The following short story was inspired by—of all things—the differences between dividend and speculative investing styles. While the characters, locations, and references are intended to seem realistic, any similarity to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.
As young boys growing up in rural America, Michael Rawlins and Jacob Williams spent much of their time playing in the woods, swimming in creeks and discovering the wonders of nature around them. The forest that bordered their family farms seemed an endless expanse of wilderness frontier. They could walk for hours, deep into the forest, over mossy rock formations, creeks, riverbeds and deer trails and never encounter signs of civilization or another human soul.
One afternoon in early June, after meandering west all day, they noticed a trail they hadn’t been on in a long time had signs of horse and wagon traffic. It eventually opened up into a vast clearing of dirt. About 100 yards away they saw the outline of an emerging structure, the timber frame of a large house next to a creek that fed into a large pond. Wagons carrying lumber and supplies surrounded it and men were toiling in the sun, building what would be an impressive mansion. The percussive beat of hammers, the barking of voices and the scraping of saws cascaded off the trees.
“Wow! Ain’t that the pond we found all them arrowheads in last year?” asked Jacob.
“Yeah, I think it is. You can still see the big rock formation next to it, and where they cut down all the trees and ground them down or pulled them up.” replied Michael.
“Where did all the trees go?” asked Jacob.
“All that maple and chestnut? Maybe they turned it into that lumber?”
“Nah, I bet they burned it or hauled it off for firewood or sold it to a mill.”
“Well, yeah, a mill is what makes lumber, dummy,” said Michael.
“I dunno,” shrugged Jacob.
They started toward the construction site. As they got closer they realized it was even larger than it appeared from a distance. As they approached, a deep raspy southern draw boomed.
“Boys, you don’t need to be comin’ round here, now. Ya’ liable to have a beam fall on ya head or step on a nail or something. Stay back aways.”
A large man with a thick beard who was stacking lumber started walking toward them.
“Sorry mister, we were just wonderin’ who cut down all the trees and was buildin’ this big ol’ house?” asked Jacob.
“This here property is the estate of a Mr. Claude Bowen, Esquire who’s moving here from Richmond come ‘round harvest season.” he said.
“He’s a squire? Ain’t that like a royal knight from England or somethin?” chirped Michael.
“Mr. Bowman is a lawyer, son. A very wealthy expert on the complexities of contractual law.”
“Why is he building a house all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?” Jacob inquired.
“Ha! This ain’t the middle of nowhere, son. You even know where you are?” the builder asked.
“Yeah, we been navigatin’ this wilderness for years. We done found a whole mess of arrowheads in that pond o’var just last summer. Real good ones. We’ve been hiking west all day from our farms over near Chapel Mill.” Michael boasted.
“Wilderness! Did you fight any big bears?” teased the builder.
“We seen some bear tracks a few months ago, but ain’t no sign of bears today. We steer clear of em, but we got good knives,” said Jacob, clutching the small scabbard on his belt.
“Well, that’s wise, son. But this ain’t nowhere. This stretch of fresh pavement right here leads right up to Bushers Chapel road. Take a right, and then another right on route 12 and it’s just about three miles from your farms.”
“Oh. How far is three miles?” asked Michael.
“About an hour’s walk. Do your mammas know you’re out here? It’s gettin’ mighty close to supper time. Y’all better git.”
“Yessir.” the boys said in unison.
The boys gawked at the building in progress as they walked up to the freshly paved asphalt. The thick smell of tar filled their nostrils. They walked down the road to the edge of the dirt lot, through a tree lined stretch until it reached two new entrance columns on Bushers Chapel Road, just like the big man said.
Michael stopped in his tracks, put his hands on his hips and sighed, “Oh jeez, Jake. That’s ol’ widow McCleod’s house up there to the left where momma makes me take piano lessons every Wednesday. Same old basic church hymns every time and I don’t even have to read sheet music to figure em out. We ain’t far. Let’s go.”
As they walked, kicking rocks along the way, they talked about the new construction.
“That’s the biggest house I ever seen,” said Michael.
“Yeah, that guy must be a bazillionaire or something, like Dale Carnegie.”
