The Groper’s Good Deed - Part I
There used to be a mom & pop hardware store conveniently located in our neighborhood. One of the employees was a friendly and very helpful fellow in his late forties, but he had one big downfall. He was a groper. Every woman in the neighborhood knew this guy because if he got you alone in one of the back aisles of the store, he’d cop a feel. Encounters with him made my skin crawl and I did my best to avoid him. But one day, out of desperation because I had no one else around who could help with an urgent life-or-death situation, I invited the groper to my house. What he did (and what I learned from his behavior) surprised me.
THIS IS PART 1 of a THREE-PART STORY
In the early aughts, before the cell phone became ubiquitous and before big chain stores, such as Lowes or Home Depot took over the mom & pop shops, we had a small and very convenient hardware store in our neighborhood. You could buy anything you needed in there, have keys re-cut, or dying toasters and radios re-wired, and if you wanted bits of string or rope or chain, they would measure out just the right length. The shop was owned by an older, white-haired man, but his employee, a friendly and very helpful fellow in his late forties, was usually the one who waited on customers. Every woman in the neighborhood knew this guy because if he got you alone in one of the back aisles of the store, he’d cop a feel, fingers stealing to just beneath the breast or along the ribs toward the abdomen. It was clear he couldn’t help himself and his groping was like a nervous tic, but even so, encounters with him made my skin crawl and I did my best to avoid him.
At that time, we owned a miniature black and tan dachshund named Corky who was very shy and didn’t like hanging out with anyone who wasn’t a family member.
One hot summer day, Corky managed to get himself stuck beneath an expanse of decking outside our bedroom door. He had dug himself underneath, kicking little hills of dirt behind him so that the exit was blocked and he couldn’t turn around and get out.
Nicole around the time of this incident with Corky
I had a very tight schedule that day. My editor was flying in from New York, and I was supposed to pick him up from the airport in an hour’s time. I didn’t know what to do as I couldn’t keep my little dog trapped beneath the wooden boards of the decking in that sweltering heat. My first action, of course, was to call the fire department. We had a station right around the corner and I was sure they'd immediately drive a truck over and help me. But when I spoke to them on the phone they said they’d rescue a cat in a tree, but not an animal trapped below ground. (Looking back, that seems ridiculous.)
Certain I could convince them better in person, I got in my car and raced to the fire station. Picture a middle-aged, distraught, henna-haired woman in baggy shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt hopping out of her vehicle and running up to a bunch of hardened, leathery firefighters with her hands held out in prayer position. They basically looked at me and scratched their heads. “Can’t do a thing for you, Ma’am,” was what they said. I thought of my little dachshund pinned beneath the decking and my body went cold with fear