Redneck Rich

The second month we had a long talk. "She's been to see me twice. I had to turn her away both times, citing ethics. Then she made an appointment, bringing a lawyer when she came. She was very disappointed when I refused to give her your contact information. Any more instructions?"

"No. Carry on. When will it appear in court?"

"In about another month and a half, maybe a little later. You coming?"

"Do I have to?"

"It would be better if you did, but I can quote obligations outside the country and the Judge might buy it. Maybe not. We'll see."

"Let me know."

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Just so my lawyer wouldn't be a liar, I got my agent to book a few talk shows in Europe, including the Graham Norton show. It was one of his highest rated shows as I talked about my upbringing, and he lost it when I described a snipe hunt to him. The actors on the couch with me laughed so hard they had to have tissues, and the French starlet gave a very unladylike snort, which set everyone off again. I got a couple of invitations to spend time on a yacht or country estate, but I turned them down as gracefully as I could, citing legal obligations. I had made up my mind to wear my ring until the divorce degree was final, and I waved it like a shield when the Frenchwoman suggested a few days on the Riviera. She seemed confused that marriage vows would matter.

I showed up in Germany, Sweden, and Italy in successive weeks, running my frequent flyer miles up. The movies on Amazon came out, and were very well received. My publisher was trying to move my timeline up, but I had the lawyer and agent stick to their guns, promising them I would deliver on the agreed upon date.

I called my divorce lawyer and she had an update. "You're on the docket. Monday next. You don't have to be there but I suggest you show. She's fighting the settlement but once the Judge sees it, I have no doubt he will approve it."

Well, he better. I was giving her half of everything we'd accumulated so far and it came up to almost three million dollars. I was giving her our little house and insisting the lake house be sold. That was a sticking point because she wanted it badly. Never going to happen. I'd burn the place to the ground before I gave her the place she'd turned into a love nest to betray me in. She would also get half the proceeds from the Netflix deal. My business lawyer told me if I delayed long enough on the movie deal for the romance, she may end up getting nothing. Without that, she would still net about five million. She got to keep her car, our little house, and I kept my truck and bike, and we walked away. How hard could it be?

Very, it seems. I came into town on the court date, not showing up until the docket was called. Darla's eyes widened when she saw me and she tried to rise but her lawyer pulled her back down. She looked well put together but it would appear she'd lost a little weight. She ought to be happy about that, she always said she wished she was ten pounds lighter.

The Judge was an older woman with a no-nonsense attitude and she commended me for being so transparent on our financial situation. "Most men, especially with your wealth level, would be fighting her tooth and nail."

"Up until I caught her sleeping with someone else, we were full partners in everything we did. She deserves what she's getting and I don't begrudge it."

"Your wife is being very insistent about counseling. How do you feel about that?"

"Ma'am, Your Honor, we come from very modest beginnings. I was raised in a Baptist church and I'm very old school where fidelity is concerned. So, while I don't mind splitting our assets, I see no need to continue our marriage. She's violated my trust in her, and she'll never get it back. In my opinion, trust ranks as high as love in a marriage commitment. No amount of counseling in the world would convince me otherwise so I feel we'd be wasting everyone's time."

She looked at me for a minute and sighed. "All right. This marriage is hereby dissolved. Mr. Molson, Mrs. Molson, you are no longer man and wife. Try to have good lives and not end up in front of me again. Next case."

Darla's lawyer flew off his chair in outrage. "That's it? No chance at reconciliation?"

"Not if one of the partners doesn't want it. She's getting a really good deal here. She's young, still attractive, getting a pretty hefty chunk of change so she won't be destitute, so she should have no problem starting over. Maybe she'll learn from her mistakes. Maybe not. I don't need to remind you this is a no-fault state counselor, and if one doesn't want to be married, they don't even have to give a reason. Let it lie."

