Charlie's Odd Jobs

Charlie's Odd Jobs

Author's Note: In this world, all characters are 18 or older. There are no unplanned pregnancies. STDs don't exist. Any mention of a specific product doesn't constitute an advertisement or endorsement, and I have no financial connection with the manufacturer or any retailers.

In the movie

Swimming Pool,

an older woman character played by Charlotte Rampling appears on a balcony overlooking a pool, strips nude, and seduces the gardener to make love with her. That scene is the seed from which this story grew.

An author has complete control of the fictional characters within the domain of their stories. As the writing of this one finished, a line of dialogue I used earlier to set up a later exhibitionist/voyeur scene bothered me. I don't know why I wrote it that way I did, but found I couldn't just let that part of the story hang there. I didn't think the story needed a separate treatment; thus, I added an epilogue where things get explained and fixed.

*****

Charlie was 70. Emily, his wife of 40 years, had passed away three years ago. He still lived in their little beach bungalow which had enough bedrooms so his kid's families could drop by for visits. Charlie was in decent shape, not an athlete, but not overweight or having too much of a "Dad bod."

Several years before Emily passed, Charlie had a heart attack. Later, he'd been diagnosed with an enlarged and cancerous prostate. His cancer wasn't aggressive and didn't seem to want to kill him any time soon. What that meant was that Charlie took a bunch of medications. Between the meds and with Emily being sick, he hadn't enjoyed the physical company of a woman for nearly a decade. He still got "hard," but maybe not as stiff as years ago. He still masturbated and ejaculated, you know, just to check that the equipment worked. There were those questions on the form for his annual wellness exam after all. He had no confidence that his equipment would be up to the task of penetrating, much less satisfying, a woman. One could say he was "all dressed up with no place to go." He really missed the savory and exotic delights of oral sex, however.

Early every morning, he'd don his wide-brimmed hat and walk the nearly two miles to the McDonald's located on an out-parcel of the local strip mall. He sat with the other retirees who gathered there and mostly just listened as they idly solved the world's problems. Whose what was aching today. Isn't it hot? Will it rain? Does Olive Garden have an early afternoon deal where you can get that salad? Did you know, Fred was shot in the ass in Vietnam; that's why he limps. It's the same stuff every day. On the walk back, he'd stop by Publix and pick up something for lunch or dinner. They usually had one of those meal kit things. The meals were made to serve two, but he didn't mind leftovers. Sometimes he'd think to bring his little folding gray cloth insulated lunch bag. It was just big enough for a quart ice cream container and a frozen blue ice pack to keep it chilled on the walk home. The independent parlor that made their own ice cream was next to Publix after all. His was an easy unchallenging life. Mundane and repetitive. Charlie was just kind of muddling through the days.

After moping around for over a year, his son finally wore him down or wound him up, as it turned out. Charlie decided he had to do something to get out of the house for no better reason than to get his son off his back. "Charlie's Odd Jobs" became a thing. He got all the small business licenses, permits, and insurance required to legally putter around in people's houses and backyards, fixing drawers, replacing kitchen faucets, and nailing down those loose stairs on the back deck. Nothing big. Nothing major. Just an hour or two here and there. He threw an assortment of lawn and garden tools and a wheelbarrow into the bed of his truck and checked the hand tools in his truck box. His son had fussed at him about climbing ladders, so Charlie included only a five-foot step ladder in his assortment of equipment. He was not going to clean any gutters, but maybe he could reach a ceiling fan or that one just out-of-reach limb that needed to be pruned. That kind of stuff. Tools sorted, he went to a sign shop and got two vinyl stick-on signs for the doors of his truck. He didn't fancy painting his truck in case things didn't work out. A trip to the office supply store to get some business cards printed and he was officially a small business. He asked and pinned one card to the cluttered bulletin board at the community center and one to the announcements board at the Publix. He didn't need or expect to make any money. He just wanted to get out of the house.

*****

"Charlie, you over there," queried his next door neighbor, Stephanie. Charlie was puttering around cleaning his pellet grill.

"Yeah!"

Steph had stepped over to the little gated gap in the low hedge that separated their yards and beckoned him. "Come over, I've got some folks I want you to meet."

