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I don't know about you, but when I'm trying to do a job and there's a hundred and thirty-five pounds of sex-appeal looking over my shoulder and asking a lot of questions in a deep, husky voice, I find it hard to concentrate.

"Have you hit anything yet?" she asked.

"Not yet, Mrs. Stanyon," I said, looking up at her. I was on my knees next to the toilet, running the snake down. She had called my boss an hour before and he sent me out on the job.

Suddenly the snake made a loud, grinding sound and for a few seconds stopped going down. Then it broke through and I reeled it back in.

"That oughta do it," I said, standing. "We'll give 'er a few flushes just to make sure."

As I flushed the head I looked over at her. She was leaning against the wall by the door, watching me closely. She smiled at me in a way that made me tremble all over and wonder if this was gonna be my lucky day.

I've had me a lot of lucky days since I started working for Tony's old man. Believe me when I tell you that all the stuff you hear about the milkman and the mailman is no bull. And now the plumber. Of course, to really make it with these suburban broads you gotta have looks and a way with words. And I got both up the ass. In the last year alone, I been in and out of more holes than the Roto Rooter man.

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