PULPVILLE-5

     Who is that passed out on my bed?
    First impressions are crucial, especially when I'm the following act for every homeowner's worst
nightmare.
    Marsha R___ invited me into her condo in a very exclusive section of town. My partner and I had
contracted to do the warranty work for the entire block of town homes. They were just a year old, and
most of the problems weren't too serious.
    The biggest single disaster was Wendy G___'s, on the corner. The P-trap in her large whirlpool tub
was located too close to an outside wall, not insulated, and a sub-zero draft during the first winter caused
it to freeze and burst. As she drained the bath water that frigid morning, the joist cavities above her
dining room filled with water. After dressing she went downstairs to witness three hundred gallons of
water raining onto her dining room set. Water gushed through the chandelier; the drywall sagged, and
the melon-sized blisters of bath water developed in the paint. Silk curtains and upholstery, an inlaid
table -- all ruined. The G___'s was the talk of the block until Marsha R___'s hit the top of the list.
    Marsha was an attractive, well-dressed, and successful business woman. Her name was familiar
because it adorned several car dealerships. We got along great. I had done lots of warranty work in the
past, and was sensitive to the homeowner's wishes whenever I was working in their home. The banker
on this project was a longtime associate, and he basically just dropped the job in our laps. Soon I was
to know why.
    The punch list consisted of adjusting some doors, miscellaneous caulking and grouting, and replacing
a defective light fixture. Easy stuff. We walked through her home, reviewed the items on the list, and
then she confided to me about the last "warranty guy."
    Marsha came home for lunch that first day to see if he needed any help or had any questions. She
gave him free reign over the house. He seemed like a nice guy, she said. The builder was reliable and
she trusted him to send out qualified workers. Marsha knew he was inside that day because his truck
was still parked on the street, and she hollered up the stairwell to announce her presence -- she didn't
want to startle him.
    She needn't have worried.
    It seems he had gotten into several "X-rated" video tapes she told me "her ex-husband had left in the
back of the closet, on the top shelf. What he was doing up there, I have no idea.
    Evidently he perused the selections, saw the wide screen TV and VCR opposite the foot of the bed
and, in a perverse sort of way, added 2 plus 2.
    His lack of judgment was further compounded by the fact that he had gotten into her good scotch at
some point in the morning, and imbibed just enough to pass out about a half hour before the lady of the
house arrived home.
    And there she found him, just like Goldilocks, only snoring on her bed and oblivious to the
shenanigans now on the TV.
    Marsha turned off the tube, called her next door neighbor, and the two of them roused him from his
stupor and hustled him out of the house to sleep it off in his truck.
    I later asked Walt L___, the banker, about this story, and he laughed heartily as he confirmed it. I was
relieved that it really happened and wasn't a fairy tale Marsha told everyone who worked in her home.
    P.S. A few weeks later our company got a nice thank-you note from Marsha, commending my
professionalism, workmanship, and courtesy. We framed it and hung it on the wall, where it fit just right.