I usually have 1 or 2 or sometimes 38 different story ideas running through my head at any given moment. It really makes it hard to concentrate when this character in this story whispers the beginnings of another story in your ear. And when that happens, you have to evaluate and decided – did your character just give you an amazing idea or are they just wasting your time and trying to draw attention away from themselves. And, if they are trying to deflect, why? is there something wrong with the character? The story? Have I just spent the last hour on something that isn’t going anywhere? Oh, self-doubt, how I loathe you, you bastard.
So, moving on, I was going through some prompts that I saved some time ago – June 2018 to be exact, June 30th, 2018 to be precisely exact. Wow. Sometimes it takes me a while to come back to something. Every now and then I go through this extensive list of prompts and story starters that have grabbed my interest. This one jumped out at me tonight.
I’m really wanting to work on descriptors a bit more as well as making you care about the characters before I do horrible, terrible, vile and disgusting things to them. This has been an exercise all about that and stepping out of my comfort zone with characters of the opposite sex, different age, different era – just all sorts of stuff I know little about. I did do my research on some stuff to make sure certain things were a thing in the 50’s – though there is nothing wrong with taking liberties.
Ok… I’ve babbled enough.
Without further adieu, I give you the first part of the as yet untitled tale of Mr Roger Williamson, door to door salesman, extraordinaire.
**NOTE** haven’t really edited it yet so if there are typos, just ignore them. I’ll fix them for the final story, I promise! 😉
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Inspired by the following prompt: A door-to-door salesman circa the 1950s visits the wrong house
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Roger Williamson used to love his job. Now? His feet hurt. His back hurt. He was thirsty all the time. Summer had come early to the small cities and towns north of Boston and if today was any indication of how warm the season was going to be, well, it promised to be a miserably hot and humid one.
The car he had been driving, generously furnished by the company, had been a “big hunk of stinking shit,” he told his wife over a meatloaf Monday supper. Marie had scolded him and then giggled. It was rare that he used that sort of language in front of her. But when he did, Marie always feigned offense while trying to keep the laughter from escaping. He found himself really missing her.
That had happened just before the last trip. A month long journey through wilds of Maine, which he learned wasn’t really all that wild when you were selling door to door in the suburbs. This trip felt longer. How long had it been now?
He tried to run through the number of greasy spoons he had sat in for dinner since getting in the car that morning – always at the counter, always for two days in a row. Eight. He had been gone just over two weeks. He looked down at his watch. Nine in the morning. Marie would have just finished up the breakfast dishes and would be sitting down with a cup of tea to work more on the blanket she had been knitting for their upcoming third grandchild. And this was Wednesday? This afternoon, there would be glass bowls, covered in the red and white checkered kitchen towels, the center rising like a small volcanos as the dough proofed. He could see them. He could smell the baking yeast. The taste of fresh butter, mostly melted, the salt, layered thick across the steaming slice.
Roger put the car in park and stared out the windshield. That was it. He was done. After this trip, he was going to retire. They had talked briefly the evening before as well about the finances and how well they were doing. He should have know what was coming. Marie had brought it up the morning he had left. He had promised to think about it.
“Seriously think about it,” she had said as they were both falling asleep. “We’ve never been in better shape.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “Besides, you’re getting old.” She giggle and rolled over. He had told her that he loved her and they had fallen asleep, as they had so many nights for so many years now, spooned together, his hand around hers.
***
Marie had never been like most of the guy’s wives. New dresses, handbags and shoes weren’t important to her, though Roger made sure his wife always had what she needed. She had been a beautiful girl when they had met and her beauty hadn’t faded over the . And she was smart. The money that she didn’t spend, Marie had socked away in their “Rainy Day” fund. Between that, his pension and their investments, they could get by fine until social security finally started and then they could really enjoy their time together. Their youngest daughter had just graduated from nursing school last year and moved to Boca Raton to work in the labor and delivery ward at the big hospital there. They could sell the house and enjoy their golden years in the warm climate of sunny Florida.
A man, his grey coveralls seemingly pre-greased for the day, approached the sedan Roger sat day dreaming in. He waved but Roger, lost in a fantasy of Bermuda shorts, high balls, golf balls and sand in everything, didn’t acknowledge him. He walked up to the window, bent down, looked directly into the man’s ear and wrapped on the glass.
