Time for a new free read. This one goes back a good number of years. A short story, Charlie's Place, that I wrote for an anthology.

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Charlie's Place
by J. Richard Jacobs

CHARLIE’S PLACE
by
J. Richard Jacobs

Have you ever had one of those years when everything seemed to run together and it appeared there would never come an end to it? A year when every day flowed into the next so seamlessly that you couldn’t tell the difference—Monday from Sunday, Tuesday from Thursday? Work, work, work—no let-up? It’s been one of those years for me, so I decided to take a drive. A long drive. A week’s drive north along the coast to clear the cobwebs from my brain...and to find someplace to work in peace, away from people. Something far enough away that they wouldn’t just land on my doorstep at all hours of the day. Any day. Every day. I need a place where I would be sure of my privacy. Maybe with a moat. A moat with alligators. Piranha.

I left Sausalito early Monday morning—I think it was Monday, anyway—and headed north on One-Oh-One. The effects of that simple action were amazing. I felt light. All the weight that was crushing me slid off my shoulders and cluttered the floorboard. I was free. I traveled a short distance north, then peeled off on old Highway One, slipped through Mill Valley, had breakfast at some nondescript restaurant with no name, and headed north toward Stinson Beach and points beyond, the broad Pacific singing to me on my left. My quest lay before me—all the crap to the rear, but there remained no doubt in my mind that it was following not far behind. Problems and headaches never trail by much and they need only the slightest provocation to attack.

#

Today, Thursday, I saw the house. Its roof, curving gracefully in mimic of the Japanese pagoda style—not by design but through age and neglect—wore a blanket of faded green asphalt shingles with oddly curved lower edges. The shingles on the swayback structure gave it the appearance of a surface clad in overlapping copper plates. Copper plates too long exposed to the effects of damp, salt-laden air blowing inland off the churning Pacific Ocean—its waves nibbling away at what little beach remained at the edge of the northern California shoreline to the west of me.

In a corner of the front yard stood a sign. Its once bright colors weathered into faded dull browns and rusty reds that made it difficult to read. The sign, secured to a post with bent over nails, leaned toward the house as if it, too, were attracted to it. I sat in the car with the window rolled down, leaned out for a better look and, after studying the sign for a couple of minutes, finally deciphered its message. “FOR SALE by OWNER,” it read. “Inquire Within.” It was the best news I’d had in a month and, if the sign’s statement remained true, my hunt for escape would be over.

In the back yard, locked in a tight tangle of growth greener than the rest, a corroding well spout with a broken pump handle jutted upward out of the weeds as if trying in vain to escape their grasp. The well’s priming bucket lay on its side nearby, its bottom rusted through. A clump of daisies behind it gave it the look of a wicked yellow eye daring me not to come near.

The house, standing alone in a jungle of oaks, pines, and tall greenery that stretched for five miles on all sides, had no umbilical cords, except for a small electrical line, connecting it to the poles carrying power and conversation along the Coast Highway a mile away.

I was certain I had found what I sought—and I guessed the price would probably fit within the boundaries of my less than meager academic budget, supplied in the main by family, and partly through loans and grants.

The picket fence surrounding the house had at one time been bright yellow, attested to by flecks of paint stubbornly clinging to deep grooves in the weather tortured silver of the wood. A missing picket here and there gave it the appearance of an ancient smile as it traced the hollow in which the house lay cradled. Heading for the sagging, covered front porch, I moved through a large gap in the fence where a gate once hung before its hinges succumbed to the ravages of time and salt air. There were no signs of the gate’s remains.

A sharp pain reached in and pounded at the back of my skull. A roar welled up in my ears and, for the briefest part of a second, I thought I could smell hot oil and the pungent odor of burnt gunpowder. Then, suddenly, I was back on the flagstone path that, overgrown with weeds alive and dead, led to a porch where a large collection of pots were perched on the railing, the plants in them long ago expired.

The dizzying experience on the path left me shaken and, I admit, a bit frightened, but I assumed it to have originated in the fatigue generated from working hour upon hour on my paper with no visible progress. My frustration was causing me to hallucinate on my subject. Either that or I was going nuts. I needed that house. I had to be alone for a while. I craved solitary time to permit me to slow down—get my bearings, and continue my work. Grotesque evidence of my long hours of research, bent over in a chair and staring—unblinking—into the maw of a glowing monitor, hung in dark folds beneath my eyes.

A tattered and yellowed curtain waved a welcome through a broken lower windowpane as I approached. Two rickety steps up and the heavy planks of the porch groaned and creaked their greeting.

I was filled with a strange sense of wonder. The closer I got to that house, the more I wanted it. Halfway to the door that terrible feeling swept over me again, only this time flames licked at my skin and a shrieking whine invaded my ears. It was so loud that it caused actual pain. I sat strapped down in something that was vibrating in every direction with immense force, but I couldn’t see well enough to make out any detail. Smoke and raging fire engulfed me. It was so realistic I could feel the heat and the dense smoke mingling with the odor of my own burning, evaporating flesh made me choke and gasp for air. I wanted to puke. Then, as quickly as it began, it stopped and I stood, trembling, at the door.

