Let me start by saying that at times I can be rather dense – slow on the uptake, as it were. A classic case of the absent minded professor, only I'm not a professor. Not yet, anyhow. I have as much sex drive as the next man (at least I think I do) but, to me, there is a time and place for everything. If Cupid's arrow comes at an unexpected time or from and unexpected direction, it will probably just bounce off my backside.
Such was the case about 5 years ago. I was a first year meteorology student at Penn State. Yeah, I said meteorology. If you are thinking "nerd" you would probably be right. Brown hair, hazel eyes (hidden behind glasses) and tipping the scale at about 160 I owed my physique more to genetics than to exercise. I wasn't a virgin – there was the girl I took to my high school's senior prom – we left the dance early, but she got home around sunrise. Let's just say that I was in no danger of being saddled with "Hef" as a nickname.
By working for my father's lawn care and landscaping business all summer, I had saved enough to rent a small studio apartment near the campus. No noisy dorm room for me, no sir! I would have a quiet place to study, relax and spread out. Yes, I know movies like Animal House glamorizes wild frat parties and pooh-pooh actual school work, but in the real world most of the "Animals" end up in a career whose greatest challenge is not burning the fries.
That is not to say that I don't go in for a little "fun" now and then. After all Penn State isn't a monastery. There were co-eds everywhere! The ones that weren't looking for a husband were just looking for a good time. The ones that weren't looking for either were looking to further some "feminist agenda" I would rather spend the morning listening to the rants of a Jehovah's Witness than be trapped in a room with one of those!
And then there was the girl who lived right below me. She wasn't a co-ed, she was a single mom. I had seen her more than a couple of times already. Our building was a four-plex - two apartments on each floor, each with its own outside entrance. Separate wrought iron spiral stairs led to each of the upper floor apartments.
Now, this is where things get just a little goofy. In this age of email, cell phones, and what not the girl who lived below me chose to get my attention by knocking on the ceiling of her apartment with a broom. Knock knock - knock! Three times, just like the old song. Corny, huh?
Actually, it took her a couple of tries to get my attention. Like I said, I can be dense at times. Also, I've lived in apartments before, and was used to "noisy" neighbors. Over the years I had taken a live and let live attitude toward noise – as long as I can hear my TV without blasting my ears out, I don't make a fuss. Finally, the pattern of the knocks got my attention and I decided to see what was up, er down, um well you get the idea.
She answered my knock on her door almost as if she had been standing there waiting for me (which, in fact, she had).
"Hi, my name is Steve. I live upstairs and I was wonder why you have been knocking on your ceiling." I said, in as pleasant and non-confrontational a voice as I could manage.
"Yes! Hi, Steve, I'm Sharon. You see my, um, well, garbage disposal is on the fritz and I haven't been able to get a hold of the landlord. I thought you might be able to give me a hand or something."
I am a sucker for a British accent and Sharon's was just perfect - not too Cockney nor too "upper crust". She had a matter-of-fact beauty to her that did not jump out at you, but was coyly hidden beneath her loose fitting, foppish clothes -- there is just something about a woman who isn't wearing a bra. If you ask me, making the bra optional was the best thing to come out of the 60s. She had a face that made Helen of Troy look like Phyllis Diller. Long, wheaten colored hair, straight, but not stringy, that stopped just short of reaching her shoulders. Her petite mouth whose thin lips were enhanced by understated lipstick balanced deep blue eyes that matched the waves of an unseen tropical sea.
Sharon led me over to her kitchen sink even though I could have found it blindfolded on my own – the floor plan of her apartment was identical to my own. When most sinks clog up, the water stays in the sink, this one was bone dry. This should have clued me into the fact that she was more interested in the plumber than the plumbing, or maybe she was more interested in the plumber's plumbing!
"This shouldn't take long, I'm pretty good with plumbing", I said. I could have sworn that I heard her mumble lecherously, "I certainly hope so...".
I could sense her presence close behind me as I used a flashlight to examine the sink and what I could see of the disposal. Surprise! Everything looked fine. I decided to see if the disposal itself worked. Holding the flashlight with one hand and balancing myself over the sink with the other, I asked Sharon to switch on the disposal.
"Try it now", I said without turning to look at her.
