it looks like is you two not out on the lake doing what I was paying you to do. It looks like it was more about sex than learning, but then again maybe you were teaching her new things. Don't blow smoke, don't lie, just get the fuck out. And it goes without saying your services are no longer required, a fact I'll explain in great detail to your boss. Go!"

"Uh..., I don't have transportation."

"Then walk. You got just enough time to get out before I get to you, but if I make it all you'll be able to do is crawl. Your choice."

He was a slender guy about five nine, with the deep tan of someone who spent a lot of time on the water, good cheekbones, and pretty boy eyes. I was intending to shut them both, maybe punch that dimple off his chin, and he saw it. He was two jumps ahead of me when he hit the door and I stood and watched as he ran down the drive.

When I turned around, she was standing behind me. "Honey, I..."

"Just stop, Darla. It is what it is. You couldn't be happy, could you? You wanted it all and you almost had it. Now you'll get a little, but it won't be what it could have been. You'll never have to waitress again, but you may have to go back to work. I want you to think of me from time to time, when your feet hurt or your latest lover walks away, and realize what you lost."

She gave a little strangled cry and reached for me. "Don't touch me! I'm not sure how I'll react. Go sit on the sofa. Now!"

Darla jumped at the loudness in my voice and scurried to the couch. I took the opportunity to walk out the door, stopping long enough to take out the knife I'd carried since I was twelve and stab two of her tires. Knowing it would take a while for her to get her tires replaced, I took my time going home. Driving a motorcycle while filled with rage is not a good combination, and I willed myself to remain calm. When I got home, I packed a small backpack, jumped back on the bike, and rode for six hours before stopping in a little town in Virginia. I checked into a small independent motel, paying cash. I did have to furnish a credit card for security purposes, but unless they had to use it there would be no record of me being there.

The owners recommended a small restaurant within walking distance, and the simple food was well prepared and seasoned, and on the whole very satisfying. I filed everything away in my writers' mind, knowing I was going to be using it to set a scene in a future novel. By the time I left I was an old friend, and two different couples offered to drive me back to the motel. I thanked them but told them I needed to walk to get the kinks of six hours on a motorcycle worked out.

I ended up staying another night, taking a short trip to a local mall for a change of clothing, opting for jeans and a tee shirt. I got back to the motel and the sixty-year-old woman that ran it was waiting for me. "Miles Molson! I knew there was something familiar about you! Will you sign my book?"

She had three of them. One was for her, two were for friends of hers. "Wait until the girls in my book club see this. A real live author, staying in my motel. I wish they could meet you."

The lady had been very kind in the short time I'd known her and I grinned. "When do you meet?"

"Tonight. Why?"

"How'd you like to have a writer address your club? It would be good to talk to real people for a change."

I seriously thought for a moment she was going to faint. "You'd do that for me?"

"It beats staring at the walls and boob tube tonight. I will require one thing though."

She insisted on driving me to the local book store. I was amazed independent book stores still existed, and I bought every copy of my latest novel they had in stock. Before I left, I posed for a few pictures, including one of me standing in front of the store, the logo prominently displayed. The only thing I asked was that it not be posted for at least 24 hours. By then I'd be well away.

All twelve of the book club ladies were in awe, but that only lasted for forty-five minutes. Then with the directness of small town and rural people, the questions, while not insulting, were thought provoking. Why did this character go in that direction while another chose not to? What made me reconcile the lovers in the end? Shouldn't she have been punished more for her indiscretions? That's when it hit me. I didn't need to punish Darla. I just needed to remove her from my life. Yes, she'd probably end up with a few million dollars, but how long would that last her? I had seven new novels already plotted out, and there was no need to work on any of them until after the divorce. Then she'd have no rights at all to any profit I made. My money would hopefully continue to roll in and increase, while hers would eventually dwindle to nothing. In the end I thanked the ladies for hosting me and after about a million photos we were done.

Marge insisted I have breakfast with her and her family before I left the next morning, and her husband got me to autograph the action adventure he had, telling me how much he enjoyed it. I promised them copies of my newest as soon as they came out, and pointed the bike south.

................................................................................

Just before I left, I turned my phone on, listened to the almost constant pinging as all the messages and texts rolled in, and dialed my lawyer. He seemed happy to hear from me. After he ran out of steam, I asked him some questions.

"I know it's not your end of the universe so I want you to find me a really good divorce attorney, and I need your input on how to protect any future profits from ending up in my soon to be ex's pockets. Tell me what I need to do and help make it happen. When you get one, have her served as soon as possible. It doesn't matter why you divorce in our state, so just make it irreconcilable differences and urge her not to be difficult. If she is, tell her I'm more than willing to let it drag out forever, but any cost she incurs will be on her dime out of her part of the settlement."

The man had been an intellectual rights lawyer for thirty years and he had faced this situation many times, so he called an old friend who had a reputation of being the biggest shark in the state, and she agreed to represent me. He also told me to stop working on anything I had, and if I couldn't, not to speak of it.

At his urging I called the lawyer and explained the situation. She asked me some very pointed questions about my fidelity and breathed a sigh of relief at my answers. "What's out there is out there and we can't deny it, or avoid giving her what she deserves. I'm really glad you have no problem with that. I have to ask, if you're that generous with her, is there any chance of a reconciliation? If there is, you can save a lot of money by stopping now."

