Remember Kevin Bacon in the movie Animal House where his
fraternity brothers are paddling him and after each strike he says “Thank you sir, may I have another?”

That was me today.

I ignored the inner voice that said “Joe, you’d better call your Corian
distributor and check their hours before you drive an hour to pick up that sink
for Tuesday’s job.” Easter weekend, Good Friday ring a bell? Miserable in the parking lot that I’ve
wasted two hours of driving and gasoline, I’m angry at the person I hate to be
angry at most of all. Myself.

Thank you sir, may I have another?

My phone rings and it’s a call from homeadvisor, my main lead service. They put my potential through and she explains that
she locked herself out of her home, the locksmith removed her sliding glass
door, but won’t put it back in because of “liability”. She wants to make sure it’s not going to be
more than $100.00; I do not mention my minimum is just under $300.00. She’s on
the way home anyway.

Thank you sir, may I have another?

The “locksmith” has removed the screen and disassembled the
fixed panel in order to get into the house and left it leaning against the
lanai wall. You can’t just pound the rubber gasket in the frame back onto the
glass. You have to disassemble the frame, place the rubber gasket on the glass,
tap the frame snug to the gasket and glass, and screw the frame back together. My
elderly client, who takes care of her incapacitated husband, wants to know if I
take credit cards. I tell her not to worry about it. She brings me two bottles
of water and a glass of ice.

I’m wearing pick-up-sink clothes, a silk shirt, nice shorts, and flip flops,
not jeans, T-shirt, and steel toes.

Thank you sir, may I have another?

The “carpenter” who built the non-ADA compliant ramp to the
door has the finished plywood floor ¼” higher than the door track. The
reassembled door gets within 10” or so and binds between the top track and the
plywood.

I’m sweating (this is Florida), I’ve taken 4 whacks, this
job is into its second hour and my lady appears with her checkbook. “Put that
away, please” I ask politely. She
persists. “PUT THAT AWAY” I said in the “Don’t make me stop this car” voice
your dad used when you and your sister were fighting in the back seat. I had no
control; it popped out as if I were channeling for my deceased father and
grandfather. She wisely retreated.

Thank you sir, may I have another?

The fixed panel is in place and the screen is operating. She’s back again,
insisting I don’t have to worry about the trip hazard I’ve created by grinding
down the plywood because “they never walk there”. Unfortunately, she doesn’t
know about Rick Woodruff, a lead man in the cabinet shop I used to work in 30
years ago. Any substandard work he spotted would result in a humiliating and
boisterous review to all coworkers within earshot, then and at the lunch table
later. Woody speaks to me telepathically now and let me know in no uncertain
terms that he would find such an oversight intolerable.

I’m certain Woody wanted it bondoed and painted, but he
sniffs a grudging approval at the beveled shim hot melted in place. He’s not
the only one haunting me. My mom and grandfather are watching. “That ain’t the
way you was raised, boy.” Yes, sir.

I usually ask for a broom and often get “Oh
don’t worry about that, I’ll get it.” I insist on sweeping up the worst, but
not this time. I’m certain that letting my lady sweep up a little wood shavings
is going to make her feel much better about the dollar I charged her for this
job. I have to charge her a dollar or she’s not a customer and can’t review me
on homeadvisor. I take my dollar, give her three business cards, which she’s
insisted she’ll take to the trailer park meetinghouse, and insist that she keep
my rate on this job our little secret.