people in places: a brief evening with charles, who lives alone

a macabre airbnb experience at the edge of the desert

People in Places is a series about people…living in places. Tonight, a macabre encounter with Charles at the edge of the desert.

“Roll up the window.”

That’s what my girlfriend told me while we were driving down a moonlit street a few months ago. We were on the fringes of the Mojave, near a state line. It was unclear if this was California, or if we were still in Arizona. It felt like somewhere in between. A sense of time and place had disappeared. Last I looked at the clock it was past 9 p.m. but that could have been hours ago. It was cold and dark. And I couldn’t really get a sense of the area. All I remember was a net of stars cloaking the sky and the blurred outlines of ranch-style homes.

That’s when a man ran out in front of our car. He was wearing a full tweed suit and seemed hysterical, waving his flashlight like a traffic cop trying to slow down a speeding car. But it was just me and my tired girlfriend, driving a Prius and obeying the residential 25 mph speed limit. Two hands on the wheel.

This was our Airbnb host, Charles. We met in the middle of the road that night, and he immediately came in hot. His warm breath fogged up his Covid mask, which was a type of mask I had never seen before. It was more like a clear plastic mold of his face, like Patrick Bateman during his morning facial routine. But it was ventilated, so it seemed to miss the point. It was terrifying, even within the context of the pandemic. Maybe it was something he always wore. Behind it, we could see a shock of white hair and a mustache. In his Airbnb photo, he looked like a local probate judge. In person, he was wildly unhinged. And the way the flashlight was shining up at his face: it appeared as though he was about to tell us a horror story.

But this guy wasn’t about to tell us something scary. He was the scary.

He screamed my name: “ARE YOU JUSTIN?”

The windows were up. I nodded yes.

I booked the Airbnb as a quick stay over on our road trip from Sedona back to L.A, a 7.5-hour drive. This was a day after Christmas, at the height of Covid. The place was listed as **CHARLES PL IN THE COUNTRY.** It was a simple, one-level home with no frills. All to ourselves. It had a bed. Most of the comments absolutely loved the place. “The best place to stay!” according to one recent visitor. Charles provided frozen hash browns for breakfast and charcoal distilled water. A solid 4.56 rating. The price was $67 for one night. Perfect. I’m a cheap Polack. So I reserved without further consultation.

Almost immediately after booking, my messages were flooded with very involved directions from Charles. He first asked what time zone we were in. He said to “Please TEXT me an ETA when you leave, and telephone me about 10 minutes out (at Needles), and I’ll meet you for orientation. Have a safe trip, CHARLES.”

Lots of directions, lots of rules. At this point, it was still funny to us.

Rolling into his driveway, I noticed a trailer on his front lawn that I didn’t see in the photos. Charles waved us in. He was on top of it.

I opened my car door, and Charles spoke to me.

“Just so you know, you don’t have to wear a mask. I am not fearful of Corona. I am only wearing a mask because I have to, but you don’t have to. I’ll tell you more inside.”

That’s really how he kicked it off. I was tired and this guy was already doin’ too much. I didn’t need an orientation. No one really does that. I know how to open a door and find the bed.

I got out of the car. My girlfriend reluctantly got out as well. We were wearing the masks, too.

“Before you step inside, please disinfect the bottom of your shoes in case you go out to Wal Mart,” Charles insisted.

“We’re not going anywhere, we’re just spending the night,” my girlfriend replied.

He had a spray bottle. He hunched over and brought it to our shoes. We submitted.

The inside of the home was…depressing. There was a gym with some weights in the living room. A t.v. that glowed like an old microwave. The water bed was covered in a retrograde quilt.

Actually, it was all fine. Maybe we were too used to staying in cool Airbnbs with cute branding and lots of plants. I guess this is what you’d expect a home to look like in the economically depressed desert valley of San Bernardino County. Or was it Arizona? I never figured it out.

Charles launched into his elevator pitch right away. He ran down his rigorous Corona cleaning protocols, all up to code, he said. He deep washed the oversized ‘90s sectional, sanitized everything. I didn’t believe any of it. The way he intensely described his cleaning regiment telegraphed to me that he actually didn’t clean anything at all. It was really weird that he was still obsessively selling the place to us.

Cutting him off, my girlfriend declared: “OKAY I CAN’T I’VE SEEN ENOUGH.”

And she ran out the door, leaving just me and Charles. It didn’t seem to make an impression on him. I still don’t think I had said a word at this point. But this guy was a straight-up steam rollin’ energy vampire. And I kinda wanted to see how far my $67 had gotten me. I work hard for my money, ya know. Really I wanted to see how big of an oversight I’d made in my Airbnb booking.

And then, I looked at the door. No deadbolt lock. If something terrible were to happen to us, the police would never find out what actually happened.

“Look, we’re pretty tired. We’re just passing through,” I said, finally speaking. “I appreciate the tour, but I think we got it from here. Great job cleaning though.”

I headed back outside. Now we were in the front yard. My girlfriend was watching from the rolled up car window. Charles called after me.

“If you come inside, I will tell you the cure for Covid-19,” said Charles. “I have worksheets on the TV.”

Then he said, “If we keep the masks on, we can be ourselves.”

Actually JK, he didn’t say that.

I stood looking at Charles. It was very quiet outside. I mean, he was wearing a suit. The look under my mask was “you’re kidding.” I wanted to ask him if it was true that the aliens built the pyramids of Giza; if we as people were in control of anything. I didn’t want to talk to him about Trump or Biden. I felt it was going in that direction. There was no place for triggering political discussion. But soon a pathetic sadness came over me. I wanted to ask him if he was lonely. What do you do out here? Where is your family? Maybe life really is an endless loop of sad misunderstandings.

“I’m not going inside with you, but humor me,” I told him, referring to the cure.

“I’m on anti-virals,” he announced. And then told me his credentials: he was a retired registered nurse, railroad conductor, and foreign missionary. A pretty impressive resume on paper.

He went into a whole thing about it. I want to say he was on some sort of amphetamine, maybe speed or meth, because he was very revved up for an older man and without any sense of self-awareness. It was like he hadn’t even seen my girlfriend storm out right in front of him.

“Thanks,” I casually told him, walking to my car.

He kept talking after I got in and shut the door.

At that moment Charles hurried to the passenger side and yelled through a closed window, “DO YOU GUYS WANT SOME PIZZA? I HAVE PHONE NUMBERS FOR PIZZA.”

We love pizza but didn’t want any. We just wanted to sleep without feeling like we would become the first Airbnb murder.

“Yea, we’re leaving,” I said to my girlfriend, putting the car into reverse. We were there for a whole 11 minutes.

“Maybe there's a nearby motel we can stay at,” I said to her. She shot me a death stare.

Three hours left in the drive, fuck it. I had slept in some weird places before, but the grotesque vibe Charlie maintained was too insane to stay overnight.

We pulled out and drove past a grid of desert homes. It was hard to tell if people lived here. Back on Route 40, while tracing the edge of Mojave National Preserve, I messaged Charles.

“We left and decided to drive home tonight, thanks.”

“Thanks, Justin. I’ll lock up. Drive safe. - Charles.”