Charlie suspected it was Steph and her husband Dave who kept his son informed about his activities and moods. Years ago, shortly after Steph and Dave moved into the neighborhood, Charlie and Emily accidentally discovered they were nudists or naturalists. Or, well, exhibitionists, Charlie wasn't sure what the difference might be, but he wasn't going to bring it up in conversation. Besides, Steph was a younger retiree and looked good naked. Their backyards were private, but there were a couple of places where Charlie could look down into Steph and Dave's yard from his house. And one day, there she was, reclining on a chaise lounge, naked except for her hat, reading a book. Charlie called Emily. They both agreed she had a nice body and wasn't she very tan? Everywhere? Charlie marveled that she was completely shaved. Even though he thought it, he kept that observation to himself, Emily elbowed him in the side anyway, but with a smile, as if to say, "Don't you go getting ideas."

At first, Charlie was nervous about the new neighbors and what Emily might think. Charlie's idea was that he didn't have to worry about getting caught looking if he came clean. "Look at that, honey, she's doing it again," covered a lot. Eventually, he figured that Emily and Steph had probably talked things over. At any rate, Charlie got used to Steph and Dave's inclination. Emily didn't give him any grief over his casual voyeurism. He came to think of Steph much like he did paintings in a museum. It seemed those old masters painted a lot of naked women. He didn't pay much attention to Dave other than that he was a very good pit master.

Steph was wearing a tasteful wrap dress and was seated with two women he didn't recognize. "Charlie, I want you to meet Jill Anderson and Mattie Smythe. Charlie is a good 'odd jobs' man. When Dave is at work or traveling, I can count on Charlie to help with those pesky little fix it honey-do things. Jill is a widow and Mattie is a divorcee." Steph winked at him and revealed, "Charlie is a widower."

Charlie smiled and shook his head. He said he could sit for a short spell but didn't want to interrupt and take up their time. Neither Steph nor her two guests were naked, but he knew Steph liked to tease him and wondered what she might be up to. He didn't know why it would matter for him to know anything about the marital status of two strangers. He certainly didn't know them well enough that they should know he was a widower. The ladies had a couple of bottles of sparkling wine and a bottle of something called Aperol. They were pouring them together into a reddish orange cocktail over ice and doing a lot of whispering, laughing, and giggling. Three older women, giggling and sneaking peeks at Charlie couldn't be good, he thought. Something he didn't understand had to be going on.

Jill Anderson looked very much the business woman type, casually but smartly dressed in a light color print summer dress with spaghetti straps tied at her shoulders and a flattering neckline. She was certainly not flat chested, but one look and Charlie realized it would only be natural to compare her to Mattie. Mattie seemed to be the youngest of the three. She was short, a bit on the plump side and especially abundantly endowed. From Charlie's point of view, she personified the alluring rubenesque archetype of feminity. She was wearing a short white tennis skirt and a matching tight and supportive sports bra. Her nipples were happily advertising themselves. Charlie didn't know exactly what size she was, but once breasts were double-letter and bigger than your hand size, they were big enough that she had to know everybody looked. He certainly was, as casually and surreptitiously as he could, not wanting to stare and embarrass her, or himself, by getting caught looking too long. Even Charlie knew that if he ignored her and her assets, that was the wrong signal, too.

Their discussion turned to jobs that Charlie might do and both guests mentioned the usual things around their houses: fix a loose hinge, leaking faucets, put up a shelf.

When they offered him a spritz, Charlie declined, deciding it was time he made his exit. "Thank you. Nice to meet you, ladies. Mrs. Anderson. Ms. Smythe. Call me if you need something done, and we'll work out prices and times." Charlie tipped his hat, excused himself, and went back to scraping and brushing his grill grate.

He could hear the susurrations of the women laughing and chit-chatting, but they were too far away for him to hear anything clearly. When there was a sudden quiet interlude, Charlie looked over through the low gap at the gate in the hedge. He could see that all three were looking in his direction. They quickly looked away. He could have imagined it or maybe it was unintentional, but when he looked, Mattie's legs were open, and Charlie had a glimpse of her white underwear. She looked straight at him and closed her legs as she reddened and gave him a sheepish smile. Either she caught him, or he caught her, but Charlie got an "Oh hell. Not good. They're up to something" vibe. Who knew what secrets they had shared besides marital status?

