A couple of guys are replacing my roof today. From a literal sense, they are walking all over me, but we got a good deal, so I’m letting it go.
“Free Fallin’” just came on the radio, which I hope isn’t a harbinger of things to come, mostly for them, but also for me. Anyway, I think they are insured. I should probably ask, just in case.
They are, or so they say. They don’t really speak English that well, but I think “diablos no,” followed by immense laughter, means “yes.”
I doubt they’ll fall. I don’t mind using my snow shovel to remove dead mice from my patio, but I doubt it would work on dead roofers. Dead people tend to be heavier than dead mice, at least in my experience. Besides, I never bend with my knees, which has led to an array of back problems.
Leaving them there, though, on the patio, might generate more questions than I’d be willing to answer from nosy neighbors—and the cops.
Anyway, we needed a new roof. At least, that’s what the roofing company told me. They sold me when they said it comes with a 30-year guarantee, meaning I’ll either be 70 years old when it needs to be replaced again, or dead, in which case it will be someone else’s problem.
These guys are pretty skilled. Considering I’ve owned this home for 15 years and I’ve never set foot on the roof, my threshold for being impressed includes a very low bar. Still, they are efficient. They are carrying the shingles on one shoulder, while climbing up the ladder using the other hand. That’s some Tom-Cruise-doing-his-own-stunts-for-Mission-Impossible impressive.
My cat seems pissed off by the whole thing. I would be too, if this incessant hammering interfered with my 26-hour nap. She is displaying all the telltale signs of annoyance, including, but not limited to, licking her private parts and running around the house like she’s being chased by a T-Rex.
I’d ask the roofers if they want some beers, but they might say yes. It’s not that I care if they drink and roof, though I guess I could be accused of giving them roofies if things went sideways. No, I mostly don’t want to offer it because it’s my beer and I don’t share.
“Do you have a hose?” asked one of them. “We want to wash the vinyl siding for you.”
“My hose isn’t very long or powerful,” I said.
They all laughed. It was too late to clarify that I was talking about my actual hose, and, anyway, they had their own, which was much larger than mine and far more powerful. They used that one.
I went back inside to get walked on some more. They were still laughing about my hose when I shut the door.