“Yeah, like John Deee Rockafeller. I can’t believe all that forest just up and disappeared. What if more squires and rich folk come and cut down the whole forest?”
“I dunno, I guess Smithville and all the farms was once forest too, and somebody cut them down to build the town and stuff. I guess people just find wild forest they wanna build on and do it.”
“Naw, somebody owns it and sells it to em.”
“Well who owns all the forests? Ain’t that the wilderness where the Indian tribes live?”
“Paw says there ain’t no more free wilderness round here — somebody owns pretty much everything now, but I guess they just let it be forest and don’t do nothin’ but own it til’ somebody wants to buy it off em’. Paw owns some rocky land up on Knob mountain hisself, and I’ve only been up there like twice. He has a little ol’ cabin on it that he runs off to with his best rifle to go huntin’, but mamma says he’s really playin’ cards and getting drunk with his buddies.”
“Yeah, my paw goes up there with him. They don’t bring back much meat. I bet it ain’t worth nothin’ until somebody wants to do something with it.”
“Yeah, prolly not.”
“You know what, Mikey? One day I’m gonna be a squire and buy so much land that I’ll have my own forest, like a kingdom, and we can do whatever we want.”
“Yeah, me too.”
It was at that point that a seed was planted in the boys’ fertile imaginations. From that day forward, they shared a dream to acquire land. As the years passed, they continued to talk about their kingdom, and learned more about property and real estate.
By the time they reached high school and started to think about careers, they agreed that – unlike the many aspiring farmers, industrialists, lawyers and financiers of their day – land was something they could see, touch, and understand. It had intrinsic value that would last generations. At worst, it was space to hunt, fish and grow food.
They were also fortunate to both be the children of inconspicuously wealthy farmers who understood the value of the land they worked.
They graduated high school in the spring of 1917, and had been too young to fight in the great war in Europe. Several young men they knew were killed or came back missing arms and legs. They went to the same local college to study business, got married around the same time, worked, saved money and after graduation, with their fathers’ help, they pooled enough together to get a loan on a sizable parcel of fertile undeveloped acreage with several creeks, woodlands and grasslands — a good mix of attributes for a variety of potential purposes. They had already developed a keen sense of what made real estate valuable. The land was located near the rapidly growing river town of Smithville and was destined to become a thriving city that attracted merchants, businesses and distributors.
The property was called Foots Creek.
They would gather over cigars and bourbon to review a large plot map to decide how they wanted to use that land and discuss strategies to acquire more adjacent property. It was at this point that a fundamental tension emerged between their visions.
Jacob felt that the best strategy was to pursue a concept they had learned about in business school called, “leveraged velocity of capital.” They would sell parts of the land to raise cash and use the land as equity against another loan to expand their holdings, and as the value of the properties inevitably appreciated over time, continue to parlay that equity to buy more.
Michael also thought that the land should be used as equity toward a loan, but a line of credit for immediately improving it section by section: by paving roads, working with state and local authorities to establish utilities and for building homes and mixed use structures they could lease or sell, which would provide an income stream to service and pay down their debts.
“Mikey, you’re missing the big picture! Prime land appreciates over time as the population expands and the economy grows. This is one of the fastest growing areas in the region. Your strategy would be far too slow, labor and capital intensive,” Jacob confidently explained.
“In the time it takes to coordinate all that labor, the resources, and permits, we could be front running the market and amassing an empire. All we have to do is sit back, wait for the right time to buy and sell, and let it grow. Why not just let the value naturally appreciate and expand?”
Michael stared at the map, taking a puff off his cigar.
“I see your point, but there’s no guarantee when that land would attract buyers. I’m not worried about getting in, I’m worried about time, cash flow and an exit strategy. We’d be going way out ahead of our skis. How will we make money?” he asked.
“Are you kidding? With all this land, we’ll have any number of options to sell or lease undeveloped select plots for income at any point to service and pay down debt. Land is always a great investment, and it always goes up in value. The appreciation pays for itself. Hell, let others pay us and take on the headaches of building and management. What do you know about construction, anyway? Do you realize how much work goes into building and property management? And the margins aren’t that great. You can get into more trouble financing construction that sits on the market in a downturn. We’re land speculators, not builders.”
