HANDYMAN SPECIAL

 

green_acres_set_at_general_service_studios

When you buy an old house it’s a forgone conclusion that you’re going to have handymen in your life. Where you find them depends on circumstance, friendship, good or bad luck and poor judgment. As a first time homeowner I did the one thing everyone tells you not to do. I looked in the Pennysaver. I found George. No last name was ever given and when we tried to track him down it turned out the address of his business didn’t exist. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When George arrived, I directed his attention to the strip of lawn that consisted of a few patches of crabgrass struggling to compete with the dandelions and plantains. “We were thinking of putting a walkway along here and a patio in the backyard,” I said pointing.

George grunted a monosyllabic sound as he looked at the ground.

Taking this as encouragement I added, “I’m thinking red brick. It would be so charming, don’t you think?”

“Interlocking,” he mumbled.

“Interlocking?”

George pulled a folded brochure out of his back pocket and pointed to a picture of an interlocking patio resting up against a multimillion dollar house and yard.

“Well… I guess that could work,” I said slowly.

“And I want half up front.”

I nodded and backed away afraid I would jinx the deal.

“It’s all settled,” I proclaimed to Rob who had been avoiding any encounter with George.

“Maybe we should get another price,” Rob suggested. “Did he give you a written estimate?”

I paused. “No.”

“A timeframe?”

I said nothing.

Rob was on a roll. “Did he give you any references?”

“And you found him in the Pennysaver?”

“Well who did you find?” I asked to no response. “Exactly!” I smirked. “And isn’t that the point of the Pennysaver? So there’s no problem.”

We soon learned what the problem was when he started the job. Sometime during the first hour of work our neighbor came over and asked George to fix his steps across the street. George agreed and the next day his men showed up for work at our neighbor’s house instead of ours. The day after that he moved onto third job. Everyone had paid him half upfront and nobody’s work was complete. Our neighbor tried to sue him and we learned the phone number listed in the Pennysaver was now out of service. Then our neighbor tried to convince us to pay for their lost payment to George and have us deduct that amount from George’s remaining bill.

“That’s insane,” Rob finally chimed in. “Why would we do that?”

“You recommended him!”

“You stole him!” he countered.

When George and his workers did show up again he nickel-and-dimed each step proclaiming it wasn’t part of the original price. For example, the Belgium block border he pointed to in the glamorous brochure picture was an additional ten dollars a block installed. The work in our yard was eventually finished but the experience was so stressful and overpriced I vowed never to use the Pennysaver again.

My next brainchild was to hire the man who left a hand written index card in our screen door. It read:

Gutters cleaned and a phone number.

“Our gutters are a mess and this guy said front and back, fifty-bucks.”

“Get a reference,” Rob said.

“Ooo…kay,” I said, knowing I had already hired him.

stan-laurel-oliver-hardy

The next day Glenn showed up with his sidekick Jerry and the roof and gutters were cleaned within half an hour. They took their money and that would have been the end of it but I was so happy to have two eager workers readily available. I asked about chopping wood. There was still the business of the fallen tree in the lower yard.

On the coldest day of the year, Glenn and Jerry drank Pepsi, smoked cigarettes and chopped a two hundred year old Maple tree into hundreds of fireplace-sized logs. They worked all day with nary a break and climbed the steps to our home with frozen fingers and sweating brows. They sat in the kitchen drinking hot chocolate and I gave them the cash they deserved. Glenn always took the money and paid Jerry himself.

I thought I had found the handyman dream team so when the Spring rolled around I called Glenn (the boss) and lined up a series of jobs: a deer fence, cement repair, re-gravel the driveway and painting the decks.

They started the work with reckless abandon barely stopping to eat or drink. Danger signs were everywhere but I kept ignoring them. We saw them sneak into the woods at odd moments, reappear and sneak off again. Their speech was garbled on occasion and they smoked constantly and downed liters of Pepsi but avoided solid food as far as I could tell. They argued a lot until Glenn would say, “Who’s running this job site anyway?” Jerry always backed down.

Laurel and Hardy

They showed up with black eyes on more than one occasion from what was described as a “friendly fight” the night before.

