Mistakes

Mistakes are a hell of a thing, aren’t they? Without an ample serving of mistakes, there’s no real learning that takes place in life. Of course, some mistakes are so costly, they take life and turn it on its side.

I don’t remember the moment I began to understand the true nature of mistakes, but I do remember the moment I began wishing I’d handled a few of mine differently.

My history with mistakes began the day I sold bought Tom Rucker’s farm. I was a real estate man back then: I sold the land and homes of people in the county whose lives had fallen on misfortune. In essence, I was a huckster.

Tom Rucker had fallen on the best kind of hard times for a guy like me: he’d up and died and left no one but the U-S-of-A to claim his things. That gave me the green light to step in and sell his place on behalf of the government—a service for which I would receive a reasonable fee, of course.

The morning after I put Tom’s place on the market, I got a call from a nice young couple looking to move away from the city and into the country. We set up a meeting for later that afternoon, and I gave them directions to the Rucker place: one of the nicest spreads of land in Draden County.

* * *

It didn’t take long before I could smell a sale coming. I’d already started counting my commission as we headed for the barn. I was running through my there’s ample space for a number of horses and other animals if you choose speech when I opened the barn door.

I had an odd flash—a premonition maybe—but in the moment I opened that door, I knew I had to do whatever was necessary to dissuade those youngsters from buying. I got a feeling so strong it about knocked me to my knees, and the feeling was crystal clear: I had to buy the Rucker place myself.

Without missing a beat, I began pointing out the little things about the barn that might turn the sale on its side, and when I got to the part about rats in the rafters, I lost that sale smell.

The once-eager young couple no longer had any interest in the purchase: after my spiel about the rats, the “quaintness” of the house faded, and their “we-don’t-mind-a-fixer-upper” attitude vanished.

The couple left after a series of polite but hasty thank-you’s, and I found myself staring at an empty barn that I knew had changed my life.

* * *

Soon after I bought the Rucker place, I got a notion I needed to live there, and once I’d moved in, my life began to turn good in ways too large to count. Little things happened at first, but when sales began falling into my lap, I knew my good luck had something to do with my new home.

I even became a better man. I was no longer as eager to make sales that weren’t beneficial for the involved parties, and I found myself more inclined to tell the truth when dealing with clients. Oddly enough, my new approach didn’t seem to hurt business; in fact, for the first time in my career, I began to get referrals and return customers.

One thing that didn’t change was my ex-wife. She was as nasty a bitch as ever, and when she got wind of my increased income, her greedy mitts were all in a twist to get some more of a share that was never fair to begin with.

You should probably know, my wife left me, and not because I wasn’t good to her. She left me for a dentist, and she didn’t leave out of love or a lack of it. She left for greener pastures: the money-green kind. (Of course, as long as my wallet was in play, there was no reason for her to consider marrying the dentist, and when she heard about my sudden successes, there was even less reason for her to marry Mr. Dental Man.)

She came to me one morning demanding more money. Even though my ex-wife didn’t deserve the grand I gave her on the first of every month, the better man in me offered her an extra $500 per.

I told you she was a greedy bitch. She wouldn’t settle for a fixed amount: she wanted a percentage of my earnings each month.

Even a changed man can’t abide a cheating, good-for-nothing, money-hungry, ex-wife’s unreasonable demands, and I told her it was the extra $500 or nothing. She gave me her usual dose of mouth, and then she left.

This morning, I woke up to the sound of a delivery truck pulling into my front yard. When I looked out of my bedroom window, I saw a guy unloading a truck filled with cement blocks. He dumped ten palettes of these things even though I tried to explain to him they weren’t mine.

His order had my address as the delivery point. The new man in me couldn’t argue with the guy, so I signed the order and let him get on with the rest of his day.

I called the only person I could thing of who'd do such a thing: my ex-wife. After a minute or so of laughter, she got on me again about the extra money. I told her to blow off, and she said,

"If I were you honey, I’d start getting rid of those blocks before the cops get to your place. If you won’t give me my share of your money, I’ll make sure I get it all."

Then she hung up.

I took a good look at the blocks, and some of them seemed to have been cracked open and then repaired. I took a hammer and chisel to one of them, and when it split apart, there was a small bag filled with what I am pretty certain is cocaine.

I broke open a few more, and so far, along with the drugs, I’ve found a considerable amount of cash and what appears to be a severed finger.

I have no idea what to do, but the sirens are getting closer, and if I know my mistake of an ex-wife (and I do), that bitch has gone and done me good.