Agoraphobic Vagabondizing

By Mark L. Williams

Charles flees from a restrictive religious community, learns auto mechanics and drifts across the nation. Caroline learns a trade under the thumb of a demanding stage mother and travels the world. After a chance meeting, they forge a relationship. With a romance rooted in trust, they become vagabonds searching for a more satisfying life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: May 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952835117

Mark L. Williams

Born in Ohio, Williams grew up in Oregon. After graduating from university, he served four years in the army before earning a MA in Iowa. He taught English and history for thirty years in the United States, Germany and Japan. He currently resides in Lake County, Oregon.

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Copyright © 2020 by Mark L. Williams.

ISBN 978-1-952835-10-0 (softcover)

ISBN 978-1-952835-09-4 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-952835-11-7 (ebook)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America.

Book Vine Press

2516 Highland Dr.

Palatine, IL 60067

For

David

Mentor, dear friend in Heaven

and the person who first asked

would you like to direct this play?

Forces were in motion which would change the life of Charles Howe. It began, as do many similar events, with an event so innocuous as to appear both mundane and inconsequential: the boss wanted a word.

Charles began life in a secluded, religious colony in Iowa. From the earliest days of rumination, he yearned to be free of rigorous dogma and the embargo on anything young people found interesting or, far worse, entertaining. On his eighteenth birthday, he boldly announced his intention to leave the community. Every child was offered the option when coming of age, but few dared to venture beyond the sylvian shadow of an enclosed community. Despite the trauma of turning his back on home, parents, two sisters and a brother, Charles longed to breathe free.

Over the years he maintained limited, and covert, contact with his siblings and knew something of their lives. He was, for example, an uncle thrice over. Save for the exchange of familial good wishes, communications were rare. No matter how surreptitious the means, there was never direct contact with mater and pater; it was the law of the order. Through the confederacy of his siblings, Charles knew that his parents were alive and thriving despite their advancing years. Such news snippets left him wistful, but he considered his departure wise.

His first contact with the secular world was a rural filling station and garage. The grizzled curmudgeon owner found something in Charles he liked. He gave the boy a job and allowed him to sleep behind the counter and under the cash register until he earned enough scratch to secure a hovel.

The early days were tedious and repetitive. Charles pumped gas, cleaned windshields, checked tire pressure, and learned conviviality. Many of the station’s clientele were local people quick to return the young man’s friendship. More importantly, he gained their trust.

Goofy Lewis was, as his name indicates, the local character. He was brusque and rude with everyone. Underneath this bellicosity, however, beat a heart as vast as the Iowa sky. Charles was not the first transient he took aboard. Notably, however, the boy was one of the few to gain Goofy’s confidence.

Charles realized Goofy’s abrasiveness was an act. The grouch hustled his slave into the shop and ordered the know-nothing to rotate a set of tires. Unfamiliar with the operation of the hydraulic lift, Charles received detailed instructions laced with blue language and derisions of the boy’s cerebral acuity. Knowing Goofy was merely maintaining his public persona, the youngster gritted his teeth and set about his task devoid of umbrage. He learned the basics of auto repair and maintenance, and he accumulated priceless pejoratives and a worldly vocabulary for use in the secular world.

As the months rolled on, Charlie became adept at auto repair. He enjoyed the grease on his hands and the thrill of knowing the proper tool and correct remedies. He took pride in scrapes and cuts. These were not some symbolic and fraudulent red badge of courage but, rather, honest injuries sustained during an honest day’s work in exchange for an honest day’s wage. In the recesses of his mind, he realized a strict religious background was the basis of his work ethic. He incorporated his religious upbringing into his new life and sensed his parents, though they would never express it publicly, took pride in him.

In time, Charles was left unsupervised with tasks as divergent as cleaning and installing carburetors to replacing transmissions and rebuilding engines. Whenever he confronted something new or unexpected, he never hesitated to call upon Goofy’s encyclopedic knowledge. Goofy never ceased scolding the young mechanic’s insufferable ignorance. However, despite being subjected to a series of off-color names, Charles reveled in his experience. Beyond learning mechanics and garage grammar, he was ceaselessly entertained by his tutor.

Not once in five years did Goofy ever complement his wage slave verbally. It simply wasn’t his style. However, Charles soon discovered a glint in the old man’s eye was more valuable than cascading praise. Additionally, there existed a proportional link between the number of glints and the padding of his weekly wage.

Goofy and Charles got along swimmingly. Aside from Goofy’s colorful language and pejoratives, no friction resulted. A freak driving accident, alas, sent Charles on his way.