And just like that, I was no longer married. She did try to get the financial settlement amended twice, once when my new book came out and once when the movie deal was finalized, but my lawyers came through for me and it went nowhere. Her final cut of our worth was a little over six million. It would seem my fortunes accumulated during our separation. Most people live their whole lives without accumulating that much. She should have been happy.

It took her about a year and a half and blowing in a little over a million to get back on an even keel. I figure somewhere along the line she woke up and had a moment of clarity, kicked whoever was sharing her bed out, and took stock of her life. Darla put the house up for sale and moved to a bigger city, buying a condo and enrolling in college. She was good in school and it always bothered her that we couldn't afford college. I had no idea what her major was, and the only reason I knew anything at all was because her sister was still a Facebook friend.

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I found that I enjoyed the time I rambled on my bike, so once every couple of months I'd take off for a week or so, point the bike in a direction, and just ride. I'd always liked long hair and now that I had independent means I let it grow. Beards didn't appeal to me much so I stayed cleanshaven, I always wore good clothes, and was almost never harassed by cops on my rambles. One cop in South Carolina clocked me going four miles an hour over the limit. I guess the small town needed the revenue and he kept adding things to the ticket. I didn't complain, even though he was pushing me too, hoping for a chance to send me to jail.

It shocked the shit out of him when I showed up on my court date and asked that the body cam footage be shown. He spit and stuttered before finally admitting it was off, saying he shut it off when he went to the bathroom and forgot to switch it back on. What he didn't know was I had filmed the whole thing on my phone, tucked into a breast pocket of my jacket and not readily seen. There was a big discussion over whether it was admissible, and I just shrugged and had my lawyer let them know if they denied it would be on social media before I left the parking lot.

The judge viewed the footage in chambers, came out, dismissed all charges except the speeding ticket, fined me a hundred bucks and sent me on my way. The cop and the DA were in a deep discussion with the Judge as I left. I got out of town as fast as I could.

I did get my ass beat in a little bar in the middle of Nowhere Tennessee, in a fight I didn't start and had no stake in, but when the whole bar broke out fighting, they must have decided I was with the other guys. When the cops sorted us out, they wanted to know what my connection was.

"I don't have one. I just stopped to have a beer."

The deputy grinned as she handed my license back. "Wrong place wrong time, huh? At least you can put it in a book down the road."

She had recognized the name, and before they left, we had to have pictures taken, with both sets of cops. The owner's wife wanted a photo, as well as some of the patrons. I ended up drinking a few more beers with all of them, before Cop Hottie followed me to my hotel, then came back by after she got off work. We spent most of a weekend in bed, only coming out to eat. She was the first black woman I'd ever been with and despite the wild stories I heard as a child in the South, they felt, smelled, and tasted like every other woman I'd had the pleasure of bedding. Which meant really, really good. She follows me on Facebook and other social media, and I send her a book now and then. Wanda invited me to her wedding, to the biggest, whitest, most redneck looking guy in the universe. They seemed very happy together.

One of the reasons I liked to hang out in bars and little diners was for the stories I'd hear. A lot of them would show up in some modified version or another in my work, and I'd grin when I got messages saying they had seen almost the exact same thing or had had an event in the book really happen to them. It was probably them I was writing about.

During the next three years I came out with another Western, a Romance, and a Fantasy about a postapocalyptic world. They all sold well but the most successful was the Fantasy, which surprised me no end. All were optioned to production companies.

I was invited to tour the set of the Fantasy production and I spent two days fascinated, learning tricks from makeup artists and special effects experts. I met the stars, briefly, but they weren't the ones I spent time with. I found I'd rather watch the magic being made than watch the magicians pulling off the tricks.

The people doing the Western found out and they invited me. I even got to appear on film, as Outlaw #3, where I got hanged. It was kind of creepy but the rig was safe and the noose wasn't secured to anything, just in case. They told me not to shave for four or five days, then I went into the makeup chair where they greased my hair, rubbed dirt onto my face, and stained my teeth. I was definitely not leading man material when they were done. I asked them not to name me in the film because it was just a lark and they smiled, saying most writers wanted it out there.

