Ever been poor? My wife at the time and I were in that classification as this story is told. I was about 25, Sharon was 24. Sharon is a small gal, slender, long dark hair, breasts a bit big for her tiny frame.
I ran a Gas Station, 1973 came around. Gas lines, no product, bank at my door. The business went, the house went, Sharon and I were living in our car in very short order.
I finally managed to find a job fixing cars for a shop, and she headed out to find a place for us to live, camping was getting old and Fall was coming fast.
Let's just say that Fall and Winter in Oregon will keep your socks wet if you live outside.
Sharon came back tickled, she found a tiny little rental house at a price we could actually pay. It wasn't much, but we were desperate. The place was just a small living room with an alcove kitchen, but it was furnished with basic appliances. There was a little bedroom with a curtain, and a bathroom that appeared to be tacked on as an afterthought.
We could manage until things got better.
We moved in in short order, Sharon introduced me to the landlord, a crusty old guy named Harold. He was about 60 or so and lived right next door in a much bigger place.
But problems cropped up quickly, the guy apparently had little experience with dealing with tenants. It seems his son had lived in the little house, and finally moved away.
So he dealt with us by acting like we were going to steal something or burn the place down, throw wild parties.
It was part of the deal for me to mow the lawn, it was small and I did. But not often enough to suit Harold, he would meet me in the mornings and tell me it needed doing as I headed for work, hell, it was only an inch high.
Then if we both left he would snoop around, checking, always checking, always watching us.
One day we had another couple over, we were sitting in the yard chatting, having some beer, music playing.
Sure enough, he didn't like the beer, didn't like the music, didn't like our guests. He made a point of telling us he didn't like "wild parties!"
I also noticed he spent a lot of timing peeking out the window at Sharon's behind when she went out to work in the yard.
The situation was barely tolerable, and got worse one day when I ran home for something, and parked my truck in the driveway sticking out a bit. Harold came out yelling, irate. I was there maybe 5 minutes.
I came home that night, Sharon was unhappy, the guy actually wanted us to move out. I wanted to myself, but the rent was half what we could find anywhere else. We needed to stay right where we were for at least another six months while I saved up a dab of cash.
The only thing to do was go talk to Harold.
It was a warm day, Sharon had on a summer dress, one with print flowers, nice and light. She wore a pair of flipflops on her feet.
Harold was sitting out back in his yard watching our place like always, so Sharon and I walked over there to talk to him. There were some outside lawn chairs gathered around a firepit Harold used in the Fall, he was sipping a cool drink, scowling at us.
Harold seemed to always scowl.
We sat down to talk, I explained we needed to stay, he was adamant that he wanted us to leave.
"Too much going on." was his exact words.
Hell, if we lived any quieter we would be dead.
But I noticed he kept glancing at Sharon's bare legs, almost like they were magnets for his eyes.
Sharon picked up on it, too, she slipped her flipflops off, wiggled her toes in the cool grass. She idly hiked her dress up a couple of inches. Harold stopped talking for a few seconds, his eyes darting right down to the gap between her knees and the bottom of her dress.
I wasn't getting anywhere, Sharon gave me a sidelong glance, then said, "I will go get some iced tea, be right back."
She hopped up and headed for our place, and was back in a few minutes with a pitcher and some glasses.
She set the glasses down and leaned over Harold's way as she poured him a drink. This let the top of her dress gap down some, it wasn't really much from the design but enough Harold could see the tops of her breasts, I was sure.