Too heart-broken to attend the funeral, Charles decamped in the proverbial dead of night with the object of putting as many miles between him and the rural service station as possible. For several months, he thumbed rides and obtained temporary jobs hither and yon. Eventually, he was within a whisper of the Pacific Ocean. For want of a tangible objective, the sight of endless blue stretching out to the horizon was his goal. However, he stumbled into Dallas.

The county seat of Polk County, Dallas is as unpretentious as his native Iowa commune. Crops ringed the town. The farm people were as farm people everywhere while the town people were content with a simpler, more basic life. Those with grandiose ideas and ambitions either abandoned the county or commuted to Salem in pursuit of higher pay and better career options.

Once upon a time, Dallas was Oregon’s capital. Then, in the proverbial dead of night, Salem-based brigands raided the town, stole official documents and seals and removed them to Salem. Resentment resides to this day over this display of lawlessness, but the locals feel Dallas got the best of the raid.

This finger-nail history was imparted by Polk County’s answer to Goofy Lewis. Over time, Charles began doubting the narrative. He avoided official historical accounts precisely because he didn’t want to discard the old man’s story; it was too well told, and the old man was so ardent in his telling. To prove the old man (since departed) was saying false would constitute desecration. Enjoy it, he decided, but don’t repeat it for fear someone might challenge the story’s veracity.

Certain things are better left alone.

Charles needed funds. He asked about in several locations. The name most frequently mentioned was Dale Green. After a night’s rest in a run-down motel, Charles found Green Motors and asked for the boss.

His first impression was not favorable. When measured against Goofy Lewis, Dale Green cut a very poor figure. The lantern-jawed owner was soft spoken and civil in his use of language. The muscular, former athlete owned an array of reading glasses. He’d misplace a pair daily; rather than take the time to hunt them down, he dipped into his stash and marched on.

He sat at his desk and leaned back in his chair with his hands folded across his expansive chest. He asked few questions, allowing Charles to do most of the talking. Charles decided Dale Green failed the interview. The man was too quiet, too relaxed and too disinterested.

I’m lousy with good mechanics, Dale announced in subdued tones. What I really need is a good salesman.

That, Charles concluded, was that. In addition to being paid a commission, sales required commitment. Charles intended to be in town only long enough to refresh his stake. For reasons, unfathomable, he opted to keep the conversation alive.

I don’t like twisting arms, he announced.

Neither do I, the owner/manager assured. The vehicles sell themselves. I expect my people to know the factory specs and inform the buyers of both the strengths and weaknesses. I want the buyer in a product best suited to his wants. No arm-twisting, no bullshit. You bring the customer to me; we barter.

Charles hoped the man was true to his word. If he was as he advertised himself, Dale Green might be a man worth knowing.

I don’t care to live on commissions, Charles confessed.

I’ll put you on a straight salary, the man countered. You can be my customer satisfaction guy. Of course, there’ll be extra money if you bring in somebody to sign papers.

Charles chewed on that for several moments.

Do I have to wear a coat and tie?

You must be clean and neat, Dale insisted. Otherwise, we’re pretty informal. No smoking, no doping, and no thieving. If you stick around, and I need somebody in the bay, you’ll be first in line.

Charles stood up and extended his hand.

When do I start?

Dale stood and clasped the proffered hand firmly.

Find yourself some digs and give me a shout, he replied.

He pulled a business card out of the holder on his desk and handed it to his newest employee. Charles accepted with thanks and turned to leave.

You need an advance?

This was a shock. In Resume Speed, Iowa, such an offer was the small-business norm. As a stranger in a strange land, Charles didn’t expect such treatment.

I’m down to a couple hundred, he confessed.

Let me write you a check, Dale insisted. Find a bank to your liking and open an account. That will give you leverage. I have a friend who owns a rental near the county courthouse. The upstairs is taken by a young family. There’s a subterranean apartment – a bit Spartan, admittedly, but you won’t be hobbled by a long term. You can bail out on a week’s notice.

That sounded too reasonable to be real, but it was so tempting. The five-hundred-dollar advance constituted the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Locally Owned and Operated

Such was the addendum in at the bottom of the establishment sign. It was no platitude. Within a month of reconversion to Government Motors, Dale ditched his entire GM inventory and went freelance. He didn’t brake law or tradition, but Dale Green would skirt both to ensure he could paddle his own canoe as far as contract law allowed.

The company offered its own warranties. In return for exclusive Green Motor repair and routine services, the buyer secured substantial reductions on items not covered by the manufacturer. Charles Howe got caught up in this spirit from the first day.

During his first full week, he put a middle-aged miser in a used compact. Three weeks later, the buyer called to complain. Charles, eager to keep up and sharpen his skills, borrowed a set of tools and spent much of an evening with the automobile.

Damned communist! he shouted while wrestling with a recalcitrant bolt. The sentiment was one of Goofy’s favorites, and employing it brought back a flood of memories.

