Ever got just what you wanted and then had to watch the whole thing turn sour on you? If you ever pick up a magic bottle and a genie pops out wanting to give you three wishes, trust me, you just put the cork back in the bottle and throw it away. You really don't want those wishes coming true.
I'd landed myself a dream job. Actually, I'd landed myself two jobs. The first job was in IT, my chosen career, and it was a good one. The catch was that the company was in the throes of relocating their head office, and didn't actually require me to start for two months, so I had an unexpected two month holiday with no income.
This wasn't really a major inconvenience as I could manage on what scant savings I did have and could always pick up odd jobs with Computer Repair places. I'd worked for a number of them that way in the past and found it a useful way of earning a few bucks. If the worst came to the worst I could always get temporary work at a fast food place.
None of these useful little ploys had to be brought into play as I found my second job via a friend of a friend. The friend of a friend, Mike by name, had a broken leg. It meant he needed someone reliable to replace him in his job for a couple of months, and what with one thing and another, I was the lucky man who got nominated.
My friend, George, knew that I was interested in a short term job, which meant that I wouldn't cause difficulties when my time was up. He also knew that I was intelligent, fit and healthy, good with my hands and liked camping.
The job was to take care of some guy's wilderness retreat for six weeks while Mike was recuperating. All I had to do was go to this guy's house, way up in the mountains, and stay there for six weeks. I could fish, hunt, hike, do whatever I wanted to do, just as long as I made sure that the place was kept in good condition.
The owner rarely came around, I was told, but if he did decide to come I'd get a call from his secretary telling me the size of the party and how long they'd be staying. Then it was my job to order the required stores, but that was no hassle. There was a manual telling me what to order and where to order it. I would just have to make a phone call and then put the stuff away when it was delivered.
Mike suggested that the first week I was there I should take a number of long hikes, familiarising myself with the area. He let me have a number of maps showing the best places to hike and fish, telling me that if the owner did come to stay my duties would include acting as guide.
Apart from acting as guide, if required, I wouldn't actually have any interaction with the owner and his guests. I should just keep out of their way.
So I headed off to my new job, light of heart. How many people get a chance to stay at a wilderness retreat for six weeks, and get paid for the privilege of doing so? For the first three weeks the job was a dream.
I hiked, familiarising myself with the area as requested, until I knew it well. I won't say I could find my way anywhere blindfolded, but as no-one was going to blindfold me I would be able to manage quite well, thank you. I got in some fishing and quickly learned the best spots. I also did a series of little maintenance chores around the place, making sure it was kept up to scratch.
Then I got the call from the owner's secretary. The owner was lending the place out to some friends for a fortnight, a family of four adults, and they'd be arriving in one week. Not a problem, I assured the secretary. There were standard orders for that sort of group and time. I did ask the secretary to check and see if there would be any variations to the standard order if this group had never been there before, but was assured they were repeaters, standard would be fine.
So I placed the order, received it a few days later and continued to relax and enjoy myself until the guests arrived.
Now the track up to the holiday hideaway was rather rough, but still drivable. I used a dirt-bike myself, but the guy who delivered the groceries used an old beat-up pickup. It seemed to make the trip with no problems.
So what sort of vehicle does our intrepid holiday maker use? A helicopter. Damn thing landed out front, the passengers disgorged, and then away it went into the wild blue yonder. So, I wondered, exactly how does mister intrepid expect to get around if he wants to go somewhere? The only vehicle on the place was my dirt-bike, and they weren't using that.
Not my problem, I decided. Maybe someone's delivering a vehicle for them.
I headed on over to introduce myself.
"Morning, sir," I said, smiling. "I'm Ron, the acting caretaker. The official caretaker, Mike, is laid up with a broken leg and I'm filling in for a couple of weeks. I'm afraid I don't know your names. I was just told a party of four."
"Are you Indian?" came the reply.
My natural talent for saying the wrong thing promptly rose to the fore but I hastily throttled it. I wanted to say do you mean Indian type Indian or American type Indian, and who really gives a shit, but contented myself with a "No, sir."
"Don't like Indians," he told me. "They killed Custer, you know?"
I had heard rumours to that effect, but bit my tongue and said nothing. It was easy to see I was dealing with a wealthy idiot. You have to watch them or they bite. He finally got around to introducing himself.
"I'm Hector Williams. That's my wife Eliza over there. The others are my son and daughter, James and Patricia."
I suppose I should give you a synopsis of the character judgements I made.
Hector I had marked down as rich, stupid, obnoxious and a bully if he could get away with it.
Eliza, a snob. I don't think she even saw me as a person. I was more like mobile furniture, but probably not as useful.
James was his father in miniature. About twenty and I had a feeling he would prove to be rather malicious.
Patricia was a grade one bitch. Same age as James, give or take a year. Not twins, I was sure. Mind you, she was very pretty and smart enough to make the best of herself. I'd put her down as the smartest of them all.
I escorted them over to the main house and let them in. I explained that there were supplies in the kitchen and that if there were any special items they required they could ring the store and they'd be delivered. If they needed me for anything I'd be in my cabin. Then I got the hell out of there.
It took thirty minutes for the first problem arose. Patricia (my name is Patricia, not Pat) came banging on my door. Nothing so polite as knocking. I answered it and she gave me a disgruntled look, apparently put out that she'd had to walk all the way from the main house to my cabin to speak to me.
"Mother wants to know when dinner will be ready?" she snapped.