"I have no problem giving her what she's due. She stood by me when a lot of people made fun of or dismissed my writing as foolishness, then laughed at the same people who tried to suck up when I got successful. She deserves part of that money, but not what I make going forward. How hard will that be?"

"Not hard at all, as long as you don't publish anything until at least three months after the divorce."

"I can wait six, if I have to. Then I have to turn something over to the publisher or I'll be in breach of contract."

"Do you think she'll fight it?

"I have no idea, but then I didn't think she'd cheat either. If she does or tries for counseling, I'll become unavailable. I may have to do a little research that takes me out of the country for a while."

"That might work. Then again it might not. A lot depends on the Judge we get. Do you have your assets protected?"

I hadn't even thought of that, but then again, we didn't really keep a lot of cash in the bank, maybe twenty-five to thirty grand. I checked when I hung up and the account had ten dollars in it. It hit me we had five credit cards and I hurriedly cancelled all of them. I called the lawyer back and she told me not to sweat it unless I needed it and we'd deduct it from the settlement.

She had me get hold of the bank and my investment advisor, and he liquidated a couple of things and put fifty thousand in a new account with just my name on it. Then he froze everything until the divorce was settled.

....................................................................

I got a new credit card the next day, and used it as I traveled. Before I continued on my journey, I rode my bike back to the yacht club and asked for the manager.

He appeared, all smiles, and asked me if my wife enjoyed learning to sail.

"I have no idea. As far as I can tell, all her instructor is doing is teaching her to be a better fuck. I just wanted to tell you to your face what your employee was up to, and to let you know any further lessons will not be funded by me. You might want to make sure the check clears if she does. I could pursue legal action; I wouldn't get anything but I would make sure it embarrassed the hell out of you personally and cost the club money in a bunch of legal fees. Or, you could fire the bastard immediately and this will all go away."

The manager didn't bat an eye. "I apologize, deeply. It is not the intent of this Club to break up marriages. He's due back from a lesson in about fifteen minutes. Would you like to witness his termination?"

"Well, since you asked nicely."

In twenty minutes, the asshole eased the boat up to the moorings, and secured it to the slip. The woman he was instructing had to be in her late forties and looked like an average suburban housewife, but he was stroking her bottom and whispering in her ear. She started and rebuttoned her top, just as the manager arrived.

"A good lesson, Mrs. Martin? Alvin teach you anything new today?"

Alvin. Really? I suddenly got a mental image of him as a chipmunk and it made me grin.

Mrs. Martin was very flustered and stumbled through an answer. The manager smiled and nodded. "I'm afraid this is going to be your last lesson for a while, unless you can find another instructor. My other three are booked solid all the way into cold weather. Alvin will be leaving us shortly."

Alvin seemed surprised and just as soon as the woman scurried off, the manager lit into him. "I had a very interesting conversation this morning, Alvin. Does the name Miles Molson ring a bell?"

He went pale. "He... I... his wife is one of my students."

"Ah, yes. A student. Mr. Molson tells me you have been teaching her all kinds of interesting things. I warned you about this the last time a husband complained. You have to go, Alvin. Clean out your locker and leave. You're barred from the premises."

"My Dad will..."

"Be in complete agreement when I discuss it with him over dinner this evening. Remember, he's one of the founding members of this club and Chairman of the Board. He will be very upset if rumors were to spread about your indiscretions. I hope you know how disappointed he is in you. Five years of college and you're not even close to a degree? I'm giving you some free advice here, you might consider keeping your lips firmly planted on his backside for the next two months or you might find out how cold the world can be, especially if you're paying your own bills. Go on now, get your things and leave."

He sighed as his shoulders slumped and turned around, looking directly into my grinning face. "You! I ought to kick your ass!"

"You could try. We'll see how any training you have matches up to Redneck Fu."

The Commodore, as he was called by all who knew him, laughed. "Alvin, get your ass kicked on your own time, preferably far from here. Leave!"

"Fuck you, old man. I'll kick your ass first."

His eyes darted back to me as I laughed. "Can I watch you try? The Commodore is retired Special Boat Service and the veteran of two wars, plus I happen to know he holds advanced belts in two martial arts. Do you mind if I film it? It'll look great on Instagram; I can see the title now: 'Young Punk Gets Ass Kicked by Seventy-Year-Old Man!' You'll go viral in no time."

He was looking back and forth at our grinning faces. The Commodore spoke in a quiet but humor filled voice. "That isn't exactly true, Mr. Molson. I'm actually 71."

"I'll make sure I correct that when I post."

Alvin could see no upside in the situation so he stormed by us, muttering and making unspecific threats. The Commodore sighed and offered his hand. "Square?"

"Square. You might ask my wife if she intends to pay the dock fees for her boat. I believe it's due in three days."

"I'll discuss it with her. I'm truly sorry for your situation, Mr. Molson"

"Thanks. So am I."

We shook again and I left, wondering what kind of reception Darla would get when she showed up for the next lesson. Then again, by now Alvin will have called her and spilled the beans. I'd like to hear that conversation.

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I spent the next four months off the grid. I worked my way South, paying in cash and staying off the radar. When I got to Florida I hopped a plane to Belize, rented a small bungalow, hooked up WIFI, and worked. I'd call my lawyer once a month for updates.