The man jumped a little, his head whipped around to face whatever disturbance had so rudely pulled him out of the deep trance he had been in. “Wh… huh?”, he began. He made eye contact with a grease-smudged man and for just a moment, became more confused. Then the fog lifted and he knew where he was.
The car he had been given as his latest company vehicle had been more ready to retire than he was right this minute on the day he was handed the keys. That had been four years ago, right after the man Roger had called boss for just over twenty three years before he dropped dead on the 13th hole at the local country club of a heart attack, leaving his incompetent and idiotic son in charge. Roger knew no one would hire him so close to retirement and he had his pension to think of. Fully vested and ready to cash out at twenty five years. He had stayed longer because he hated to see the company crash and burn with junior in charge. But when he returned this time, he would hand the boss the keys to this big metal pile of shit and ask for his well-earned pension check. Then he and Marie could go out for a nice pasta dinner at the place downtown she liked so much. Maybe he would even tip the violin guy to play her a song. She would turn red and try to crawl under the table but she would love it. Then, here we come, Boca!
The look of shock and confusion melted into a genuinely happy smile. The mechanic stepped back so Roger could open the door.
The mechanic pulled a rag as dirty as his overalls and wiped his hands with it. “You Williamson?”, he asked through amber-colored teeth. He reached up and pulled his bottom lip out; the chaw that had been between his lip and lower teeth fell to the dirt in front of him. He turned his head and spit, wiped his mouth with the same stained rag. Roger could see a bit of tobacco stuck in between several of his bottom teeth when he smiled. Roger nodded and tried to maintain eye contact with the man. He nodded to infer that yes, he was Mr. Williamson. “I’m Chester Thompson. I got a call about you. Told to take good care of you.” He stuck his hand out.
Roger clasped the man’s hand and pumped it three times before releasing it. Nearly three decades of being a salesman had made it an automatic reaction. He suddenly had the urge to go into a sales pitch with the man. Instead, he said, “So, the boss’s girl Friday filled you in? What do you think? How long will this take?” Now that he had decided to bow out of the working world, he couldn’t wait to get back to office so he could call it quits.
Chester smiled, the tobacco had dispersed a bit and was now covering more of the surface of his stained teeth. “Well, Mr. Williamson, you’ve come at a bit of an unfortunate time. My other mechanic is laid up at the hospital. Damned dummy dropped an engine on his toes. Lost all of his toes on the one foot.” He shook his head. “Damned dummy,” he repeated.
“So…?”, Roger asked.
Chester, back on track, “So, I got jury duty tomorrow.” He looked at Roger and Roger looked back at him.
“Aaaand?”. It was like pulling teeth.
“The soonest I can look at it is Friday. If it needs a part I don’t have, it won’t be ready before next week.”
Roger felt deflated. “Next week? My wife is expecting me home this weekend.” And then, as if sharing his recent epitome with this bedraggled looking man before him, “I’m retiring and we’re moving to Florida. This is my last work trip.” He beamed at the man and hoped for some sort of mercy. A “Hey! Why didn’t you say so, Rog? Let me just go get you all fixed and we’ll have you out of here in a jiffy!”, kind of reaction. What did he have to lose? What he got was a blank stare.
“Well,” Chester finally said, “If you want to leave me your keys?” Roger pulled the car key from the ring and put it in Chester’s waiting hand.
“Do you know if there is a motel close by? Sounds like I’ll be staying in your lovely town for a few days.” That was Roger – always trying to put a happy face on a less than pleasant situation.
Ten minutes later, Roger Williamson was walking toward the town center, a suitcase in each hand, a smile on his face and an ever-so-slight, almost imperceptible but definitely there, spring in his step.
Nope. No sir. Nothing was going to ruin the next few days for him.
***
Now if you know me at all or if you’ve ever read anything I’ve written, you know the chance that Roger will make it back to Marie unscathed is about the same chance as I have of winning the lottery (can’t win if you don’t play, right?) so, yeah, some bad shit is about to happen to poor Roger Williamson.
Stay tuned to find out if Roger lives or dies in part 2
Cre8ive Junkiez 