I didn't go near the Romance, although when I saw the bedroom scene at the premiere, I wished I had. They almost didn't get their R rating.

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I traveled, I dated, I even had two fairly long-term relationships but they fizzled out. Darla graduated from college with a degree in Interior Design and sent me an invitation. I didn't attend but I sent her a very nice graduation present and steered a couple of people to the firm she worked at.

I was at my publisher's' office, going over some contract details, when I met Helene. She was medium height and could have stood to lose about fifteen pounds, but she carried them well, overall being very shapely. Lush is the word that came to mind. She had a cute little mouth, a pixie nose, jet black hair and very blue eyes. I kept wondering where I'd seen her and my agent noticed.

"That's Helene Montoya, the host of one of the hottest cooking shows on television. She's here to negotiate for her third cookbook. She doesn't sell like you do, but she makes very good money."

I knew then why she looked familiar. I had one of her cookbooks. I caught her glancing at me a couple of times so she probably knew who I was. She often talked about the perils of cooking for one because she was recently divorced, and it was the theme of her show's last season.

Working up a little courage, I approached her. "If you could eat anywhere in the world, where would your next meal come from?"

She seemed a little startled before smiling. "That's one of the most original come on lines I've ever heard. My choice might surprise you. It would be Yommy's Drive In, in my old hometown. I'd kill for one of his Yommy burgers with the works, piled high on the sides with French fries and onion rings."

It shocked her when I said I knew of it, and had eaten there twice in my travels. That led to a discussion of road food. I told her about a Chinese restaurant in Boone, North Carolina, that was in an old farmhouse and all the rooms had been converted into private little dining rooms. Then I told her about a fatback plate I'd once gotten in a little diner in Greer, South Carolina.

She talked about crab cakes in a seafood restaurant in Maryland, and barbecued mutton she'd had once in a little Tennessee town. That led to a discussion on Barbeque in general, from all the Southern states and a few Western ones.

"Damn, now I'm hungry!"

I looked down at my watch and grinned. When I signed my last contract, my publisher had made a big deal of presenting me with a Rolex. I accepted gracefully, letting him have his moment, then I met with him a week later and gave it back. He seemed shocked beyond words. "Don't think I don't appreciate it, because I do. It's just that, well, I can't in good conscience own something that valuable when all it does is tell me what time it is. You want to do something for me? Sell it and give it to aspiring writers, maybe high school kids who could use a little encouragement. Think of it as training your next bunch of suckers to make you even richer."

I think he liked that idea. He announced the scholarship in the local paper and social media, saying it was my suggestion. He even hit other writers for help and was surprised at the response. A camp was organized and four writers, me included, taught seminars. They were mostly questions about how to write, and more importantly what to write.

"The technical aspects are pretty easy, for some anyway. I want you to understand there's a difference between writers and storytellers. Writers do the serious stuff. Storytellers just want to entertain you with a good read. And the advice to write about what you know? Bullshit. You guys are fifteen and sixteen, and while you probably know more about real life now than I ever will, it doesn't mean you know everything.

I'll let you in on one of my secrets, and I'll admit I stole it from another writer. Dick Francis was a professional jockey. He rode for the Queen of England for a while and he was very successful. Then he got hurt in a steeplechase and couldn't ride anymore, so he turned to journalism, writing about what he knew, horses and racing.

Then he started writing mysteries, and if you read any he did, it will have some sort of horse theme. Something he knew, but it often branched out into something totally unrelated, and usually featured another profession. Pilot, transport driver, wine merchant, all on the fringes of horse racing.

So that's what I do. I take a central theme, then branch out. If it's about a doctor I do my research and stay as far away from the technical aspects as I can while still putting bits in that convince you he really is a doctor. Research cannot be overrated. Same with soldiers, accountants, rock stars, tell their stories with their professions as a backdrop."

