Bad Boys, Bad Boys When Hurricane Andrew hit Florida, suddenly every man with two arms and most
of his fingers went into the roofing business. They were not all experienced or
honest. Now that they got most of the shingles barely tacked back in place so
they’ll blow off in the next big wind, it seems this group of men have
descended on Austin to become custom builders during this mini-boom of home
construction.
Yeah, yeah, there are plenty of honest builders. I was once one myself, albeit
a small timer. But recently, everyone I talk to who is having a home built or
extensively remodeled has hired the Jeffrey Dahmer of contractors: a butcher, a
sneak, and a psychopath. Because I once viewed the home-building process from
the other side of an often traumatic dividing line, I have little tolerance for
homeowners’ petty whining. I mean, we dealt with a woman who pulled all the
tile we’d installed off the wall and countertops because she was convinced they
were all different colors and blamed us when her cat miscarried. One couple we
almost worked for would only speak to us in Portuguese. (They were nerdy,
full-blooded Americans who had somehow gained social acceptance while on
vacation in Brazil.) And another man fired us because we found rats behind his
stove.
But these recent complaints by neighbors and friends about the Men Who Call
Themselves Contractors (and 97% of contractors are male) are not petty. Nine
months ago, our neighbors, Mr. and
Mrs. K, approached the building of their
home with admirable patience, maturity, and the firm understanding that there
would be snags; there always are. They chose their builder (who also calls
himself an architect) not for his cantankerous, brusque personality, but for
his low bid, his eagerness to begin the project and what looked like good
referrals. They watched in stunned amazement as he hired framing crews who
apparently don’t own a level or a plumb bob. Parts of the roof rafters had to
be shaved off so the edge of the metal roofing would meet the facia boards. The
rough-in holes for doors and windows, certain interior walls, and all of the
back porch tilt at odd angles that would make the designer of the
Expressionistic set of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari beam with delight. To
compound the problem, the same wacky-shack framers were entrusted with trimming
out these trapezoids, which leads us to the musical question: How much caulk
can a home hold up? But now, as the project nears its end, the damage
transcends the physical into the realm of the financial. The contractor has
made all his draws from the bank, up to the final 10% which is typically
withheld until everything is finished, but Mr. and Mrs. K are now
receiving phone calls from the subcontractors — the plumber, the painter and
tile setters — wondering where their money is.
This is nearly the same scenario played out at Mr. and Mrs. J’s house, except
that the work that has been done has been done well. But very little of it has
been paid for, subcontractors are slapping liens on the house right and left,
and Mr. and Mrs. J’s bank, in their great altruistic wisdom, has given the
contractor, who is now officially listed as MIA, all the money.
Both of these cases are destined for court, not a happy place. So, how do you
hire a reputable contractor? Is there still such a thing since I traded in my
hammer for a computer keyboard? Tune in next week when we explore the wild
world of builder associations, the Better Business Bureau, references and
“iron-clad” contracts.
This article appears in March 7 • 1997 and March 7 • 1997 (Cover).