Go downstairs

Going the direct route might be faster, but it is also fraught with more risks, so Xabar descends the stairs to find his way into the laundry room. The house is quiet, and his ****-buzzed mind seems to instinctively picture every sleeping woman behind every door.

“I wonder what it would take to get that Assistant Administrator job,” thought Xabar. “That’s one job I bet I’d be more than qualified for. In fact, I’d probably really enjoy it.” He wasn’t exactly sure what an Assistant Administrator of an all-women’s boarding house was actually supposed to do, but he was quite confident he would excel at the job — particularly in all of the one-on-one attention each of the women would need.

Just as his imagination started to take hold of the idea, he made a tentative step downward and heard a loud creak as his weight rested on the wooden plank. The sound seemed to reverberate throughout the otherwise-quiet house.

“Fuck!” muttered Xabar to himself. “Why is there always a creaking stairstep?” He blamed himself for not anticipating it. How many times had that telltale sound betrayed his presence at a place and time where he was forbidden? Whether it was sneaking into the kitchen to get a cookie when he was a little boy, or creeping out of the school nurse’s apartment after getting an “after-hours physical,” or trying to get out of a house quickly before waking up an angry and unsympathetic husband, the creaking stairstep has nearly cost Xabar his life — or at least his favorite pieces of his anatomy — more than once.

He froze, listening for signs that anyone heard him. After holding his breath and counting to sixty, he was just about to release a sigh of relief, when he heard the absolute worst noise that can follow a creaking stairstep: the unmistakable sound of two feet hitting the floor and shuffling into slippers.

“OK, time for Plan B,” thought Xabar, as he resumed his descent to the basement. Actually, there was no Plan B, any more than there was a well-thought-through Plan A. He just said that to help him feel a little better.

He got to the bottom of the stairs without further incident and paused to listen. From above, he heard the sound of a door opening, followed by footfalls.

“Those do not sound like the delicate, graceful steps of a scantily-clad beauty, wandering about, hoping to encounter a ruggedly-handsome Academy flunkie,” observes Xabar. He shuddered at the thought that they might belong to Mrs. Letcher and that he would have to see her again in her hideous nighttime ensemble. He could picture her now, using her curlers as some bat-like sonar device, trying to seek out an intruder. He could picture her coming after him right at that moment, with squat, voluminous thighs apologizing to each other with every waddling step.

Xabar quickly found his way to the laundry room. Through the dim light coming through the window, he could make out several items of women’s clothing hanging up to dry. He also saw a few piles of clothing and linens awaiting wash. On the wall, right where he remembered it, was the opening to the laundry chute. What was different was that there were several baskets and hampers blocking easy access to it.

As Xabar studied the situation, he heard the sound of the footsteps above him grow louder. He froze, hoping whoever it was would decide there was nothing worth investigating. Instead, he heard possibly the worst possible sound imaginable (unless, of course, you count the words “I’m pregnant”) — the sound of someone coming down the stairs.