Crossing Wires
Great moments in building history: Breaking and entering with intent to wire
I own a small electrical contracting company in rural Maine. My crew and I are typically busy and, thanks to my disorganization, sometimes not efficient. It’s not unusual for me to run around at the last minute getting materials, making appointments with the power company or arranging to gain entrance to jobs. It has been my New Year’s resolution for at least 15 years to become more organized.
Last winter, a friend of mine, Robert, started a small subdivision in which he built and sold two identical log-cabin shells. Both new owners called me to wire their new camps. We were so busy at the time, though, that when Kathy called, I had to tell her that there was no way we could get to her camp until spring. She said she would have to look for someone else. The other new owner, Dana, wasn’t taking no for an answer. He was persistent, and I relented, saying we could start in a couple of weeks, in the middle of January. He went on about some details, which of course I didn’t write down and ended up forgetting.
The week after I was supposed to start Dana’s job, I was ready to start. I found his file, and in the morning (a Monday), I rushed around for materials and met with the guys to go over the job. I realized I didn’t know where the house key was. So I called Dana at home in Massachusetts, and he told me where the key was. I told the guys to head for the job, to get the generator out and running (it was 0°F), and to start on the electrical service. I would be along as soon as I found the fixtures for the job we were supposed to do this week that we would end up doing next week.
My cell phone rang. It was Todd, one of my crew members, and there was no key where it was supposed to be. But there was a load of lumber on the porch with Dana’s name on it, so he knew he had the right camp. I was on my way.
I have been in this business for 20 years. In that time, I have always been able to get into a place where I was supposed to be working. I’ve been locked out (the key was missing, the owner forgot to leave it, etc.), but I have always been able to get in—without breaking anything, without leaving a mark. When I tell people about this record, my wife says that she thinks I’m subconsciously a second-story man.
But the truth is I enjoy the challenge. It’s like legally doing what other people go to jail for. I have climbed in second-story windows, crawled in cellar windows, and jimmied many doors and windows, all with complete immunity, all with a clear conscience. All to get the job done. I have never been denied.
I got to the job site, and all the windows were locked, all the doors secure. These people were from Massachusetts. They meant business. But I knew there had to be a way. The front door was not yet trimmed out: If I took the shims out, I could just pry the striker out of the … just push a little more … yes … I was in. My record was intact. The guys started bringing in their tools and materials, and I went back to the shop to find the main panel, which I had forgotten to bring.
Back at the shop, I was delayed in the office, and two hours later, I headed back to the job by way of a few errands. The cell phone rang, and it was my wife. “You had better get over to the job,” she said. “The guys are wiring the wrong house.” I waited for the laughter, but it wasn’t there.
I’ve always thought that an electrician’s worst nightmare would be drilling up from the cellar through someone’s hardwood floor, but that paled to three guys spending the better part of the day wiring the wrong house, not to mention breaking and entering. I could picture it on my record: “Breaking and entering with intent to wire,” one year, six months suspended.
I arrived at the scene of the crime, and the developer had just left. We were in fact wiring the wrong house. I had in fact broken into the wrong house. The lumber on the porch, which had been our only clue, had been delivered to the wrong house. The houses were essentially the same except for the stack of lumber. Now I had to call the homeowner.
Kathy—whom I had told “No way, not til spring”—remembered me. I asked her if she wanted to hear something really funny, and she said that she had had a bad day and could use a laugh. I told her that we went to wire her neighbor’s camp and instead had hers about 50% roughed in. She was ecstatic—she laughed almost til she cried.
I was lucky. Kathy was a sweet, understanding, desperate-for-an-electrician kind of woman. When I called Dana to tell him, he laughed, too, but not as hard as Kathy. I promised to do his job next. So we ended up doing two jobs instead of one and got to work with two really nice (and patient) clients.
—Ray Stanford, Naples, ME
Drawing by: Jackie Rogers
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