They Mocked His Gear Until the Cliff Broke

4: 4

Back when I first sold them a full set of gear for two thousand dollars, they practically treated me like the parents who'd given them a second life.

"Darrell, this tent of yours is unbelievable. A gale strong enough to snap trees and it doesn't even budge."

"The safety rope doesn't so much as shiver. The quality's insane."

"How did you make these climbing boots? They fit perfectly, the grip's incredible, and I've worn them two years and there's barely any wear."

Jackson had been the first to jump in about how cheap I sold it all.

"Darrell, a set used to run me seven or eight grand. Yours is two thousand and it's better quality than theirs. I don't even know how to thank you."

Later they took my gear into all kinds of competitions.

Rock climbing, wilderness survival challenges. They took first place several times, and every man walked away with hundreds of thousands in prize money.

Some of them even used the fame to launch outdoor livestreams, and raked it in.

Now, over one picture from Hester, they'd all turned their backs like they didn't know me. Thinking back on it now, I could hardly believe how ridiculous I'd been.

Right then my phone rang. It was the manager from the restaurant.

"Mr. Dickerson, those friends of yours finished eating and now they don't want to pay—"

The manager was only halfway through when Jackson's voice cut in. "Darrell Dickerson, you set us up, you son of a bitch. Ordered over five grand of food. Get down here and pay for it yourself, or I'm going to the association to report you."

"Then go ahead and report me. And Manager, if you need to call the police, call the police. Don't spare me any face."

I hung up.

The masks these people wore were getting uglier by the day.

A few minutes later, Manager Lambert—the restaurant manager—called back.

"Mr. Dickerson, they got into a huge fight over the bill. In the end everyone chipped in five hundred to settle it. But they seem to really hate you. They're saying they're going to report you."

"They're welcome to try."

Sure enough, half an hour later I got a call from Nicholas Chavez, the vice president of our Explorers' Association.

Nicholas had his own team, and for years they'd been rivals of the team I was on.

Except they lost to us every time. Over the last few years my team took first place five times, while they managed second twice and finished out of the top three the rest.

"Mr. Dickerson, your teammate Jackson and a few others just called to report you. I nearly died laughing."

I asked, a little curious, "And what exactly did President Chavez find so funny?"

"Mr. Dickerson, that gear of yours—forget two thousand, I'd pay two hundred thousand for it. Shame you won't sell. So, these ungrateful wolves finally broke your heart?"

Before I could answer, Nicholas went on. "Mr. Dickerson, all these years you spent looking after them, we saw every bit of it. Take just one thing—last wilderness survival challenge, several of our teams had our tents blown flat by the typhoon, and only yours held. Otherwise, you think first place and that prize money would've landed in Jackson's lap?"

I couldn't help finding it a little bitter, that even a rival could see everything I'd given them.

And they not only ignored all my years of it, they'd turned around and blamed me and gone off to report me.