Poetic justice. That oft-spoken phrase, is often a fact of life. And my life, usually lived like a Greek tragedy or at least a redneck siren song, seems to see it fairly often.
I'm not bitter about this story I'm about to tell. It's just one of those things that can happen when you are self-employed. I have to say, God has been merciful to me and as far as I know, this was the only time someone did me wrong when they went to pay me for a job. I've had virtually hundreds of other jobs where I was paid. Even if it was late, I've always gotten paid what I quoted. Except this day...
This one started with a strangely-located house. It was being built close to the road, with another home almost right behind it. The neighborhood had average-to-lower priced homes. But this one was a palace, compared to the others. It was quaint, one-of-a-kind, with beautiful and unique siding. The hand-crafted front door was flanked by real gas-burning lanterns. When I first saw the house, it was not finished, but it also had to be one of the most resplendent domiciles I'd ever seen. The master bathroom was reminiscent of a Roman bath....a shower that seemed to be 20 x 6 feet, with showerheads coming out from every angle. Tile and marble with custom designs. A massive soaking tub in the middle of the room. A bank of cabinets on either side of the gargantuan territory, one slew of 'em for him, one pile of 'em for her. The bathroom alone was about the size of our first house, and certainly cost more than that little shanty did.
The job that she wanted me to do included whitewashing two giant antique doors for the master suite that she had had shipped from Paris or somewhere on another shore. I was a little nervous about it because they seemed awfully statuesque and important, you know, coming from France and all. I wasn't sure how long it would take, but I knew it wouldn't be more than a day, so I gave her my day-rate price, plus materials.
The day arrived for me to work on the doors. I brought my paints and muscles and started the job. These doors were massive, maybe eight feet high. Simply gorgeous. I was having a great time, humming away, when I heard two dogs barking and fighting in the basement. Except they weren't dogs. They were the owners of the house. I don't know that I have ever heard two people go at it that unashamedly in my entire life. I waited for a gun to go off but it never did. Some time went by. The lady came upstairs and asked me if I would also paint a medallion, way up on the ceiling of her (quite high) foyer, after I got through with the doors. I said okay and proceeded to precariously hang off the top step of my ladder to get the deed done. I cleaned up and got ready to leave. She put a check in my hand for 1/3 of what I quoted her for the doors (not even mentioning the materials or the extra medallion that I painted). She said that she didn't have any more money for me and that her husband was mad at her for hiring me in the first place (hence the fight down in the bowels of the house?) I asked her when she could pay the rest and she said there would be no "rest." That was it. Take it or leave it. Wow.
All I could think was two thoughts: well, at least she paid me something. And, man, I better not tell Ken. I quickly cashed the check and pondered the mysteries of life, money and people with eyes too big for their stomachs.
Time went by. A good deal of time. I got a call for a large faux finish job around the corner from the palace. As my daughter and I rounded the curve in the road, we saw what was left of it: a stone foundation and black soot and ashes from where it had burnt to the ground. All that splendid stuff, up in smoke. When we asked our new client about what had happened, she said that the owners had burned it down themselves and they were now in jail for arson. Oh. My. Word.
There's really not enough words for that. But suffice it to say, that foundation has been sitting there like a sad, scalded soul for many years. I very recently listed a house down the road from it and saw that someone had started rebuilding it. With the same house plan. So my guess is that they've paid their debt to society and are starting over. I don't know. I hope that somewhere over these last pages of time and through the difficulties of consequences, they found peace and that they were able to stay together. 'Cause that's some redneck Greek tragedy right there.
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