Sunday, January 31, 1993
I'm re-roofing a garage. The owner wants a cheapo job.
Half way up one side, I space out for a minute and let the shingles wander slightly out of line. Disgusted, I tear out the last few shingles - but not the first ones where I'd just started to wander. They're only a wee bit out of line - only five of them out of hundreds - they'll shed water just fine - the owner isn't paying for perfection - and besides, it's Sunday. I want to finish and go home.
When I've finished the job, from the ground I look at the roof.
Like a pretty girl with one crooked tooth.
I came in under my estimate. The owner is happy. I get paid, and I feel like crap.
The trouble with cheapo jobs is that you end up producing cheapo craft - and your name is attached to it.
Now, 18 years later, it must be about time to replace that roof. Soon, I hope. It still bugs me.
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