They continued to debate the strategy over several months. Eventually the debates became heated arguments, finally culminating in an impasse. They decided to split the land of Foots Creek equally and draw up a contract to go their separate ways. They agreed that Jacob would take the larger southwestern portion of land adjacent to the frontier that was less developed and less costly while Michael would take the smaller northeastern portion that was close to town and probable future traffic access points.
They did just that, and while they remained amicable publicly, their friendship transformed into an intense, mutually motivating competition.
Jacob immediately set forth to sell a few prime subdivided plots and negotiate terms to mortgage his current holding to purchase more land. Michael mortgaged his portion to get a line of credit for improvements, to hire builders, pave streets, put in utilities and develop a variety of mixed use structures. A waiting list of prospects emerged to rent and buy as the properties were completed.
As Jacob predicted, over the subsequent decade, the burgeoning growth of the region increased the value of his holdings spectacularly, which allowed him to continue to parlay that equity into holdings further and further out. Meanwhile, Michael’s portion was growing at a much slower pace, but started generating steady income, which allowed him to service debt and expand development toward the growing city center.
Ten years passed and both men had amassed fortunes during the roaring twenties. However, Jacob had firmly bested his friend’s strategy, holding an impressive amount of acreage. The Harpeth Gazette regularly featured Jacob Williams’ name in their “Who’s Who” sections, estimating his fortune to be the highest of any man in the area. People came to refer to him as, “The man who owned Harpeth county.” Every year Jacob would have his bank send out assessors and each year they would report that his land was appreciating in value. Jacob received many offers, only accepting those from the most prestigious investors for select portions to build grand estates or solid businesses, knowing that the larger holdings would continue to appreciate for decades as speculators eyed the tremendous future potential and elites sought private estates with vast open spaces. One day Jacob asked his accountant and assessors how much his holdings were worth vs. Michael’s and was thrilled to learn that his estimated net worth was at least ten times that of his old friend.
1927 was a particularly good harvest season in the region and farmers were eagerly anticipating reaping the benefits of nature’s bounty, hard work, and the introduction of vastly improved farm machinery, pest control and fertilization. Little did they know there was a simultaneous glut of wheat and soybeans from the northwest and imports were also pouring into the market from southern Europe despite tariffs. As they did every year, farmers loaded up their harvest on trucks and traveled to the river markets, dreaming of what they would do with the extra money they would earn this year. They were horrified to find that prices had plummeted to half that of last year. There were more sellers than buyers. As more sellers arrived to market, word spread like wildfire that there was a panic selloff. Many growers were eventually turned away and had to find someone–anyone–willing to buy and store their grain for pennies on the dollar, else it would spoil, and much of it did.
At first, the news reported the farmers’ hardship as a particularly bad season for agriculture, but it was a harbinger of what was to come. It was a tipping point in the broad oscillation of the market cycle. The stock market bubble crashed in 1929 and the effects slowly rippled throughout the world. Banks faced thousands of farmers, merchants, businesses and households who wanted to withdraw their deposits. For reasons no one could understand, Woodrow Wilson’s Federal Reserve Bank did not backstop regional and local private banks from falling like dominoes throughout the United States.
It was just one small part of what eventually spiraled into the worst protracted depression in modern history.
Jacob and Michael both watched the value of their property decline precipitously, and the appreciation of the dollar made matters worse. But both men knew that this would be temporary if they could just ride out the storm. After all, they weren’t city slickers betting on paper stocks, they owned land.
As the 1930s downturn continued, many of Michael’s tenants were unable to pay their rents and had to make arrangements to defer or reduce payments to stay put, which Michael allowed. He didn’t have much of a choice. Fortunately, several of his tenants were not impacted by the market collapse, working in recession-proof businesses, had savings, could grow food and tend livestock, had diversified their crops or had the foresight to secure futures contracts on their harvests. The situation was dire, but his business provided a reduced but steady stream of income for Michael to stay afloat.
