Millard Koffey's Karma WC 275

Millard Koffey’s Karma
WC 275

Handyman Millard Koffey stood on the broken sidewalk, his run-down work boots planted between the weedy cracks.

“That's some house, ma'am,” he said to Mrs. Emery as she stood beside him and admired the dilapidated dwelling.

“It came to me in a dream,” she said.

“How's that ma’am?”

“I saw this house in a dream, and now here it is, three blocks from where I live. My dream home!”

“Well, I'll be, ma’am. Ain’t that somethin'."

Millard Koffey couldn’t imagine this old Georgian ever being livable again with its sagging roof and broken gutters. He hated to think of what it looked like on the inside. But who was he to judge a person’s taste? Plus, he was short on cash, and Mrs. Emery looked well-heeled.

“Patchin’ and paintin’ would do a lot for the old gal, ma'am. Plumbin’, too.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Koffey. Painting, patching, plumbing...whatever you think.”

Millard Koffey didn’t want to float a storm cloud over Mrs. Emery's sunny way of looking at this lemon with the fact that it should be torn down. He saw money in his pocket and kept his mouth shut.

“Ya got yourself a deal ma’am!”

They shook on it.

Little did he know that in three weeks, he would fall through the rotted floor in the study and break both of his legs. This unfortunate accident would eat up all the money he had made from placing Band-Aids on mortal wounds in this fixer-upper that wasn’t.

Mrs. Emery? She never moved in because she couldn’t afford to hire anyone else; she wasn’t as well-heeled as she looked. She stayed put and now keeps her dreams to herself.