Pipe Dreams

As a writer, editor, and photographer working for a multinational construction and engineering company back in the 1980s, I traveled to project sites across America and even a few in Europe..

After I finished interviewing and photographing the manager and several construction workers and supervisors at one remote project, I thanked the project manager and folded my reporter’s notebook. When I turned to pack up my camera equipment, the manager asked, “Do you have any plans for later?”

“The usual. Find some dinner and go to bed.”

“Where’re you staying?”

I told him the name of my motel.

“Great! It’s Thursday, and on Thursdays I take my supervisors out for a bite to eat at the lounge right there at your motel. You should join us.”

“What time?”

“In half an hour. You have time to put your camera equipment away and then join us.”

“Thank you,” I said, relieved not to spend another night on the road without company. I looked forward to a meal with fellow workers.

A half hour later I walked to the lounge, which looked more like a bar than a restaurant. “Oh, well,” I mumbled to myself. To one side I saw the project manager sitting with a few of the men I had interviewed that day. Construction firms were beginning to hire females at that time, but only males had acquired enough experience in their craft to move up into management.

The project manager introduced me around, and I recognized the pipefitter supervisor as one of the more outgoing men I had interviewed that day. I’ll call him Pete.

Pete pulled out a chair beside his own and pointed. “Ya’ll sit yourself here,” he said, so I did.

A loud four-piece band struck up, which made conversation difficult, but I shouted to Pete, “Have you already ordered dinner?”

Pete moved closer, so I could hear his answer. “Food here’s awful. If you’re hungry, have some pretzels.” He pulled a bowl toward me.

What happened to dinner? Pretzels are my least favorite snack.

A woman wearing tight shorts and little else came over and asked, “What’ll ya have, hon?”

All the men had a beer or mixed drink in front of them. I figured a beer would at least have a little food value, so I ordered a draft.

The band struck up a tune from the 1960s. Familiar with the song, I tapped my fingers to the beat, nervous about being at a bar with six men in a strange town.

Pete leaned in again. “I used to shag to that song. Do you shag?”

“I haven’t in years,” I admitted. I looked down at my spreading forty-plus-year-old body.

“Well, it’s time to get up and do it again.” Pete stood, took my hand, and pulled me out of my chair.

I reluctantly walked onto the dance floor while trying to recall the simple steps to the shag. Holding hands was the closest thing to intimacy that it required. Otherwise dancers basically moved forward and back and side to side to the music.

Pete had not let go of my hand. He tightened his grip, and we began our dance. Up from the depths of my memory came the moves I had taken twenty-five years earlier, when the shag was popular. Pete surprised me with his a smooth swaying, and we fell into a sleek synchrony of steps. The best shaggers move their legs and feet, but their heads and shoulders remain level. The dance has a smooth look when performed right, and Pete did it right. The band played a long version of the song, but Pete and I kept up to the end.

Afterward I rushed back to the table eager to wet my parched throat. I gulped big swallows from my beer that had arrived while I was away from the table.

Pete threw back his mixed drink and ordered another.

In a few minutes the band played an additional beach-music tune. Without talking, Pete clutched my hand and again dragged me out to the parquet dance floor. Once more we performed to the music as if we had been dance partners for years. Other dancers even stopped to watch us. Toward the end of the song he leaned in and said, “We dance well together.”

“We do,” I agreed. “You’re a very good dancer.”

More drinks and dances followed. I was sipping my second beer, but Pete had probably consumed three or more drinks by the time he pulled me close on the dance floor and whispered in my ear, “If we dance this well together, we’d be great in bed together.”

Stunned, I shook my head. As if his wedding band weren’t enough of a deterrent, I felt no attraction to the toughened, tipsy fellow twenty years my senior.

Back at our seats, Pete tossed back another drink before he leaned over to conspire in my ear, “So no one will know, I’m going to leave first, but I’m coming to your room later.”

“Um, no you aren’t.”

“I can’t resist you. We’re gonna be great in bed.”

“No. No, we won’t.”

“You know we will.”

A few minutes later Pete slugged the remainder of his fifth or sixth drink before he rose and slurred to the group, “Shee ya’ll tomorrow.” He looked at me. “’Shept for you, ’cause you’re leaving tomorrow. Nice to meet you.” He flashed me an private grin before he staggered out.

A shiver went down my spine.

The night wore on. Afraid to go to my room, I nursed my second beer until it became as lukewarm as the room. When I could wait no longer, I said good night to the remaining men and walked away, glancing left and right with every step, afraid I would run into Pete. I had not given him my room number, but in the 1980s security was slack. Anyone could get any guest’s room number or even get into a guest’s room simply by asking at the front desk. 

I reached my room without encountering Pete, but I still held my breath until I unlocked my door and found the room empty too. Whew!

After a refreshing shower, I slipped into the bed. Tired, clean, and confident that I was safe, I dozed off.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

“What the—” Being awakened from a dead sleep, I could not at first decipher the sound. “Oh! It’s the phone.”

Shaken, disoriented, and in a dark, unfamiliar room, I flung out a hand to find the phone on bedside table. I missed the table, though, and my momentum pitched me out of bed. I landed in a squat on the floor, shaken and fearful that I would again have to fend off an insistent pipefitter. I rose to my knees, found the receiver, and answered with trepidation, “Hello?”

“Is Arnold there?”

“Arnold?” I exhaled in relief. “You’ve got the wrong room.”

“Sorry.” Click.

Thank heavens! It wasn’t the pipefitter; it was a wrong number.

I did not get any more sleep that night. At every moment I wondered what might happen next.

I never again socialized with coworkers while I was traveling, not with project managers, supervisors, or pipefitters. 

My pipes were fine just as they were.

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.