Despite the stubborn bolts and rusted appendages, Charles got the engine running to the customer’s satisfaction.

I ain’t payin’ squat, the bitter miser spat as Charles wiped his hands on a tattered t-shirt rag.

Just part of the service, sir, Charles replied, happy to be scraping knuckles once again.

When Dale learned of this unsanctioned labor, he called Charles into his office, closed the door and administered a quiet blistering. At the conclusion of the lecture, the owner stood up, offered his hand and lauded Charles for his initiative.

You hired me as the customer-satisfaction guy, Charles reminded.

Dale nodded.

The next pay period found Charles’s emoluments a tad heavier. The tacit message was clear: if the transient’s moonlighting didn’t infringe upon contractual agreements, Charles was free to do as he pleased on his own time. The net result was a quartet of impressed buyers and a ton of free advertising for Green Motors.

The subterranean apartment and its dearth of window space were well suited to the insular tastes and habits of the former Goofy Lewis apprentice. When not out working or moonlighting, the small, furnished apartment suited his simple needs. It was chilly most days, but blessedly cool during the summer. Situated in the Willamette Valley, Dallas enjoyed, annually, three-hundred and sixty days of rain – or so it seemed. The cellar apartment, however, remained leak proof which negated its deficiencies.

Though he won a few friendships through an oft frequented café and among the established employees of Green Motors, Charles failed to cultivate them. When he wasn’t working or moonlighting, he spent his evenings reading or listening to the radio. He cooked simple meals, cleaned up after himself, retired early, woke early and required few additional entertainments.

Dale Green did not insist that Charles attend his annual Christmas bash, but he strongly hinted that failure to appear would be considered rude. Always ill at ease in a crowd, Charles expected to have a miserable time. He arrived at the Green house very early hoping to beg off when the hordes descended. Then, something horrible happened.

Charles enjoyed himself.

Mrs. Green, Gina, had spread out with middle age, but she was cheery, rosy-cheeked and charming. Charles considered her nothing short of beautiful though, in truth, her beauty existed, almost exclusively, in her delightful personality and polished manners.

Tammy Green was the scholastically inclined of the two daughters. She was a pudgy member of the NHS and was not well-practiced in the art of clomping about on three-inch heels. She was the family cateress and proud of the finger foods she laid out. Charles made certain to complement her on her achievement. It was an unexpected pleasure for her.

Jasmin, a.k.a. Jazz, was the athlete. Her grades were just good enough to accommodate her varsity career. She spent most of the party playing games on a small, hand-held device. Charles did not speak to her – as if she allowed the opportunity. Nevertheless, she was exactly the kind of girl Charles would have enjoyed flirting with had his strict religious sect allowed. She crossed one very shapely leg over the other during pauses in her game showing a bit more thigh each time. As with everything else, she was oblivious. It wouldn’t do to get caught staring, but Charles cast many glances in Jazz’s direction and felt well rewarded.

Thankfully, the other attendees knew Charles well enough to refrain from asking questions or poking around in his past. All his conversations were congenial and blessedly short. Meanwhile, the non-alcoholic drinks were tasty and abundant. The decorations were bright and cheery. The food, as previously reported, was first class.

Nevertheless, when Charles returned to his undecorated apartment, he breathed a sigh of relief. Though he enjoyed the evening, he was oppressed by throngs of people. He was a poor mixer. The company in his basement apartment was much preferred.

Summer was fast approaching. The high school students were restless, and short attention spans shortened further. The intoxicating rays of the morning sun splashed across the polished surface of the showroom floor. The late model mid-sized sedan on display turned interloper by disrupting the flow of the sun’s early light. It was the kind of day that motivated everyone to invent excuses to step outside, if only for a moment.

Charles opted to check sticker information on the lot. It was as good an excuse as any. Just as he moved toward the glass door, Dale Green entered from the opposite side of the establishment.

Chuck, he called in his habitual quiet baritone, a word.

This, Charles concluded, was business related. His recent record clean, he didn’t fear another lecture. It was curiosity which guided his steps.

Upon entering the office, Charles motioned to the door. Green was making himself comfortable in his chair.

Leave it open, he commanded. Have a seat.

Charles sighed. Sitting down indicated this might take a while. Meantime, the clouds were sure to scud across the sun, bringing more rain to quench the welcome and long-awaited spring.

You remember Jolene Corbett? the boss asked.

Late February, Charles nodded.

You put her into a high-end set of wheels, Green nodded. It pissed her old man off something wonderful. He doesn’t like his daughter sneaking over here to purchase a car. He’s a grand, high mucky muck in that snooty Santiam Club and feels anything outside Salem is barbarian territory. He fumed when his darling, precious complained about her new car.

