Dan, the carpenter, is downstairs with Mark, his assistant, discussing floorboards. Somehow, their conversation has just shifted to coffee, namely mine, which Dan says is so strong that it could be a featured event on "Fear Factor."
"Hello!" I shout. "I'm not eavesdropping!" This has, over the months, become my code way of saying: "I am trying very hard not to overhear your conversation," which is impossible.
"I was just recommending your coffee to Mark," Dan shouts back.
"Uh-huh," I say. "Well, I'm not eavesdropping."
This has been going on since August, when Dan and his crew began rebuilding my front porch, directly beneath the second-story window of my office, where their every word would float neatly and precisely to my ears. I told them this, repeatedly. They would heed my warning, then forget and go back to their contractor talk.
And so it was not on purpose, and despite constant protest, that I got the inside contractor scoop. I became an accidental anthro-pologist. I got to know who these people are when no one is looking -- the carpenters, plumbers, electricians and other remodelers working on my house.
Among my findings: The difference between a heating guy and a cement block guy is not so much a skill set as a passion for problem-solving versus an urge to create. Also, all of these people are unfailingly polite to one another, even the father-and-son teams. (There were a lot of these.) The cement block layer would scream monster screams to his son to do this or that, and yet these transactions would always include "please," and "thank you" and "good job."
They don't gossip. When one leaves for the day, the rest never talk about him in a disparaging way. They don't discuss politics, religion or current events. They complain about pressure-treated lumber and the way it shrinks. They sing. They tease one another. Mark is afraid of birds, and Dan is a neat freak, and Ralph, the electrician, has superhuman strength.
They talk about food, Las Vegas and favorite theme parks. They love the women in their lives. Mark marvels at his girlfriend for packing his lunch each day. Dan makes his own. "My wife tried to, but I complained so much . . ." They don't curse. They don't spit or smoke. They joke about writing a play and rehearse songs about concrete and rebar.
If they divide the world at all, it is between them and "the owner." They talk about what happened on this job or that when "the owner came out." This encounter, for them, is not often a pleasant experience. Owners are indecisive. Owners have bizarre ideas. Owners are hard to please.
"Well, I'm pleased!" I shouted out one day, reminding them that I wasn't eavesdropping.
"We're not talking about you," one said. Maybe. But clearly I was one of "them." This bothered me. I'd thought we were in this together. I shouted that out to the cement block layer. "Well, then, you get out here in this mud!" he said.
I figured my research would end once the guys moved inside and began remodeling the family room, just under my office. But no. Dan discovered the need to rip out the wavy ceiling, leaving nothing between us but a piece of plywood and a layer of Berber carpeting. I now hear them through my feet. And let me take a moment here to say how fine a massage a Sawzall on a ceiling joist can provide a woman's toes.
To keep the dust out of our kitchen, we now have a solid white drape between it and the gutted family room. It has been this way since the day after Thanksgiving. I baked all my Christmas cookies against the rhythm of Dan's air compressor. He found termite damage. It was bad. He had to rip the whole floor out, then dig a new footer. Just this morning I sat in the kitchen with my husband discussing how lucky we are to have Dan, a carpenter who is utterly undeterred when problems hiding behind problems reveal themselves. We wondered how much all these solutions were going to run us. "We may have to go without shoes," I was saying, while my husband plotted a maneuver that involved a discussion of our tax bracket and various retirement savings and a profit-and-loss statement from his small business.
"Uh, I'm not eavesdropping," Dan said, from behind the curtain.
Oh. And that's right. This goes both ways. I wonder what else he's heard about my world since this job began. People who renovate houses must hold a million small secrets. Overall, and in summary, my research suggests that the right thing to do is to show them your appreciation.
Jeanne Marie Laskas's e-mail address is post@jmlaskas.com.
