Frisco Roof Repair
The hole in the center of Munson's living room ceiling had grown larger every year. What began as a small water stain had become a gaping overhead chasm bigger than the sofa bed that sat below it. I regularly went to visit Munson every 4 or 5 months and had observed the gradual change for more than 20 years.
Munson was known to procrastinate well beyond the normal limits but even he was beginning to acknowledge that something had to be done about the ceiling. For Munson, the novelty had worn off of watching people walk into his living room, come to an abrupt halt, throw their heads back and stare upward for a full minute as though they had entered Carlsbad Caverns.
Doug was living in the house when he met Munson at a 49ers game. They became good friends and together went to many games, sports bars, casinos and race tracks. Doug liked the idea of collecting rent for the 2nd bedroom and they became roommates in the mid 1980s. Several years later, Doug's diabetes took a nasty turn and he passed away. Doug's sisters came from Houston for the funeral and to figure out what to do with the property. They stayed at the house and got on well with Munson.
The sisters were nice country folks but were hopelessly in over their heads when the legal ownership of the house could not be established. The sisters threw up their hands and went back to Houston never to return. Before they departed they begged Munson to stay in the house and mail them every month the same rent he used to pay Doug. Over 25 years later, the arrangement still stands: a 2-bedroom house in San Francisco for $400 a month.
On one of my visits, Munson and I were sitting in the living room looking up into the exposed joists and rafters in the upper recesses of the house. It reminded us both of when we were kids on a field trip to the Griffith Park Observatory.
I said, "You know, there's an easy solution to this."
Munson said, "Are you volunteering to fix the hole?"
I said, "God no. Screw the ceiling, that's not the problem. The problem is the roof. It leaks."
Munson said, "What about the ceiling?"
I said, "The ceiling means replacing the wall board. I hate doing wall board. You'll have to get somebody else for that."
Munson asked, "What's your brilliant idea?"
I said, "I can stop the roof from leaking. Even if you don't fix the ceiling at least the hole won't get any bigger."
Munson asked, "Just how do you propose to fix the leak?"
I said, "Piece of cake. The roof is flat so we cover it with rolls of sturdy plastic film. The stuff is waterproof and comes in 100 foot rolls that are 6 feet wide. This place is small, so 2 or 3 rolls should do it. $20 tops."
Munson said, "How many beers have you had?"
I said, "How hard can it be? If I fuck it up what difference does it make? Nobody knows whose house this is anyway."
Munson asked, "What about wind? The wind around here can be lethal. It'll tear it all off the first time there's a storm."
I said, "Do you think I'm a fucking moron? You simply duct tape over any seams and nail it all down with boards around the edges. It'll be snug tight as a Tupperware lid."
Munson said, "If the wind gets under the plastic it'll rip the house off its foundation and send it sailing out over Alcatraz."
I said, "Very funny. Trust me, I've got it handled."
The next morning on our way to the horse races at Golden Gate Fields, we stopped at Home Depot and loaded up on plastic rolls, duct tape, nails and the necessary lumber which came in 8-foot long pieces. There was only one way the 50 pieces of wood could fit into Munson's Toyota Camry and still allow us to roll up the windows. The pieces were stacked between the 2 front bucket seats and extended lengthwise from the front dashboard to the rear window. The wood was stacked high enough that neither driver nor passenger could see each other. Driving the car allowed one to experience what it was like to be blind in one's right eye.
When we got to the track Munson drove up to the valet parking area and we both got out of the car. Munson handed the keys to one of the valet parking guys and there was a brief humorous exchange between them once the guy spotted the lumber. Munson asked the guy to keep an eye on the car explaining facetiously that the materials were urgently needed for a critical project that we would have to rush back to finish that afternoon when we left the track. The guy found it all pretty amusing and quite different than his usual well-heeled clientele.
By the end of that day at Golden Gate fields, Munson had more evidence that traditional handicapping methods were useless. We had studied the entries for the 5th race which was to be run on the turf (grass) course. Horses almost always run best on either dirt or grass. Almost never does a horse run equally well on both. Because of this, most horses race on only dirt, or only grass for their entire career.
Traditional handicapping methods include many hard and fast commandments. One of the most fundamental precepts is: Thou shalt not bet on a horse that is doing something for the first time. This applies to any horse that tries for the first time to run a short race, run a long race, run against older horses, or run on grass.
There was a horse in the 5th race that had run races on dirt but never before had run on grass. The horse had never won or raced particularly well and the trainer, as is the normal practice, was going to give grass a shot before he gave up on the horse altogether. The other horses in the race were all grass specialists and each had won on this same track and at the same distance as today's race.
It wasn't until the first-time-turf horse won the 5th race easily, paying 60 to 1, that Munson looked at the horse's name. He had along with almost everyone else there that day, never given the horse a thought. He had thrown it out before he even began handicapping the race. Munson thought about the lumber stuffed into the Camry that we had hauled from Home Depot to the track. He looked up from his racing form, stared at me, and screamed, "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THE HORSE'S NAME WAS TIMBER CRUISER?"
The next morning I asked Munson if he had a ladder. He told me it was in the back yard so I went downstairs to check it out. The house was the typical style that comes to mind when you think about San Francisco. One of a series of 90-year old, wood frame 2-story houses, built butted up against each other. The ladder looked as though it was older than the house. It was all wood, made grey and fragile by the elements. It looked exactly like the ladders one sees in paintings of New Mexico cliff dwellings. It reached the roof line some 24 feet above the yard but I was concerned about the rungs being merely 1 inch dowels and only 12 inches in width.
I reluctantly climbed up the ladder and stood on the roof. Rather than the simple flat surface I had expected, it was a topographical nightmare. There were no fewer than 5 different levels, phone and electrical cables, a bathroom skylight I had forgotten about, and countless pipes and vents that shot up through the roof everywhere you could imagine. I remained up top for half an hour soaking in the enormity of what would be required. It was not as though I was going to have anything to do with it, but I needed time to work up the courage to go down the ladder. I met up with Munson in front of the refrigerator as we checked the beer supply. I let him know that I had serious misgivings about fixing the roof. He didn't seem to be at all disappointed.
EPILOGUE
My next visit came 6 weeks later. I flew Saturday morning to the Oakland Airport where Munson was to pick me up and take us on out to Golden Gate Fields. Knowing full well the extent to which Munson can procrastinate, I wasn't the least bit surprised to find that the lumber was still in the Camry. When we got to the track Munson pulled into the valet parking area and handed the keys to the same guy from 6 weeks ago. The guy took the keys and stood motionless, staring at the lumber in disbelief. No words were exchanged. Munson and I turned and walked into the clubhouse.