Looking back, it was that afternoon when everything started with Jill and Mattie. "Hey Charlie!" Steph yelled over the hedge and again waved him over. "We have a job for you. Mattie needs a ride home. She's had too many spritzes, and we've taken away her car keys."

He looked at the women. He thought they could well be tipsy and none of them should be driving, but his mind went first to practical thoughts like: "How about Jill," "What's wrong with Uber," "What about her car," "In my old truck?" Somehow, the way they looked at him, especially Mattie, stifled those reservations. He just said, "Sure. I'm at a stopping point." That meant he had reached the point of cleaning up and putting away his grill brush.

As Mattie walked to his truck, she didn't look at all impaired, no stumbling and she walked in a beeline towards him. He wasn't judging. It is always best not to take chances with free-flowing drinks and an afternoon in the sun. Charlie opened the door for her, and Mattie turned and scooted her bottom onto the bench seat of his truck. When she lifted and swung her leg into the foot well, her skirt rode up, revealing the gusset of those white panties he had glimpsed earlier. Charlie also saw the detail of a darker patch along a vertical crease between two plump gently curved mounds; she had flashed her damp camel toe to Charlie. She paused, looked at Charlie, and realized where he was looking. Of course, she was aware that her intimate and private thoughts had made her wet. She'd exposed herself and knew he saw her arousal. She looked down, blushed, and hurriedly smoothed her skirt. She pressed her knees tightly together. As he walked around the back of his truck to get in on the driver's side, Charlie adjusted himself to be more comfortable in his pants. Maybe her antics weren't intentional, but Charlie considered what if they were.

*****

A few days later, Charlie's phone buzzed in his pocket. When he looked at the screen, he didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Is this Charlie's Odd Jobs," queried a feminine voice he didn't recognize at first.

Charlie cleared his voice. "Oh. Uhmm. Yes! Charlie speaking."

"This is Jill Anderson. We met at Steph's. My toilet won't stop running. Is that something you can fix?"

"Probably but let me come over and take a look. Looking is free and I won't charge you."

When Charlie pulled up in the circle drive of a two-story home, he noticed the landscaping was a little untidy. When she answered her door, he recognized Jill Anderson as the more business-like widow he'd met at Steph's. Charlie thought she was maybe five to ten years younger than he was. She was, as before, conservatively dressed in a loose blouse and comfortable slacks. Her clothing made it hard to tell much of anything about her body, but Charlie didn't mind watching her pleasantly shaped rear undulating in front of him as she climbed the stairs. She led him to the master bedroom with an

en suite.

The bedroom was tastefully appointed with a king-sized bed that had a ceiling fan centered above it. There was a sliding glass door that opened onto a sun porch that overlooked a lanai opening to a swimming pool in the backyard. The porch was furnished with a table and two chairs. He could hear the trickle of constantly running water.

Charlie had stiffened watching Mrs. Anderson climb the stairs. He made himself more comfortable, knelt to shut off the water, and removed the lid to the toilet tank. He quickly saw that the flapper valve was old and cracked; that was the cause of the leak. The fill valve, tank gasket, toilet bolts and washers were all the same vintage, however, so Charlie proposed he just replace everything. Once he got the parts, it wouldn't take much time at all. Mrs. Anderson was relieved it wouldn't cost that much for such an easy job.

It took Charlie about an hour and a half to get the parts, return, and fix the problem. When Charlie finished, he went downstairs and called, "Mrs. Anderson?"

"I'm here, out back, come on through."

Charlie found her sitting in a chaise lounge in the dappled shade of her expansive lanai. A Big Ass Fan was slowly and quietly turning, providing a gentle and cooling breeze. She stood up and indicated a pitcher clouded and dripping with condensation. Two glasses sat on a table with a bucket of ice. "Would you care to join me for some cold lemonade while we settle the bill?"