Jacob was in a more precarious position. All asset values had plummeted and hit speculators particularly hard. Banks weren’t lending. Liquidity had vanished. His holdings were worth little more than a quarter of what he owed on them. His strategy of selling off prime portions of his appreciated holdings to service the debt and expand had worked brilliantly until the lubricant that greased the gears of growth dried up. After speaking with his accountant and banker, he realized that he would be required to sell off a substantial part of his holdings at pennies on the dollar just to service his debt obligations.
Jacob knew what his properties were worth and refused to set the asking price at what multiple assessors recommended. A few prospective buyers came and went, but Jacob was insulted by the bids of mostly opportunistic carpetbaggers from out of state or even out of country.
After burning through his savings, he was essentially broke, several months in arrears, with no end to the collapse in sight. He was facing imminent foreclosures if he didn’t act soon. But he knew that the bank would be better off with him as an ally. He was their most important customer. He was wallowing in bourbon and self-pity one evening when his banker, Hank Jeffries called him, urging him to attend a meeting the following evening after business hours.
“Jake, we have an opportunity that you don’t want to miss. Just be here at five sharp, ok?”
Jacob spent most of the next day recovering from a hangover, but arrived at the bank at 4:55pm, well coiffed and dressed in his finest suit. He strode in with the regal confidence appropriate to his status and reputation in the community. He greeted the familiar faces with a nod and formal pleasantries. Mr. Jeffries, an old friend of his father, was getting up there in years, but still had a spring in his step. Hank approached him with a warm smile, reaching out to shake his hand.
“I think we have an excellent opportunity to get us out of this predicament. The prospect is waiting.”
Mr. Jeffries opened the door and sitting at the broad wooden meeting table was none other than Michael, who rose from his seat with a smile. Aside from passing hellos on the street and a few cocktail parties, it had been years since they had met face to face privately. They both looked older, but when their eyes locked, there they were — still the same boys with big dreams.
There was nothing about Michael that was particularly polished or distinguished. He wore a sweat stained work shirt and had clearly been doing manual labor that day. He was tan, fit, and in need of a shave and a visit to the barber. He was sipping on a bourbon and smoking a cigar, just as Jacob remembered him from many years before. Good ol’ Mike, Jacob thought.
“I had a feeling it would be you, old buddy,” said Jacob.
“Jake! How the hell are ya? It’s been ages since we’ve had a chance to catch up. I hate that it’s under these circumstances. This damn downturn has been hell for all of us.”
Jacob laughed, “Hey, at least we’re all this pickle together, right?”
“And it’s a big ol’ pickle jar,” Michael joked.
Jacob removed his sport coat, handing it to Jeffries and immediately both men sat down to dive into the details, as if no time had passed since their strategy meetings.
“Mike, I’m sitting on the largest holdings of land in the region, from Bryer’s creek to the base of the Cheetham foothills. These prime properties have appreciated ten times over and will continue to do so for decades to come. In fact, right before this whole mess started, I was just about to secure the crown jewel itself – the lands surrounding what is now Lake Myers formed by the recent TVA dam construction on the Blyth river — an invaluable waterfront opportunity!”
“Holy smokes, Jake. That’s destined to be a hell of a property once the highway is expanded.”
Jacob saw a familiar twinkle in Michael’s eyes.
“Mike, I tell ya, just like we always dreamed, that stretch of land will be the future of the region. In ten years the sky’s the limit in terms of potential for lakeside homes and industrial plots with proximity to the highway, water and hydroelectric dam. All I need is a small infusion of capital to get me through the next — oh — six to eight months until the market turns around, and of course I will cut you in on the deal, just like the old days!”
Michael smiled.
“You’ve definitely got my attention”
Jacob, in his usual commandeering manner, snapped, “Jeffries! Can you grab the plot maps and a two fingers of bourbon for the three of us? Oh, I see we already have some of them right here.” Jacob hastily started to unscroll the maps, stood up and rolled up his sleeves, standing over the table like a general commanding army divisions in a great war.
With his finger, Jacob outlined the border of his massive holdings.
“All of this territory is worth at least three million dollars, and…”
“Is it really?” asked Michael.
