Roofin' ain't Easy

Post-apocalyptic construction progress has been slow here at La Casa del Pheewrap. The roof, a surprisingly important part of any home, it turns out, has been my white whale for several weeks now. Finally, with all preparations in order and the weather cooperating, the day of the grand reconciliation was upon us. Blue sheets of hole-riddled, wind-whipped plastic would be replaced by a glorious battery of little asphalt soldiers all lined up nice and neat to protect my wounded home from the elements. A big-boy roof!!

Then, this:

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From: dkern@derprestoration.com
To: pheewrap@hurtmail.com
Subject: Re: Tomorrow
Date: Wed, 8 Sep 2010 16:05:57 -0400

Pheewrap,

I just received word that my roofer's father died yesterday, which is why we were able to offload the shingles but not able to actually complete the repairs. I have another trusted roofer coming to you tomorrow (definitely).

I swear to you that I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. Insulation and all other work is still scheduled to be completed this week. HVC work was done today.

Dervil
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OK. I mean, what do you say to that? So maybe it is the contractor's equivalent of "the dog ate my homework," I don't know. All I knew was that I wasn't going to ask for a death certificate or an obituary clipping. I slipped back into Zen mode and awaited the arrival of TRUSTED ROOFER.

Yesterday, I returned from my morning errands to find my saviour's noble chariot heroically positioned at the foot of my driveway:




Fuck my life.

As I warily approached my own home for the third consecutive month, my first impression was that a crazed, shirtless Jose Contreras was scrambling about on the roof like Gollum. When I was spotted, Jose gestured wildly at the one patch of shingled roof from his thirty-foot perch: "Hey big guy, you like? You like?"

I swallowed hard and asked if there was anything I could get for Jose and his guys. Team Sanford jumped at the chance to take my money and put in an order for three sandwiches. Just as I was leaving, Jose padded down the lawn with three crumpled $1 bills in his hand. They didn't smell very good. "Hey big guy," he says. "Can you grab us a pack of Newport 100's while you is out? We $2 short." I smiled, took the bills, and got in the car.

As of this moment, the tarp is still on the house, and the truck is still in the driveway. Jose and his band of merry hammerers are nowhere to be found.