I get an urgent call from Steve, an old client. He's scheduled for a new roof tomorrow. The "tear-out guy" just exposed some rotten sheathing and "for a bunch of stupid reasons" the roofing company couldn't repair it until next week. Next week it's supposed to rain.
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| Chimney cricket |
And Steve wants a cricket (which is sort of like a little gable, or saddle) installed next to the chimney, also recommended by the same roofer who is unable to do the work.
So I spend the day going up and down the ladder, 12 steps up, 12 steps down, schlepping wood, nailing. Tough on the knees. For the morning I'm alone.
Around noon, a delivery truck arrives. A man with a walrus mustache climbs my ladder and starts cursing this rustic cabin and the narrow dirt driveway and the fact that he can't get a boom or a crane or a forklift "way out here in the asshole of nowhere," and so he'll have to carry a couple thousand pounds of roofing on his shoulder up my ladder. Then, standing with his belly against the gutter, he smiles and turns chatty. He says he used to be a commercial fisherman, so he knows hard work. "Crabbing is good pay but nineteen-hour days of physical labor, it takes a price from you."
After a few minutes of smiles and chatting, he goes down the ladder and comes back up with a box of nails on his shoulder. Smiling, belly against gutter, he says, "Hey, will ya just set this down for me?"
I take the box from his extended hands — and of course it weighs 50 pounds. He smiled me into a con. My back gives a twinge as I set the box on some sheathing. Sure, the job would take half the time if he could hand me all his bundles, but he's the one getting paid for it. We serve different bosses.
"That's all," I say. "Sorry, but I've got a back."
"I've got a back, too," he says. But then he cheerfully carries the cedar shingles by himself, while telling me in installments with each trip up the ladder about his 74-year-old mom who's had 5 heart operations, 3 triple bypasses, plus she has diabetes and gets dialysis. He thinks she's great. I think of my tax dollars at work.
At the end of the day, the county building inspector shows up. Fortunately I've just finished. Cricket built, sheathing in place. The roof is naked, skylights removed, 2 inch gaps like stripes between each board. Fine furniture below, draped with sheets against dust.
I've dealt with this inspector for years. He has white hair, a clear gaze, a soft spot for babies. Standing in the mud, looking up, he says, "Tell me about it."
From the roof I say, "One by four sheathing, five and a half on center, two nails per rafter, eight penny galvanized."
"Good. You pass."
The mustache guy calls down from the roof: "You don't want to look at it?"
The inspector waves his hand at the ladder. "I'm sixty-eight years old," he says.
Mustache guy says, "Hey, man. You could retire."
The inspector signs the job sheet, then hangs the clipboard on a nail by the chimney. "When you retire," he says, "you die."
Mustache guy comes half way down the ladder, points to a roll of 30-pound felt paper at the feet of the inspector and says with a smile, "Would you mind handing that up to me?"
The inspector sighs and, hands in pockets, walks slowly back to his Jeep. A few drops of rain are starting to fall.
The sky is suddenly black. Crap! Somebody goofed at the weather center. It's a downpour. Hustling without a word of discussion — not my job, but not his either — mustache guy and myself unfold sheets of blue plastic tarp and anchor them with bundles of shingles. Our feet slip on the wet plastic. It's dangerous. The inspector has climbed the ladder and is holding one corner.
We get drenched. A few grunts, but no bickering. Because in the end, we all serve the same Boss.
In the foggy cabs of our two trucks, one Jeep, heaters blasting, hair dripping, we drive home, our separate ways.
So I spend the day going up and down the ladder, 12 steps up, 12 steps down, schlepping wood, nailing. Tough on the knees. For the morning I'm alone.
Around noon, a delivery truck arrives. A man with a walrus mustache climbs my ladder and starts cursing this rustic cabin and the narrow dirt driveway and the fact that he can't get a boom or a crane or a forklift "way out here in the asshole of nowhere," and so he'll have to carry a couple thousand pounds of roofing on his shoulder up my ladder. Then, standing with his belly against the gutter, he smiles and turns chatty. He says he used to be a commercial fisherman, so he knows hard work. "Crabbing is good pay but nineteen-hour days of physical labor, it takes a price from you."
After a few minutes of smiles and chatting, he goes down the ladder and comes back up with a box of nails on his shoulder. Smiling, belly against gutter, he says, "Hey, will ya just set this down for me?"
I take the box from his extended hands — and of course it weighs 50 pounds. He smiled me into a con. My back gives a twinge as I set the box on some sheathing. Sure, the job would take half the time if he could hand me all his bundles, but he's the one getting paid for it. We serve different bosses.
"That's all," I say. "Sorry, but I've got a back."
"I've got a back, too," he says. But then he cheerfully carries the cedar shingles by himself, while telling me in installments with each trip up the ladder about his 74-year-old mom who's had 5 heart operations, 3 triple bypasses, plus she has diabetes and gets dialysis. He thinks she's great. I think of my tax dollars at work.
At the end of the day, the county building inspector shows up. Fortunately I've just finished. Cricket built, sheathing in place. The roof is naked, skylights removed, 2 inch gaps like stripes between each board. Fine furniture below, draped with sheets against dust.
I've dealt with this inspector for years. He has white hair, a clear gaze, a soft spot for babies. Standing in the mud, looking up, he says, "Tell me about it."
From the roof I say, "One by four sheathing, five and a half on center, two nails per rafter, eight penny galvanized."
"Good. You pass."
The mustache guy calls down from the roof: "You don't want to look at it?"
The inspector waves his hand at the ladder. "I'm sixty-eight years old," he says.
Mustache guy says, "Hey, man. You could retire."
The inspector signs the job sheet, then hangs the clipboard on a nail by the chimney. "When you retire," he says, "you die."
Mustache guy comes half way down the ladder, points to a roll of 30-pound felt paper at the feet of the inspector and says with a smile, "Would you mind handing that up to me?"
The inspector sighs and, hands in pockets, walks slowly back to his Jeep. A few drops of rain are starting to fall.
The sky is suddenly black. Crap! Somebody goofed at the weather center. It's a downpour. Hustling without a word of discussion — not my job, but not his either — mustache guy and myself unfold sheets of blue plastic tarp and anchor them with bundles of shingles. Our feet slip on the wet plastic. It's dangerous. The inspector has climbed the ladder and is holding one corner.
We get drenched. A few grunts, but no bickering. Because in the end, we all serve the same Boss.
In the foggy cabs of our two trucks, one Jeep, heaters blasting, hair dripping, we drive home, our separate ways.
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