“Well, when the market regains its senses and bounces back. I mean, do you really think these prices are anywhere close to fair value? The market is completely upside down, and I tell you, if I had access to ANY cash right now, I mean, ANY, I would buy everything I could get my hands on.”
“You’re not wrong, Jake. There are rock bottom deals everywhere, but who’s got that kinda dough lying around right now? Things are really tight for me too.”
Mike and Jake simultaneously turned to look at Mr. Jeffries, who raised an eyebrow.
Mike looked back to Jake, “Well, you know me, I’m sort of slow on the take. I do have a few cards up my sleeve. Do you think we could take a look at the deeds?”
Jacob was dumbfounded, “My deeds? Are you serious?”
Michael laughed, “Slow down ol’ buddy. Take a drink and amuse me. Do you see an accountant? I’m not here to audit you or shake you down. In fact, far from it. I don’t have a damn thing to do and we have all evening. Hell, we could even order some food from the diner and make a night of it. I’ve never been as fast with the numbers as you are and I need to make sure I understand everything.”
Jacob leaned back in his chair. He looked into his old friend’s familiar eyes and it set him at ease. He took a drink, and reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette.
“I’m just excited to take advantage of the opportunity of a lifetime, Mike. Mr. Jeffries, can you have the clerks pull the paperwork for my holdings please?”
“Of course, Jacob,” Jeffries replied and started toward the door.
Mike added, “Oh, and Mr. Jeffries, could you ask the clerk to grab mine as well?”
Hank Jeffries looked puzzled, but proceeded.
“Michael, have you worked with these property assessors recently? I know these idiots understand value, but I swear they would say the Parthenon is a worthless pile of old rocks right now. The slightest whiff of fear sends this damn industry into a tizzy. Like the president said about fear, it’s all psychology. With all the money I’ve made for these bastards, it’s absurd that they have the nerve to foreclose on me in these conditions.”
“Damn bankers,” grumbled Jake.
“Money lenders…” Michael chuckled, subtly referencing the same New Testament scripture they both learned about in Bible school as kids.
The door opened. Jeffries and a disheveled young clerk carrying a box clamored into the room. The clerk sat the box labeled “Williams” down on the table with a thud, and thumbed through several file folders, lifting one file after another.
“Let’s see… Williams: Brightridge, Williams: Fordham Hills, Williams: Bachmoor Gardens…”
Jacob listened to the list of property holdings that he could have recited by heart backwards, upside down and drunk. Each had been a hard won deal. When the clerk was done, the four men beheld thirty two folders in all, positioned in a neat overlapping fan across the table, above the map.
Jacob’s eyes twinkled as he looked at his old friend, “you see what we have here Mike? It’s an empire!”
Jacob reached over to grab one of the files, “let’s see, this one — oh, you know this property, it was old Mr. James estate. His only son Robert – God bless him – the man was a damn fool and had no idea what he was sitting on. He sold it for a song and ran off with some French woman to New York to work on Wall Street, or advertising or some nonsense.”
“Jake, this is amazing. And what deeds are at your main street office?” Michal calmly asked.
“The Mainstreet office? Oh, that’s the beauty of it, you see. This is every parcel I own. I’ve liquidated choice properties to discriminating buyers over the years–those who appreciate long term value. I’ve cultivated a very exclusive client list. That more than covered the payments and has afforded Ethel and the kids a very comfortable life to boot, of course.”
“I can’t get Lisa to stop talking about your wife’s house. Ethel’s taste is impeccable. Our wives are in the same bridge club, you know.”
“I admit, I’ve kept tabs on you through the wives too, you know. Our little falling out a few years ago was the brashness of youth, don’t you think?”
“We were just dumb kids,” Mike acknowledged.
Michael turned to the young squirming clerk who was obviously tired and wanted to go home for the day, “It’s Bill, right?”
The clerk nodded.
“Bill, did you pull mine?”
“Ummm, yeah. I mean, yes sir. Well, umm, I could only find one under Michael Rawlins Enterprises, but I’m not sure if the paperwork is correct.”
The clerk pulled out one older thin file and handed it to Jeffries. The senior banker snapped it out of the clerk’s hand, put on the readers dangling from his neck and opened the file.