“Boys will be boys,” Glenn said, when I expressed concern.

One day I arrived home from work and Rob was waiting for me.

“Go look over the deck,” he said stony faced.

“Why?” I asked slowly.

“Oh, you’ll see,” he said with crossed arms.

I peered over the deck at the splayed body of Glenn spread eagled on the steps leading into the yard.

Since Glenn and Jerry started working for us we had learned a few things about them. Jerry had bad teeth and lived in a  house with other transients. Glenn wore expensive clothes from L.L. Bean and had parents who continued to monitor and support him even though he was thirty-six. They both had DUI’s and were dropped off by Glenn’s father, or they walked. Sometimes gypsy cabs rolled up to get them. Still I kept hiring them because they showed up, had reasonable rates and workers were hard to find. As the Spring had worn on the quality of the work began to fall off. The previous week they had raked a lot of the gravel meant for our pull-off over to the neighbor’s curb. Now, utterly perplexed, I stared down at Glenn’s lifeless body.

Rob walked up behind me. “He’s drunk, well he was until he passed out.”

“Drunk?”

“Drunk, drugged, what’s the difference?” Rob said. “I saw Jerry stumbling away from our house on my way home and knew something was wrong.”

“He looks dead.”

“No he’s breathing, I checked.”

We tried to rouse him to no avail.

“Should we call his parents?” I asked.

“I was thinking police! You never learn your lesson when you hire people. No references, no licenses. If they fall off our roof who get’s sued? We do!”

Some time later Glenn opened his eyes, stumbled up onto our deck and slurred out a long incoherent song he had written that was going to make him famous. I made him some ice tea which he filled with half a cup of sugar and never drank. He chained smoked sitting at our table like an invited guest and told us things about his “woman” nobody would want to know. Finally we coaxed him into the car and Rob drove him to his parents.

His parents never acknowledged the episode but invited us over to play Parcheesi like were Glenn’s new friends. We politely declined.

At one point Glenn quit being a boss and went to work for Cutco Knives. He begged us to let him come over and listen to his pitch. We nervously acquiesced. He cut a penny with a scissor and one half flew into the air and hit me. Then he struggled to saw a piece of rope in half with a knife. We were supposed to be so impressed with his demonstration that we would be persuaded to spend hundreds of dollars on Cutco knives.

Instead I said, “Oh, my.”

“Neat,” Rob said without an ounce of encouragement.

“My parents bought this whole line,” he said, pointing to a six-hundred dollar knife set in a catalogue. “These are the best steak knives in the world.”

“We don’t eat meat.”

“My parents really like these knives.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “But we don’t eat meat.”

His sales pitch was complete.

We did buy a “Japanese” vegetable knife for one hundred and sixty-one dollars and change. We had to help him fill out the order form. He called and told us he had won an award for best new recruit because of our knife and his parents’ set. Unfortunately they represented his first and last sales.

I’d like to write that he went into rehab and we never hired him again but that would be untrue. Glenn and Jerry still came calling a few more times and we offered small jobs with little chance of accidents. Eventually Glenn’s parents sold their home and moved away and Glenn apparently with them. I don’t know what happened to Jerry but he’s probably better off without his boss.

green_acres

As for us, all repairmen are now hired by Rob from a reliable reference. It takes a while because their calendars are pretty booked but there’s a lot less drama. The best handymen are worth the wait.

Advertisements

WHO DOESN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE?

Quotation-Carson-Mccullers

I remember glancing through my parent’s address book when I was a young child and coming across an unfamiliar name.

“Who’s Elmer?” I asked my mother.

“Someone we used to know.”

“Why don’t you know him anymore?”

“First they moved away and then we did. Now we both live in different states.” She paused before finishing. “He was your godparent.”

My godparent? Being a godparent varies in importance by family and religion but it loosely means someone agrees to take care of you if something were to prevent your own parents from doing so. Now being or having a godparent in my family didn’t hold a lot of meaning but my parents were close enough  with Elmer that they asked him to hold me during my baptism.  I don’t remember ever meeting him. It was a story I never pursued like the endless names of missing or dead people that clutter the pages of handwritten address books everywhere.

