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