My friend Jessica has asked me to install an air conditioner in her apartment sometime this week. In order to do this, however, we needed to get permission and a few tools from my friend, former boss, and Jessica’s building manager, Paul. Yesterday I stopped by his office after my morning swim. Miraculously, Jessica called at about the same time. Here’s how part of the phone conversation, at least the part that I could hear, went.

“Why, hello. Of course I know who Tutor Jessica is,” answered Paul. (Jessica isn’t some sort of perverse, self-involved creep. She lives in a dorm and acts as a resident tutor for the students in addition to her real-world, grown-up job.) After some obligatory chit-chat and his giving her a general hard time, Jessica was able to move him closer to her goal: the air conditioner.

Paul agreed to lend Jessica a ladder—so that I could access the wrought iron gate barring her window—and screwdriver—so that I could remove the gate and install the AC. Jessica, I believe, made a tactical error. In an attempt to be cute, she also asked for a hard hat, for my protection. Pandora herself had never opened such a box.

“Oh, yes. That’s very good. We’ll get Josh a hard hat. And we’ll get him construction boots, too.” He darted his glance over to me and smiled. “And how about a tool belt? We’ll have to get him a tool belt and a hammer,” he added.

I cut him off, “Paul, I’m not a stripper.”

Perhaps cognitive dissidence or an over-active sense of professionalism prevents my recalling what came next. I know I didn’t leave the office for another hour.