“I don’t understand! How could it cost that much? They’re just BOXES!!” Mark’s tone had suddenly taken a turn, and become accusing, maybe even a little hostile. He was referring to the estimate I was presenting for remodeling his kitchen and building him brand new cabinets. I suppose it’s a fair question. But, I can’t help but feel insulted. Just Boxes?? I have spent 30 years as a finished carpenter, and have gotten heavily into kitchen design the last 15 or so. And, I’m pretty damn good at it, if I do say so myself. As much as I want to take the high road and calmly explain to Mark why it’s not just some “boxes”, temptation gets the best of me.
“You know, you’re right! Why don’t YOU build them YOURSELF! They’re just boxes!” I blurted, perhaps slightly un-professionally. See, I’m a contractor, so, of course, I know how to build stuff. But, in addition, my job requires me to be equal parts technician, salesman, accountant, estimator, craftsman, problem solver, psychologist, miracle worker, and in this case, diplomat. And, most days, I do a reasonable job balancing all of them. OK,… maybe two of them.
After a little damage control, I take the last sip from the mug of coffee Marks wife, Ella, had poured for me earlier, and the three of us walk awkwardly toward the front door. We pass the staircase, in all it’s wood crafted wonder, and I think back to when they had me build it for them. Man, it must be 3 or 4 years ago now. It’s a circular piece of art, the focal point of the foyer. It features beautifully paneled newel posts and hand-made solid hickory stair steps, which we had painstakingly fit. The stocky lathe turned spindles follow the curve in a perfect geometric array. We even had to custom laminate the espresso-stained handrail, which sits in stark contrast to the beautifully white lacquered wainscot, all poised under an extravagant crystal chandelier. This view is like a picture straight from the pages of Better Homes and Gardens magazine. Ungrateful much? I think to myself. Truthfully, I’m a bit surprised about Mark’s little outburst. Typically, once I have worked for someone, and they know what I’m capable of, the shrewd negotiations cease, and there is a higher level of trust. Mark must have missed the memo on that one.
Once inside my truck, I feel the need to vent. I immediately text my wife: “I.H.M.F.J.”. She will recognize the acronym, which stands basically for I Hate My Job. It’s not that I feel this way every day; I don’t. But, I assume that everyone has those days when you wonder why you do what you do. Is it too much to ask to make a salary that I can feed my family on? I’m an expert in my field, with a stellar reputation for top-notch quality, but I’m definitely not getting rich doing what I do. Mark’s insult is really putting me in a grumpy mood.
As I drive to the next of many stops I need to make today, I think back on the events that got me here. It’s not like as a kid I dreamt about growing up to be a carpenter. Originally, I just took an apprentice job to put gas in my tank and strings on my guitar until fame and fortune found me. But, in short order, I started getting good at the woodwork, and the paychecks grew. It evolved into more career than job, but it was never my passion. After 10 years honing the craft, branching out and going to work for myself was just a natural progression. Besides, the fame and fortune were taking longer to find me than I originally figured.
But, it certainly is no stroll through the park. Running a small business in California has no shortage of beurocratic red tape. Pay days are irregular. It’s really easy to underestimate a job and lose money. Good help IS hard to find. And, for every hour of productive, hands-on work, there is at least an hour of paperwork and design; usually late at night, when all I want to do is turn off and rest. In fact, I got so frustrated with self-employment during a slow period back in 1998 that I hung it all up and went back to work for another local company. Of course, it didn’t last too long; turns out that I got very used to the freedom I had had working for myself, and punching a clock just wasn’t for me. I made a vow to NEVER allow my schedule to slow down again. No matter how booked out I ever am, I look at and bid jobs almost every single day.
I stop in to my woodshop, where Guiermo, my faithful employee, is hard at work building drawers for a vanity we are making.
“Let’s finish this up, and we can head over to the Simmons job to install the spindles”, I tell him.
