Over thirty years ago, my young
son and I lived in an apartment complex where we enjoyed some
colorful neighbors. I was among the minority of clothesline devotees, even if
mine was one of those square spinning types designed for miniature
yards. Too bad the only place for it was in front of my kitchen
window.
One hot summer day there came a
knock at my kitchen door. On answering it, the older man standing there
surprised me just short of alarm. After all, I recognized him as the neighbor
who parked an over-sized flashy red convertible in the primo slot just around
the corner, but we’d never spoken. Despite his short stocky stature, he had an
unmistakable alpha male swagger—the sort of man I went out of my way to
avoid.
Thank goodness I kept my screen
door locked, I thought, after his seemingly innocent opening question. Would I
be using my clothesline that day, he wanted to know. Well-versed in the story
of big bad wolves, I instantly took him as some pervert plotting to watch
me bend over my clothes basket. Like an idiot, I didn't realize he was long
past that point (as if my false sense of security at having a locked screen
door weren't bad enough)! He went on to say how he loved the fresh scent of line-dried
laundry, and that he wondered if he could use my clothesline once in awhile,
that is, when I didn't need it.
Admittedly, his request seemed
harmless enough; and after all, who didn’t like the scent of line-dried
laundry? So I told him my clothesline would be free for him to use after
lunch. Later that afternoon I peeked out to see if he had indeed hung any
clothes. Wow, he sure had. One item.
It dangled there for the whole
neighborhood to wonder about, too. It was such an enormous jock strap that its
purpose defied imagination. I wanted to die. I bolted all of my doors and
busied myself upstairs where I could keep an eye on things from a window.
What was he thinking? Or should I
ask: How naïve was I? Did he figure his undergarment would induce me
to tango right over to his place, carrying it in my teeth or something?
Mercifully, by late afternoon it was gone, without so much as a word. Even more
mercifully, we never crossed paths again and the only wash to ever hang on that
clothesline was my own. I kept a close eye on his car after that too, and
that’s when I noticed the odd jumble of letters on his vanity license
plates: ITLN – STLN. I get it now: it was shorthand for Italian Stallion—quite a stretch, if you
ask me.
Has anything like this ever happened to you?
REMEMBER: The drawing to win a copy of my memoir ends tomorrow, Thursday, 26 June.
Details are in my post titled: "Win a hard cover version of my memoir!"
Send your friends over too. Or not.
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