Besides the writing seminars we did fun things. They were old enough to enjoy canoeing, riding, hiking, and other outdoor activities. I'd grin at them, knowing they would be filing their experiences away for future use.

My publisher did give me another watch which only ran about two grand, and I still felt like it was too much. My overpriced watch told me it was eleven in the morning.

"You know, if we leave now, we can avoid the rush. I know a little burger place that will knock your socks off. It's not Yommy's, but it's damn close."

Ten minutes later we were in my truck. Fifteen minutes after that we pulled into a real drive in, complete with skating waitresses. "The grill they use was made in 1947, and it's never been washed with soap. The seasoning is worked in so deep it'll never come out. The milkshake machines were made between 1960 and '65, totally refurbished. They have twelve flavors of shakes, all made with ice cream churned on premise. Their one gimmick is their fries. They mix up different kinds, so an order might have seasoned fries, regular fries, shoestring, all mixed together with an onion ring or two thrown in."

Helene's eyes were shining with excitement and she actually applauded when our waitress brought out our orders, skating up and doing a 360, stopping right at our window. I gave her a hundred to split with the other two and they showed off, weaving and twisting as they passed each other with millimeters to spare, finishing up by jumping a picnic table in tandem.

We managed to eat all the third pound burgers but most of the fries stayed on the tray. Helene did manage to winnow out the onion rings and dispose of them. The shakes we got almost finished us off and we were right on the verge of a food coma.

Helene surprised me by getting out and following a girl into the building, turning around to wave me in. She spent fifteen minutes talking with the owner and grill master. He told her his cousin in Louisiana had a similar operation and he had always admired it when he visited, so when he came into some money, he opened one of his own. I had to take a picture of the entire crew with Helene in front of the building. The owner had it blown up and hung over the door.

Then one of the waitresses recognized me and Helene grinned as she fawned over me. We both had to sign their ticket books and a bunch of menus before we left.

She moaned as we pulled into the parking garage. "I'm gonna have to spend the rest of the afternoon in the gym or that food will go right to my ass."

"Well, lucky food then. I'm gonna take a nap."

She glanced up and saw me grinning, so she relaxed. I held the door as we reentered the office. "It was nice to meet you, Helene. I've got one of your cookbooks, and I watch your show from time to time. It inspired me to put a little garden in, and I have one section just for herbs. I took your advice and put them in boxes and pots, and even then, the oregano seems to try to creep out every time I'm gone."

"I've read your books, most of them, and watched a couple of movies. High Noon at The End of The Universe is one of my favorite movies of all time."

"That one was a lot of fun to write, space westerns seem to do well."

We talked for a few minutes before she had to go into the office.

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Three weeks later I was watching her show and she shared pictures of the diner I'd taken her to, telling her audience what a good time she'd had and how good the burgers were. There were a couple of pictures of us together and she grinned at the screen.

"In case you're wondering, my companion was Miles Molson. We share the same publishing company and met there. He took me to Mel's' Drive-in when I told him how much I missed the burgers I used to get from a place a lot like this in my hometown. He's a lot of fun to be around. I wonder why he hasn't called me yet? Miles, if you're watching, I'm still single, hint, hint."

She was laughing. While most in her genre wore professional chef type clothes, she always looked like she was on a fashion shoot rather than in a kitchen. She favored flowing dresses that showed a hint of cleavage and I'm sure a lot of guys watched for that as well as the recipes. Her hair was always piled in a sexy bun with stray tendrils floating around. Her style of dress was like fifties housewife meets high fashion diva, and she pulled it off well.

Getting the phone number for the show from my publisher, I called and left a message. She must have been on set because she called back less than two hours later. "I'm guessing you watched the show yesterday. Is there something you'd like to ask me?"

"Direct and to the point, I see. Helene, would you like..."

"Yes, I would. I'll text you my address. Be there at seven, and wear a suit. We're going to one of my favorite places. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

We talked a little more until she had to go back in front of the cameras, and several times before we went out.