Guiermo knows that by ‘let’s’, I mean him. Most days he takes it all in stride, but occasionally I can read his body language and know that he is annoyed with my lack of organization. Today, it looks like he is sporting a new haircut; his salt-and-pepper cap is cropped close. The lines on his face have become more noticeable lately; evidence, I assume, of his internal stresses. See, he has a daughter who is eleven years old, and has a list of diseases that he can’t even articulate to me with his limited English. She has never spoken a word, and never taken a step. Her doctors’ appointments, even now, are so frequent that Guiermo needs a workday off once every 3 to 4 weeks. But he shows up on time and works hard, and I have come to depend on him. After all, I spend more time with him, five days a week, than I do with my wife, and I have since clear back before 9/11. He is a blessing for me, and another responsibility, which sometimes adds to my stress level.
I get a text from my insurance agent, reminding me that my premium is due. The next text is from my wife, reminding me that our son Chad’s school needs the final payment for his upcoming trip to Florida, by tomorrow. All on top of the mortgage, which just jumped in interest rate last month, and is due next week. That’s great. It’s gonna take a regular miracle to fulfill all of my obligations. I feel pressure mounting in my chest, like a giant invisible Sumo wrestler is squeezing the air out of me. Where is that fame and fortune already?? The pressure does nothing to put me in a better mood.
Guiermo and I head off to the jobsite, and I get him started on the iron spindle installation. Thank God he is intelligent, and learns fast. He has become an expert at this task, and I typically leave him to do it alone.
Today is no exception. I know he will do it well, and I’ve got plenty of other critical tasks to perform before the sun goes down. Sometimes I feel like a triage doctor in the E.R. I suddenly feel the need for a trip to Starbucks, in hopes that a caffeinated beverage will help sooth my nerves. It doesn’t, but it sure tastes good.
The next few stops are regulars, and part of an almost daily routine. At the bank, all the tellers call me by name, and I feel like I know each of them well, as I tend to chat long after the business of business is complete. Call it the “Gift of Gab”, my wife thinks it’s a major distraction, but I actually think that it has helped my business, to be social and extroverted. After the bank, it’s on to the wood store, where I spend so much time that I know every salesman, and probably 75% of the patrons. Today I talk with no fewer than three former co-workers, and we exchange mini stories about difficult customers. I relate my tale about ‘Mark’, and maybe embellish just a bit.
Finally, it’s back to the Simmons jobsite, where I have an appointment to meet Mr. and Mrs. Simmons and go over the final invoice, which I had printed as an afterthought, on my 3rd attempt to leave the house this morning. When I arrive, the Simmons’ are both standing in the entryway, watching Guiermo, who has by now almost completed the installation, and the staircase looks amazing! I can tell just from the looks on their faces that they feel the same way. We make our way into the kitchen and stand around the island (which I will eventually overhaul) and talk about the finished project.
As Mr. Simmons searches for his checkbook, his wife opens:
“We are just over the Moon about the staircase. It has exceeded our expectations in every way!”
… and there is was! I haven’t even been paid yet, but her compliment has instantly melted my poor mood away just like that! She goes on to tell me how much she appreciated our cleanliness, our attention to detail, and our pleasant demeanor during construction. They take turns telling me that the staircase turned out exactly the way they had envisioned it, and how their neighbors have all already been gawking at the quality.
Every time they speak, my heart warms a little more, and I begin to realize that, although it may not be glamorous, there are definitely some positive perks about my job:
1) My typical work attire is shorts and a tee-shirt, which suits my casual lifestyle;
2) Every day is a different adventure, which keeps me from getting bored, and suits my short attention span fine. And
3) I get to interact with all kinds of people, which, I’ve decided, I really do enjoy.
And, so, it turns out that I don’t H.M.F.J. after all. But I do thrive on the compliments; the ego stroke; the kudos I get after putting forth my very best effort on these projects, every bit as much as actually getting paid. I guess payment for services can come in more ways than one.
modestmisadventures 