Tyrant With a Tool Belt

Sometimes you have to break a few homeowners to make a house beautiful

ALL WE WANTED TO DO BEFORE WE MOVED INTO OUR NEWLY PURCHASED HOUSE WAS PAINT A FEW ROOMS, extend the built-in bookshelves and pull up some of the carpet to see -- just to see -- whether the hardwood underneath could be restored. And if it could? Well, I was going to do that myself. Not that I knew how. But I'd figure it out. Point is, our renovation goals were modest.

They had to be. My wife, Heather, and I had depleted much of our savings to buy this lovely, 100-year-old rowhouse in the District's Mount Pleasant neighborhood. At some point, there was plenty more we'd love to tackle. We could see blowing out a wall to open up the cramped kitchen, putting in a breakfast bar, replacing laminate countertops with granite and buying new appliances. In our fantasy, the backyard deck would be rebuilt, the front trim touched up, the light fixtures replaced. But all that would have to wait while our bank account recovered. So when the contractor showed up, we explained our simple ambitions and apologized that it was going to be such a small job. Our budget was a few thousand dollars, tops.

The contractor, however, waltzed into our living room, oblivious to what we were saying. He was focused on the house, taking in its features the way a sommelier tastes wine. Heather, a real estate agent, had met him through a client and had since recommended him to several others, all of whom said he did excellent work. Since she had thrown a few jobs his way, we were hoping he would give us a good deal and finish within a few weeks, before we had to be out of our old house around the corner.

We tried to talk to him about paint colors for the living room, but he didn't pay attention. This was partly because he was an immigrant from a former Soviet republic, and his English was limited. But, really, he was too busy envisioning what our house could be and making himself the master of our domain.

The dining room chandelier, he announced, would have to go. Then he declared the banister to be loose, rocking it back and forth with unnecessary force.

"I fix," he said, with a heavy accent that made it clear we were not to question him.

He marched into our kitchen, took one look and winced.

"You like?" he said in a mocking tone that made it clear he did not. "GRANITE," he said, almost shouting, while slapping the Formica. "I put in granite."

I know this is a terrible thing to say, but he reminded me a bit of Joseph Stalin. The paunch, the steely eyes, the broad shoulders, the mustache, the stentorian voice and commanding presence -- he had it all. And as he paraded through our house, I'll admit I was a little intimidated.

He opened the back door and pronounced it "cheap," derision dripping from beneath his mustache. Outside, the deck of rotting plywood sagged under his feet. He jumped up and down to exacerbate the problem: "No good. No good. I take it out. Demolition. I make nice. New."

I thought I should say something, stand firm. This was the first home I had ever owned, and it reminded me of the Brooklyn brownstone in which I'd grown up. I could see the children Heather and I hope to one day have come crashing down the steps on Christmas morning. I could see Thanksgiving dinners with far-flung family members crowded 'round the dining room table, summer twilights viewed from the front steps, daffodils blooming in the backyard garden.

This is our house, I wanted to tell him. All you're going to do is paint it and take a look at the floors. That's all we can afford.