I stayed there for a few seconds trying to regain my senses, then reached out and tapped lightly on the screen door. The damned thing responded by falling promptly from the top hinge and assumed a crazy angle, its lower corner pressed firmly against the unpainted pine planked porch. A puff of dust left the screen when the lower corner hit and drifted away on a gentle afternoon onshore breeze. The little cloud reminded me of something that I couldn’t quite place as it vanished in the distance. I lifted the corner clear of the planks and opened it. Just as I was about to knock on the inner door, a voice called to me from inside.

“C’mon in, son, door’s open.”

Once inside, I was greeted by a brief darkness until my eyes adjusted. The contrast between inside and outside was striking. The walls were brilliant white and trimmed in flawless mahogany that was coated with a gleaming layer of varnish expertly stroked on with a soft brush. The ceiling showed no signs of the area’s frequent rain finding its way through the drooping roof. The floor, oak laid only as old world craftsmen could, shone brightly under a fine patina of undisturbed dust.

Directly in front of me, in a mahogany and glass display case neatly centered against the far wall, a large-scale model of a World War II aircraft carrier trapped my gaze. The markings on the island made her identity known as the USS YORKTOWN, CV-5. Above the case hung a picture of a flight of five TBD-1 Devastator torpedo planes. Their tail markings said they were from the YORKTOWN. The planes seemed to move as I looked at them; a disturbing movement that made me feel a little woozy—dizzy like the early stages of drunkenness. I blinked and the movement stopped, though the unbalanced feeling remained with me for a time.

To the right of the model sat an elderly man in a rocking chair. He puffed on a meerschaum pipe carved in the likeness of a smiling dolphin’s head and the odor of his aromatic tobacco smoke, blending with the musty smell of the house was…pleasant. Over his head there hung a picture of five grinning naval aviators in leather flight jackets, arms locked around each other’s shoulders. They stood beside an F4F-3 WILDCAT. The man on the far right showed the two-fingered sign for “Victory” and the one to the left of the group displayed at the end of an arm raised proudly high, a one-fingered salute to the enemy. That gentleman, the one giving the finger to the world, though much younger, bore a remarkable resemblance to the fellow in the rocker.

“Have a seat, son,” he said, using his pipe as a pointer to indicate an overstuffed sofa on my right. “That couch is the most comfortable thing you’ll ever have the pleasure of sitting on.”

I did as he said and he was right. It was quite supremely comfortable.

He leaned forward, fixed an intense pair of gray-green eyes on me, and said, “My name’s Charles, but everyone has called me Charlie for as far back as I can remember, so you might as well do the same. I take it you’re here to talk about buying my place. Am I right?” He started rocking the chair slowly back and forth in a mesmerizing cadence.

“Yes, Sir,” I said, my eyes greedily taking in the treasure of memorabilia scattered around the huge living room, the kind of memorabilia in which I had more than a casual interest. “Is it still for sale?”

“Now, what would a young fellow such as yourself be wanting with an old, run-down place like mine?”

“That’s a long story, Sir.” I didn’t want to tell him I only needed it for a year or so, until I completed my work. After that I would put it back on the market. I figured if I spent a little time and fixed it up a bit I could probably make a profit to pay off some of my loans.

“Let’s clear up a couple of points here, son,” he said and leaned back in his chair, never once taking his eyes off me. “My name’s Charlie, not ‘Sir.’ Had enough of that in the Navy. The other thing is, I don’t want my place torn down and a convenience store or some such put in here. You wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you, son?”

“Oh, no. No, Sir—er…uh, Charlie. Nothing like that.”

“That’s good. So, tell me the story.”

“The...story?”

“The long one—the one about why you want my place so much you’d drive out to the hinterlands.”

It was obvious that my intentions would prove important in the transaction and that what I had in mind for the future would, no doubt, jeopardize any deal I wanted to make. I decided not to mention the long-term element in my plans. Just omission.

“Well, Charlie, I have need of a place where I won’t be disturbed.”

“That won’t be a problem out here, believe me,” he said with a friendly smile. “Why?”

“I’m working on my doctoral thesis,” I said. He resumed his lazy rocking, his gaze never straying from me. I found it…intimidating, perhaps a little spooky. “I’m…I’m an historian.”

“Is that right? I like history,” he said. “Tell me, what is the subject of your thesis?”

“World War Two...the Pacific Theater. Specifically the Battle of Midway and the incidents that led up to it. I have a new—”

“Midway, is it?” A strange gleam came to his eyes. “A fresh point of view is what you have, son?”

“That’s right. Um...is your house still for sale?”

“Mm-hmm, that it is. You know, son, I may be able to help you with that thesis of yours,” he said in a low voice, and pointed his pipe at the model.

I didn’t want any help. One of the reasons behind looking for a place like this was to get away from the incessant offers of help and the continual free opinions. The frequency of his rocking increased and he puffed more vigorously on his pipe.

“Honestly, Charlie, I don’t need any help. I just need a place where I can be alone. How much are you asking?”

In an instant I was on the deck of a ship with men running by me in what seemed to be all directions and a voice echoed in my head, “Battle stations! Battle stations!” The grating of the claxon was deafening. Then, as if nothing had happened, I was back on the sofa and looking at Charlie. He grinned. My palms were wet and a trickle of salty perspiration found its way into the corner of my right eye. It burned and I took an involuntary swipe at it with my cuff.

Click here for part 2 [agnostic.com]