"Yeah."
"Then let it go. We'll handle it. It'll cost time and money, it'll suck, we'll all sacrifice our weekend, but it ain't on you, buddy. I'm the boss. It's my name on the door. Buck stops with me, not you. Yeah?"
He sighs, a big, blustery sigh of acceptance. "Yeah, I got it. Just sucks."
"I ever tell you about the time a new guy tried to show initiative and accidentally burned down a build we were four days from turning over to Mackenzie?"
Mackenzie Laird is our broker, in charge of selling our builds—she was a marketing and sales guru who could sell water to a fish.
"How the hell?"
I chuckled. "Investigator said he was trying to do something with the wiring that never got finished, something shorted, sparked, caught, and he barely got out alive."
Bear snorts, and the sound is decidedly ursine. "If y'ain’t got the training, you don't touch plumbing or electrical."
I consider my own intention to do the plumbing and electrical work here myself. "That is true. And since then, I've made a point of making that clear to all my newbies. Stay in your lane. If you don't KNOW you know how to do something, don't fuckin' do it."
I make sure the keys for the cherry picker are safely locked in the glove box of my truck, double-check the site to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, and then slam the tailgate closed.
"A'ight, Bear, I'll see you there in fifteen."
"Yes, sir. Sorry to fuck over your Saturday."
"Quit fuckin' apologizing, man, Jesus.”
He lets out a grunt that sounds like a growl. "Whatever. See you." I laugh as he hangs up on me.
One last glance at my site—my hammer is still where I tossed it after smashing my stupid thumb. I grab it and chuck it into the orange 5-gallon bucket of frequently used tools I keep strapped into the front left corner of my bed, smack the white cap in place, and take off.
I arrive at Aspenview Lane and park in the street behind a line of pickups, a battered blue late 90s Suburban, and a cube van with the rolling door open to reveal emergency restoration equipment. I hear pumps going as I approach the open front door, stepping over a mess of cables and hoses on my way to the basement.
"Holy fuck," I mutter as I reach the bottom of the steps.
The basement is unutterably fucked. Water sloshes knee deep. Bear's voice, deep and quiet and rumbling, carries over the rest despite the fact that he rarely raises his voice above a murmur. I rub my forehead with a knuckle, assessing what's gonna have to be done to unfuck this.
All the drywall down here, just completed yesterday, is gonna have to come out. The luxury vinyl plank flooring has to come up—we might be able to salvage it if we get the water up fast enough and get things dry. We'll have to go through all the wiring down here, all the outlets…the list of items keeps on racking up as I move through the basement.
I find the crew in the mechanical room, several worksite utility lights hanging from the ceiling to illuminate the area. They're focused on a section of plumbing near the water softener.
"What do we got, boys?" I ask, grabbing one of the lights and shining it on the section they're looking at.
"Hey, Boss," Bear says. He points at a junction where the main supply branches off to feed through the softener. "One hundred percent installer error." He points. "Ain't a plumber, but this don't look right to me."
I examine the junction. "Good god almighty," I snap. "What kinda fuckin' glue-sniffing numbnuts did this kindergarten bullshit?"
The guys all clam up, so I look at Bear. "Who was doing plumbing?"
He glances at the ceiling. "Calloway's guys. We've used them for years—you have, I mean. This is my first build with them. I don't know the particular person who did this, though."
"Well, a blind monkey coulda done a better job at this fucking junction." I hand Bear the light and pull out my phone, take a handful of close-ups from different angles.
The next thing I do is take a video of the flooding. I spend the next hour going through the fix process with Bear, making sure he understands what all has to happen. Once I'm satisfied that he's got it, I head back up to my truck, sit on the tailgate, and take off my boots and socks.
I dial Holden Calloway; it rings twice before his gravelly pack-a-day voice answers. "Felix." That's Holden for you—no nonsense, no wasted words.
"Holden, we got an issue, man."
A soft growl, the click-scrape of a lighter, and a breath as he exhales smoke. “Talk to me."