She had changed into a light, flowing, and transparent gossamer beach cover up that was open to reveal a conservative one-piece swimsuit. Charlie could appreciate her full, but modestly sized chest. Her round bottom was nicely sculpted by the suit and her legs were long and shapely, tapering in smooth curves from the distinct fold at the inside of her pelvis to her slender ankles. He noticed the little curved underwire (Emily's suits all had those) that helped corral her breasts, but her cleavage was still delightfully displayed by a plunging neckline. Charlie mused that the older a woman gets, it seemed to him the more tightly she wraps things as if a little wiggle, a "hitch in her git-a-long," was somehow a bad thing. Charlie had always thought a nice sway, bounce, and ripple made women like her look like they were dancing even when just walking, whether coming or going. That's the kind of thing Charlie appreciated. She seemed to intentionally lean toward him as she filled his glass. He tried his best to be subtle about his glances. He admitted to himself that he was decades out of practice when it came to interpreting any signs a woman might display, signs that she might be interested in more than pleasant conversation. Oh, he recognized friendly flirting but wasn't sure how far beyond pleasant conversation and joking around she might be encouraging him to go.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please, it's Jillian, or Jill, if you are comfortable with that," she said as she turned and sat back down. "I have more jobs if you have the time."

"I'm retired and just do this to get out of the house, so, yeah, I've got time."

In addition to the lanai with its fully equipped outdoor kitchen, Jill's backyard included a swimming pool and a Firethorn hedge around three sides for both privacy and security. Charlie saw lots of jobs: plant beds to weed, some raking, furniture cleaning, and there's always screening on the lanai to be replaced. Jill explained she had a landscaping service that came monthly to tidy things (they hadn't come yet this month) and a pool cleaner so he wouldn't have to mow, fertilize, or fool with pool chemicals. But she might want some help with her hedge. Just some little things, inside and out.

"Sure, just give me a call," he said as he finished his lemonade. They settled the business side of the afternoon's work. "Thanks Jill. See you. Good afternoon." As he let himself out of the gate next to the garage at the back corner of the house, Charlie thought, was she maybe a little miffed? If she called again, he'd guess she wasn't.

Charlie slowly built up a small client list. He figured most of the women knew each other, from a club or spa or something like that. They talked and told each other, "He can probably fix that." He didn't want too many clients, just enough to take up otherwise idle hours a couple of days a week. He felt good about updating some of his own things. He had an old Buick that had seen better days and decided to trade it in and lease one of those mid-sized hybrids. That got better gas mileage than his Buick, so he started expanding the range of his morning walks to include short drives to nearby parks, beaches, and museums. He even included a few trips to the zoo. For his outdoor nature walks to parks and beaches, he liked to get there early, before they might get crowded, or it got too hot.

It turned out that Jill did have lots of little jobs. Charlie realigned the closures on her kitchen cabinets. He'd gotten scratched and poked while moving a pile of Pyracantha clippings to the curb for pickup that the landscapers had forgotten. She had gently touched more than his arm as she cleaned the scratches and fussed at him. "It's okay. That's not necessary," he made excuses. "It really doesn't hurt. My meds make me bleed a lot."

He noticed that every time she had an outside job for him, Jill would lounge in the sun. "Supervising," he mused. Then, one day, she wore a broad-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a white string bikini under her beach wrap. That day, she positioned her chaise in the sun, aligning it to point directly into the yard where Charlie was working. It was hard for Charlie not to look. That bikini top didn't have those underwires to keep her supported and controlled. Her hard nipples cast little shadows as they pressed against the thin white cloth. Every movement made her breasts sway and bobble. Whenever she stood, turned her back and bent over to adjust the lounge, get more pillows, whatever, the generous bottom of her suit caught in the crevice between her cheeks and rode up over the swell of her ass. Then, as she stood, her back to Charlie, she'd hook her fingers into the bottom and adjust the wandering seam back down over those cheeks. When viewed from the front, the suit wasn't one of those thong things, but the contrast between the bright white fabric and her tanned skin made the triangle covering her sex stand out. She got her book and a cold drink, took off the wrap, and sat down stretching her legs in Charlie's direction. She began rubbing sunblock lotion all over her exposed skin. She fiddled with the triangles over each breast, thoroughly spreading lotion on any tender skin that could possibly get exposed to the sun. Charlie was distracted by the application. When done, she settled back on the angled lounge, raised one leg, bent it at the knee, her foot on the padded chaise. With seeming absentminded inattention, she waggled her upraised knee back and forth as she relaxed and took up her reading. Charlie clearly saw the flash of white as the gusset of her suit broadening toward her bottom was exposed then hidden between the plush curves of her thighs.