“Hmm… Let’s see. May, 1918. Rawlins… Yes… Property is… Foots Creek. And it shows a balance of… one hundred, twenty dollars and thirteen cents remaining on the principle, and payments only on interest for the past two years. I’m terribly sorry, Mike, this must have been some error on the part of our receivables team. I’ll have this account closed immediately.”
“No, that’s correct,” said Michael.
Jacob crowed, “Foots Creek! Our first property together! Well, does Mr. Jeffries know that you have another banker, then, Mike!”
“No, he doesn’t.”
Jacob laughed and looked over at Mr. Jefferies.
“Jake, I don’t have any other debt besides that piece of paper. Right Hank?”
“As far as I’m aware, Michael.”
There was a long pause. Michael casually crossed his leg and took another sip of bourbon.
Jacob fell silent. A hundred calculations flashed through his mind as he stared blankly out the window.
Jeffries cleared his throat, partially in an effort to break the long pause, and to divert Jacob’s unflinching gaze.
“Mr. Rawlins has paid off seven loans and numerous lines of credit.”
Michael elaborated, “Well, I did pay them off, I guess, if you count swiss cheese. A fair number of the subdivided plots I sold to good tenants. They’re now family farms, homes or businesses. Two major subdivisions to the north of Foots Creek are still being developed on a shoestring by my company, or will be developed at some point when the world gets its damn head out of the sand. Right now I’m just trying to keep a skeleton crew on the payroll and put food on the table.”
Jacob continued staring blankly out the window, as the setting sun’s amber glow cast a warm light over the silhouette of tall trees planted on a piece of land that he had purchased with a loan from the bank he was sitting in.
“Well, Mike. I hate to be so direct, but it doesn’t sound like you have any liquidity.”
Michael took the yellowed paper deed for the Foots Creek parcel, pulled a fountain pen from the holder on the desk and started writing. When he was done, he pushed the paper toward Jacob, reached into his pocket and pulled a few bills from his money clip and counted out 120 dollars.
“Jake, I’m signing over Foots Creek to you. It’s yours, free and clear.”
“I already own half of Foots Creek, I don’t see how that helps.”
“It’s completely developed. Most of the properties are still under active leases and it earns a substantial income — nearly 5,000 a month, even in this slop bucket of a market. In the twenties it was pulling down nearly twice that. Thanks to the prime location, it was my bread and butter that made everything else possible. It’s not land, it’s an idiot-proof business.”
“Mike, you can’t be serious?” asked Jacob.
“It’s yours Jake. But I do have a few stipulations that I trust you’ll honor.”
“Stipulations? Now, hold on, Mike.”
“Work with ol’ Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Waller over the next few seasons to let them get back on their feet, and make Ralph Tharpe and Mick Lindsey an attractive offer at my company, Foots Creek Management to help you run the business, and the management company takes a 20% cut of revenue in perpetuity. They are honest men and currently make 1,500 a year. Don’t try to pull the big shot act around them. They’re country but they’re a hell of a lot smarter than I am when it comes to management, so always listen to what they tell you and pay them well. I treat them as profit partners with a payout every Christmas that’s a fixed percentage, and they know the gross and can do arithmetic better in their heads than you can with an adding machine, so don’t mess around with their cut. If for any reason you feel the need to let em’ loose, let me know. Great people are hard to find and there’s plenty of work in the other businesses. My growing friendship with them over the years has become a pain in the ass, because I’m tired of them calling me “bossman.” If you screw them, I’ll take it personally.”
Jacob looked at Michael, confused.
“This is not what I expected, Mike.”
“Jake, twenty years ago we started Foots Creek together, and it’s served me very well. Your strategy clearly was the right long-term vision, but you need cash flow. I’m getting you back in a business that reaped the rewards of luck and proximity to the city that annexed it. I didn’t have to do a damn thing but drive around and make sure everyone was taken care of, and most of it was our fathers’ seed money anyway, so what did I really do but just have the common sense to find the right folks to help me and stay out of my own damn way. If it doesn’t suit you after a few years, and want to give it back, we’ll make a fair deal, but I think that if you play your cards right, unload some of your more speculative properties, and listen to Mr. Jeffries’ advice on refinancing your debt, you’ll be back on top in no time. I’m sure you’ll get that lake property too. Oh, and there’s literally a paved road to nowhere leading right up to your property line on Foots Creek, so ask Ralph and Mickey to help you develop the damn thing with people starving for work and start making mailbox money.”
