Handy Andy or Stalker Stan?

Anyone who has ever been home to greet the cable guy, plumber, meter reader, or even the UPS guy can identify with my encounter earlier today. It was handy-repair-guy day at our house whereby Handy-Guy Phil was bringing over the closet door he had been gluing together for the past 3 months (I’m not kidding here, he took the door in October!). HGP has been at our house several times as he is the repair man of choice for our landlords. I have found him to be a quiet man with a strong New England accent: you know, the kind described as “keeps to himself, never causes any problems” when neighbors are asked if they ever suspected he was eating people-burgers for lunch. Anyway, Phil called, asked if he could come deliver the door, and arrived about 15 minutes later. He enters the house, installs door, door doesn’t fit, he goes outside, planes door, comes back with door, door doesn’t fit, he takes door back outside …you get the picture. He had been coming in and out with the door so frequently that I was no longer taking note of his coming and going.

Meanwhile, I am talking on the phone with Debbie as I help her figure out whether or not she can import data in a comma delimited format (yes, our conversations really are that highbrow and technical). I am sitting at my laptop, chatting away, oblivious to HGP. We finish our techie discussion, I turn off laptop and when the screen goes black it reflects like a mirror. I am looking into this mirror and I give a short high scream as I see HGP reflected in the screen standing right behind me and not saying a word. I quickly get off the phone with Debbie (a move I would not make again because after all she is the only one who knows HGP is with me and she may be my only lifeline if things get weird), and ask HGP if I can help him. He says he is finished with the door and would I like to see it? I don’t really want to see the door, I mean if you’ve seen one door you’ve seen them all and it isn’t even my house, but I am a little on edge right now, so I go look at the door.

Yep, it’s a door.

I admire the door for a moment or so and then try to head him toward front door. He stares at me intently for a moment and then says “I made a mess.” I am again taken aback. He made a mess? In his pants? What is he talking about? He gestures toward some saw dust on the floor. Relief floods me. “It’s okay” I say, nodding encouragingly and once again starting for the front door, “I have to sweep the floors today anyway.” He nods and finally starts walking toward the front door. I am giddy with relief when suddenly he stops, turns around, looks at me intently and says “your floors look fine.”

Okay, I am creeped out now. Thankfully he leaves. I lock door, watch ‘til I see his truck is out of the driveway and call Debbie letting her know that I am still alive and from now on, if I scream, don’t let me get off the phone because someone may need to be my audio witness of the crime scene.

Now, to be fair, HGP should be equally afraid of me because frankly I have been sticking to my “no sugar” plan and I am a woman on the edge. Add that to the fact that I have a dirt floor cellar…

…I can hardly wait ‘til next week when the furnace guy comes…