"I drove over one afternoon and fiddled with it. Whoever inspected it prior to shipment, didn’t. Charles reported. I was unaware that anyone was upset."

Well, the old man was. He was ready to bring a posse out here and set a torch to our little establishment. His little girl was very impressed with you – you sly charmer.

Charles was stuck. The young though marginally attractive woman was congenial, ergo he was friendly in return. It took only a few minutes to detect the problem and only a few more to resolve it. They chatted for a minute or two, and Charles was back in Dallas in time to make himself supper. Unfortunately, there were no witnesses; if the woman made an accusation, he had no defense.

What gives? he asked, fearing the worst.

"Well, you made a big impression on that girl. She must have talked with Daddy because you and I are invited to a soiree next week. The Santiam Club is having one of its social blow outs and Mr. Salem, hisself, requests our attendance."

Charles cleared his throat.

I don’t do well in crowds, he reminded.

"I know, Chuck, but let me be clear: one does not turn down an invite from the Santiam Club. That would be as unacceptable as taking a dump on the flag. Those snobs get cranky when any of us rubes show a high hat. I’m not ordering you to go with me, but if we get blowback, or if it hurts business – well, I’ll be forced to take you to the woodshed."

Translation: Dale Green would lecture him in his office for three or four minutes before sending him back about his business. For some mysterious reason, Green’s non-punishment punishments were difficult for Charles to bear. Letting his more than tolerant boss down was worse than any punitive action.

It may not be so bad, Green continued. The guest of honor is that actress from L.A.

Which actress? he asked, not at all interested.

That former model, Green groped. The TV actress from that one show. The good-looking babe.

Oh, her! Charles nodded.

Yeah, Green went on. Who knows? You and she might hit it off.

With the passage of time, Charles considered his boss clairvoyant.

At the time, however, Charles had no clue as to the identity of the mystery actress from that one show. It didn’t matter. His knowledge of entertainment figures was deficient. He imagined he could identify Ingrid Bergman in a group photo. Beyond that, however, he wouldn’t have recognized Madonna if she walked into the showroom and kicked him in the shins.

Caroline Crum grew up calling her mother’s boyfriend father. By the time she was old enough to talk, her real father was long gone. In fact, as they years went on, she never found any evidence that her mother was ever married. Nevertheless, she inherited the name of a man she hardly knew and seldom saw.

Caroline’s mother came to Hollywood from some Colorado cow pat. She had stars in her eyes and enough ambition to power a dictatorship. Over the years, she waded through a legion of promoters and was in and out of every studio in L.A. She appeared in a few dozen movies as an extra and had speaking parts in four high-budget films. Once, she worked in a failed attempt to revive the old movie serials. She secured a leading role and was convinced that her film career was – finally – underway. Alas, the movie serials, like disco, were dead. The project was never distributed; the want-to-be film star never had the opportunity to be forgotten.

She languished in TV limbo with bit parts in several shows but was never a regular. Just as she was hired as an aging eccentric in a TV series, the show was canceled and, with it, her sixteen scheduled appearances.

The woman had naught to show for her efforts beyond five stage names and a daughter by a failed producer. From aspiring actress, the woman descended into the witchcraft of stage mother. She was determined that her daughter would succeed in her stead.

At the age of nine, Caroline was modeling for mail order companies. It was an important first step. Every avenue to get the girl’s photo into circulation was seized. With a portfolio of modeling prints, Caroline’s image crossed hundreds of desks through the tireless effort of a persistent mother who shamelessly promoted her.

By the age of twelve, Caroline was earning a healthy income as a model. The mother, a.k.a. agent, allowed her daughter access to precious little of the money. Most went into promotional schemes; much of the remainder was invested in the mother’s boyfriend de jour.

Once upon a time, there were three major circulating catalogues featuring Caroline modeling pajamas, dresses, slacks, skirts and play clothes. She never posed for underwear or swim-suit photos because her legs were skinny and unsightly. As a teen, she blossomed. Her long, long, very long legs became highly marketable assets.

Pushed on by her mater cum agent, Caroline won the California Junior Miss pageant days shy of her sixteenth birthday. This earned her a short stint on a local kiddie program. Her annual income ballooned to five digits, but she attended school in hand-me-downs. Her agent re-invested her earned income.

She won the Miss Globe California pageant at seventeen (someone lied about her age on the entry form). Then, she won Miss Globe USA and jetted to Brussels where she competed for the title only to miss the final cut by a whisker. Far from being disappointed, Caroline didn’t give a rat’s butt. She was, essentially, an enlisted soldier; she went where she was taken and did what she was told. She experienced a small slice of Europe and saw things she never expected to see. Beyond that, it was a dull life.

She left home on her eighteenth birthday – in the proverbial dark of night. She was obligated to honor her contracts, but she was free to handle her money.