Jacob smiled and shook his head. Mailbox money was a hillbilly colloquialism for a steady income stream, royalty or payment — consistent checks that arrived in the mailbox. A confusing mix of emotions ran through him: pride, envy, disappointment and gratitude. Finally, he snapped out of his shocked stupor, took a sip of bourbon, and looked at his old friend.
“Jeez, Mike. Mayallbox munny, huh?” he said with the deep rural accent of his youth.
“Mailbox money,” smiled Michael. “Most folks forgot what that was in the 20s. It’s underrated, and it’s going to get you out of this mess.”
The next minute of silence seemed like an eternity, as all four men realized the gravity of what transpired.
Michael stood up, without an inkling of pride or pity.
“And Jake, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had — hell, you’re a brother to me — and I want that friendship again. I don’t wanna be your competitor.”
“I think the same thing all the time, Mikey.”
Years ago Michael was just as consumed by greed and competition as Jake, but realized that it made him miserable. As Jake ascended to fame, he stopped playing the game that Jacob was still obsessed with. During the roaring twenties, when everyone was high on Wall Street paper and bootleg liquor, Michael had worked with people who helped him build businesses. He was actually glad to let one of the old ones go, as it was one less thing to worry about. He reached out his hand to his old pal.
Jacob stood up, “you’re right Mike.”
He shook Mike’s hand and they hugged.
“Mr. Jeffries, can you arrange a meeting with Ron to write up the contracts next week?”
Hank smiled, “He’s already expecting it. I’m so glad to see you two working together again. This market is going to turn around. It always does.”
Mike stretched nonchalantly, grabbed his salt stained fedora off the table and looked at his watch. “Alright gentlemen, well, that went a lot faster than expected. I have a date with a fishing pole at 6am in the morning. Jake, I’ll ask Lisa to set up a dinner date with Edith, ok? Bring the kids. Man, you gotta see my arrowhead collection.”
“Bully Mike — my boys and I have been collecting too! We’re gonna have a ball.”
Michael walked out of the bank that evening and watched the final rays of the sun recede over the horizon. He chuckled, excited about rekindling his most valuable friendship. He knew that Jacob’s strategy had been the right one, but the market had caught him flat footed. Jake, his children and grandchildren would be obscenely wealthy for generations.
As he walked down the sidewalk he heard the honk of a horn and a familiar voice.
“Get a job ya damn hobo!”
It was Ralph and Mickey in the trusty old Ford work truck. The hand painted lettering, “Foots Creek Property Co.” was faded and barely legible.
“Bossman!”
Mike rolled his eyes, smiled and strode over to the passenger window where Ralph was sitting, the setting sunlight formed a shadow against his ebony skin glistening with perspiration from a hard day’s work.
“Whatchy’all up to?”
“After you cut and ran off to your little meetin’, we sweated our damn asses off and got that roof on Baldwin avenue done. Headed to the juke for a col’ beer. Hop in, slick.”
Mike scaled the side of the truck bed, pushed over several boxes of tools and sat down against the back window and slapped the cab roof twice.
As the truck sped off down the roads of Smithville, he thought about how he was going to convince Ralph and Mickey to work with his high falutin’ old friend. But he felt light as a feather. Today he traded one little piece of a business for a lifetime of priceless friendships.
Twenty years later, Michael and Jacob survived the turbulent years of the depression and second world war. Their family businesses saw tremendous success during the post-war housing boom. By that point all of Foots Creek had become familiar neighborhoods and commercial districts in the thriving town of Smithville, and they had sold most of the lots, moving on to other opportunities. In their early sixties, they decided to do one more large deal together. They purchased 20,000 acres of old growth forest as a natural preserve. Many years later, the family donated it to the state and it became known as Squire State Park.