Chapter Fifteen: Karma

Karma: we all make payment for actions that affect the welfare of oneself or another; it is irrevocable…what goes around, comes around.

Life is one big disappointment for Julie Reston. She engages in a multitude of unfulfilling relationships with men who can fix a leaky sink, but can’t patch the hole in her heart. Julie camps on a cold mountain too high for any sane man to climb; many attempt to reach the pinnacle of her personal Mount Everest, and freeze during the effort. “Darren, get up.” Julie shakes her latest camper. “Darren!”
“Hi there, cutie.” Darren yawns widely, stretches and grins. “What time is it?” He scratches a hairy armpit and a colorful mermaid tattoo on his right bicep begins to ungulate wildly; Julie’s wide-eyed fascination quickly turns to disgust. “Time for you to go. Get out of my bed.”
“Oh, hush. Come on over here, girl.” Darren’s second brain is wide awake.
“Darren, I mean it; get up. Now!”
“What’s the matter?” The tickled mermaid slowly treads water before floating belly-up. “I made a mistake, that’s the matter.” Julie throws Darren’s jeans on the bed and heads for the door.
“Julie, wait a minute. Come back here, baby.” Julie stops at the threshold, sighs, and looks blankly at her confused plumber. “Darren, last night was fun…I guess it was fun, I really don’t remember much about it. Now get the fuck out of my house.”
“Damn, bitch, that’s cold,” says Darren, reaching for his pants. “Where’s my tool belt?”
“It’s in the kitchen where you left it. Thanks for fixing my sink. Will a twenty cover it?”

Julie concentrates on finding success through her work, although she cannot find a job that sustains her in the manner to which she has grown accustomed. She puts the house on the market while Jake’s in Europe, but it doesn’t matter; Jake has no ties there. The house sells in two days, and Betsy is the only neighbor who cares. “Are you sure you want to leave? I know you can find another job here. It’s a big house, but you can afford it; I’ll even help you with the yard work.”
Julie shakes her head. “Money’s not the issue, Betsy, but the ghosts who live in this house are. I can’t afford the emotional upkeep on the Caspers; they inhabit every corner.”
Betsy has an answer for everything. “Let’s smudge it, then, you know, chase them out. I’ll even chant.”
Julie appreciates Betsy’s vain attempt, and looks adoringly at her sweet, loyal friend. “Darling Betsy, I’ll miss you; but, you know I’ve always wanted to live at the beach, and now you have a reason to take solo mini-vacations. I expect you to visit at least once a month. Now, come on and help me price this mess.”
“God, Julie, I hate yard sales.”
“Me too, Betsy, but it’s time to purge.” Julie scans the garage and mentally calculates the worth of her cast-off wares. “Do you think five hundred is too much to ask for that mirror?”
Betsy gapes. “But you love that mirror! I know it’s shattered at the bottom, but the cracks add character,” she says, looking at a series of distorted images. “I look like a multiple personality disorder run amok,” laughs Betsy as she tries to decide which mouth is hers. “Julie, are you sure you want to sell this? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Yeah, I’m not carrying seven years of bad luck to the beach. I’ll give it to you if you want it, though.”
“Nuh uh,” declines Betsy. “This thing makes me dizzy.”
By the end of the week, Julie accepts a social worker position with a minor hospital in a large coastal town and is quickly promoted to Director of Community Affairs; the pay is a far cry from the six figure salary she’s used to, but she's happy for the moment; at least I'll retain a title and a good parking space, Julie thinks. At least I’ll have my feet in sand.

Meanwhile, Sam Killian is busy building a raging fire on the Bible Belt’s pearly white doorstep. Sam gains notoriety in the local community by becoming a not so anonymous alcoholic businessman with a loyal, “Members Only” client base dubbed The Bulletproof by the press. Sam spends two thousand dollars on a professionally crafted, colorfully lit neon sign advertising discount vodka shots for all active alcoholics between four and six p.m. every afternoon, and with the professional help of renowned attorney Drew Wissle, stands behind his First Amendment right to party. Sam makes national news and is the darling of the media, the darling of a stable of regulars who clamor to collect Sam’s specially made Drunks Are Delushes medallions which are emblazoned with It Ain’t a Real Drink Unless It Has Vodka In it! on the tails side. Rolling Stone, Playboy, and Esquire magazines follow his story as the Moral Majority turns up the heat. “Sam Killian, may you burn in Hell!”
Sam is a generous host. “Reverend Williams, come on inside where it’s nice and cool. Ill make a drink with vodka and cinnamon schnapps; we'll call it Burn In Hell in your honor! If you can drink four shots in four minutes and still touch your nose, I’ll give you a coaster with a devil motif as a take-home party gift.”
Reverend Williams bows his sweaty forehead. “Brethren, let us pray for this heathen; he has lost his way. Jesus, we pray in your name that you will smite the hand that brings this destruction on our families, on our youth, on our Christian values; in Your Sweet Name, Amen.” Sam grins and mugs for the gathering crowd of onlookers. “And if you can kiss your own ass goodbye, Brother Williams, I’ll give you the fifth shot free!”
Sam’s business is hotter than a California Death Pepper.