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2002-12-13 - 12:15 p.m.

The vacuum man is a pervert!

I vowed last fall I wouldn’t go there again, but when I blew my Hoover up not long ago I either had to take it to him for repair or fight the holiday crowds at Wal-Mart to buy a new machine. I bit the bullet and went to the repair shop!

This was the second time this vacuum had clanged, smoked and spit scorched little pieces of black plastic all over the floor. The first time was when I brought it home from his shop last fall where I’d taken it for cleaning and belt replacement. I don’t know what the hell he did, but I plugged it in and it sputtered and spit at me.

I went storming back into his shop, dragging the busted machine behind me. He wasn’t anywhere in the debris, so I started yelling at him. Finally, he emerged from the basement, belly hanging over his belt and threatening to blow out his stained tee shirt, a grin on his whiskered face.

“You came back to see me!”

Oh gawd.

“You’re damned, right. This vacuum is broken.”

And on and on, struggling through his old geezer leer, until he finally understood what the problem was.

Then a week or so ago I had to return the crippled machine (It’s a bagless contraption, don’t buy one!). Back through the forest of vacuums growing in his shop to the counter so I could scream for his attention. When he finally appeared he was wearing the same stained tee shirt and the same old geezer leer. I explained the problem—the SAME problem I had a few months ago.

“Give me your phone number.”

So I gave him my work number. He wanted to know where it called so I told him.

“Won’t ya give me your home phone number?” He winked.

“No.” And I beat it out of the shop.

The next morning I had a message on my desk to call him.

“How are you? I’ve been trying to find you. You live on Queens? Called three Sherer numbers. You married to a Dan or Don?”

Oh boy.

On the way home that evening I stopped to pick up the vacuum. While I was writing out the check he reached toward my hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” My scowl was a killer. I know it was.

He rounded the counter, leaned toward me and sniffed, “Umm, you smell purty. Whatcha wearin?”

Gawd help me.

I quickly handed over the check, spun away from the counter and went in search of my sweeper.

He laid a hand on my shoulder and tugged me back: “C’mere, let me show you this hose.”

Sweet Jesus!!

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