Baptism.146174950_std

Next month we will be living at our lake house for fourteen years. It is the longest I have lived anywhere since my childhood in Illinois. I like to think that I have kept myself abreast of the transformations around the small community. The abandoned cabins that have been plucked from obscurity by young couples just starting out. The writer who sold his novel and moved to Manhattan. The old man who no longer walks his small dog but now walks alone. This represents physical evidence of the changes that keep taking place around the lake.

I never take the time to scroll through my iphone address book and update each contact. Like most people I make corrections or additions on an as need basis. My hardcopy however is a habit I cannot drop. I flip through the pages periodically and note the changes. It is a stroll through the past outfitted with old appointments, saved Christmas cards and past acquaintances and family members. Each name that gets crossed off tells a story however small about my life since we moved in.IMG_0958

Back in 2003 after a lot of back and forth with the district my son was bumped up to a higher level math class in November well after the class had started. Jon, a colleague from my job drove north every weekend to our lake house and caught Jackson up to the rest of the class. They sat together in the dining room on Sunday mornings overlooking the lake as Jack went through each concept next to Jon who watched the hawks fly across the freezing lake. His address and phone number and friendly visits were so important to us then that I thought he would always be in my life. But now he’s retired and has settled in New Hampshire in his own lake community.
It took months to locate someone willing to tackle the clean-up of the 200 year old Maple tree that fell silently into the lake while we slept one summer night. I wrote about this episode last summer in the post Satan One Us Zero. The tree man was named Gleason- I think that was his last name and we keep his name in the address book waiting for the next tree disaster which at this writing has never arrived.

A carpenter listed as Fred built the steps that connect our upper and lower decks. Before Fred, no one could figure out how to build the steps or else they didn’t want the job. Fred liked to talk about his former life in Alaska. He kept noisy huskies that he screamed at to shut up in the frozen Alaskan nights. He listened to right wing radio all day long hoping Sarah Palin would run for president. The steps were the single best improvement we ever made in our house because they changed how we functioned. We wanted Fred back so he could fix the dock that was smashed by the falling tree. He promised to come later that month but never did. Maybe it was our Obama 2008 bumper stickers on each car.IMG_0948

Plumbers, electricians and other repairman will stay put in the book unless there’s a good reason to cross them off. Dyckman’s Wildlife Control number was added to the book when an injured raccoon sat at the threshold of our open basement door one morning. Upon discovering him I screamed so loud Rob thought someone was trying to murder me. I screamed the same way when I slipped on my aqua shoe and discovered a dead mouse inside or I when I was unclogging the filter on the fountain and pulled out a dead bird. This time my screams made the raccoon run deeper into the basement.Raccoon Head So we had to call in a professional. It’s a good thing we kept his name in the book because a few years later a squirrel fell down the chimney and was trapped inside the fireplace until Dyckman arrived.

The next crossed off name is Alison my former yoga instructor. For years she taught an obscure type of yoga called Kundalani on the dusty community center floor. She made tea and passed out granola bars and told every participant that Monsanto is the devil incarnate. They are, but most of the people who tried the class ate the free bars and never came back. I was the only class member on more than one occasion. Everything Alison does in her life is towards the promotion of health. I desperately wanted to be like her but fell short in too many areas to mention. Before indulging, I sometimes ask myself, “is this something Alison would eat?” Last year she moved away with her three year old daughter but I have her email on my computer so technically we could be in touch. I keep trying to think up something to ask her but all I really want is to roll up my yoga matt and walk down to the community center and take her yoga class.

Our Community Center

Our Community Center

The last name I came to is the child of a friend named Patsy. Patsy died twelve summers ago this May. She never wanted me to move to the lake house and kept looking for houses near her that we could trade up to. She was killed near her home by a drunk driver and I used to think that if I never moved away events would have been altered and maybe her fate would have turned out differently. I no longer think this but each time I read her daughter’s name I say, “I really have to call her up and see how she’s doing.” She’s grown up, married, possibly a mother and working as a teacher. I’m probably never going to call her but I decided not to cross off her name. She and I both know we can’t change the past but seeing her in my book helps me remember it. Maybe that’s why Elmer stayed too.