Roof! Roof!

Did I tell you guys that Harvey also ate my roof?  I spent the first couple of weeks after the hurricane walking around in a delicate delirium, the phrase, “I was lucky” on repeat, thinking my house had only lost a few shingles and the fence.  However, when the next big rain came, I noticed the ceilings bulging like inexpertly packed sausages. The dolorous hippopotamus that was Harvey got me good.

It took a couple of further weeks before we could get a hot date with the TWIA (Texas Windstorm Insurance Association) inspector. During that time the G.P. (Great Provider) began calling roofers.

The first rep to show up was a young lady named Ermine, who was stuffed so thoroughly into yoga pants that she was reminiscent of the aforementioned sausages.  She nimbly climbed onto my house and inspected the damage. Her verdict was (of course) that the entire roof would have to be replaced, as well as all the internal ceilings and possibly some of the walls. I was heartbroken.  Dad was skeptical. He refused to sign a contract that second, but said that her company could come and tarp the house to prevent more damage.  They never showed up.  A week later, I angrily mowed their sign, and vowed to never trust women named after fur.

Rain was coming when the second batch of roofers showed up.  No one called them. At this point, contractors were showing up like particularly predatory toadstools.  They tarped the house right then. We made an appointment to discuss options, and the new roofers showed up right on time.

We all sat at my dining table to hammer out a contract.  The roofers were assertive, but seemed to be knowledgeable and (at that point) had proven themselves far superior to other companies simply by showing up.  Mom decided on one of those new-fangled metal roofs (even though they were much more expensive), and I agreed after finding out that it could save me up to 40% per year on energy bills.  The Rev convinced Dad (who admitted he was curious), and he signed a contract right then and there.

That’s when the Play-Dough crap factory started churning out various stars and quarter moons of bullpuckey.  The contractor missed appointments to put on the new roof for over two weeks. Dad panicked because the job had to get done, and we’d evidently signed a contract with a disaster carpetbagger that had no intention of working.  My house looked like a hobo squat for nearly a month.  I was tempted to put on fingerless gloves and cook hot dogs over a trashcan fire just to complete the image. I am nothing if not theatrical.

When the crew finally showed, everyone was greatly relieved.  They made short work of the old shingles, and started to apply the white steel.

It looked awful.  There’s no nice way to put this: my roof looked nothing like the picture they’d shown us when they sold us the material. The metal they used looked like corrugated tin, with huge exposed hex nuts sticking out everywhere.  They furthered the image of “ancient bayou juke joint” by leaving a four inch lip hanging over the front of the house.

I text messaged our rep to tell her that the installation was incorrect, “Um, this is seriously wrong.  I’m not selling bathtub gin to alligator enthusiasts out on the Bayou.”

“What did you think it was going to look like?” she replied.

I then sent her 83 pictures of metal roofs.  The only picture in 800 Google image search results that even resembled my roof was a picture of a decrepit shed that was taken during the Dust Bowl. She said she’d be right over.

By the time she arrived, the G.P. had checked the job and found that, on top of the terrible aesthetics (think backwoods incest shanty), the workers had over-tightened the hex nuts and ruined the neoprene washers – insuring leaks.

“I knew they did it wrong.” asserted the G.P., “I’ve installed this crap on barns at least 20 times. You don’t use it on homes.”

A massive fight ensued, and work was stopped cold.  The company agreed that the installation was faulty, but wouldn’t provide either the correct material or any guarantee that the next crew would be able to install it. Up and down the ladder went my 73 year old father, endlessly arguing in two languages.

On Halloween night, I discovered that the metal roof was leaking. I sat underneath the swollen spars of my living room, wearing my Max from “Where the Wild Things Are” costume, fatalistically drinking mescal because it “went with the ulcer these [redacted] are giving me.”

Dad felt terrible. “I’m getting old, Ab,” he said, quietly. “I didn’t do my due diligence and get three separate bids. I should just quit.”

I knew just what he was doing. I’m guilty of this kind of thinking, too.

I hate it when I put a pillow in a pillowcase and the tag sticks out the open end. I have this set of pillows that, for some unknown reason, I just couldn’t ever get the tag inside.  I figured it was the same as never being able to put the fitted sheet on the right way the first time.  I left that tag sticking out, as evidence, punishing myself for generalized incompetence — just a little itchy bit of negativity.

Two weeks ago, I finally got angry at myself for allowing anxiety over absolutely nothing, and triumphantly tore the tags off those pillows. The next time I put the pillows in their cases, the stupid tags were STILL sticking out. I freaked out a little, and pulled the pillows out of the cases. There were originally tags on both ends of the pillows.  Some things are just two-taggers.  It doesn’t matter how you move, you’re damned no matter what.

“Dad, you caught them. You saved it from being a lot worse. No one else could have done what you did, or would have.” I told him.

“At least I’ll be dead before we have to put another roof on the house,” he said.  “All the lessons I’ve learned will be lost.”

“I learned stuff, too, Dad.” I replied, perhaps a little bitterly. I did read a 28 page manual entitled “Installing C-F Panels,” and now know altogether too much about various types of roofing screws.

He patted my hand.  He had read the same boring instructions.

We threw in the towel before the property was totally decimated and let them shingle the roof.  My house doesn’t look like it’s a pastel pink paint job away from being a Juarez crack house any more, but my side yard is piled with rejected metal.  The roofers were supposed to reclaim it yesterday. I’m not too worried about it, though. Pick-up trucks are already making slow, predatory circles around my block.  That problem, at least, will take care of itself.