A fallen wooden fence. Old ruined house. The need for a handyman. Horror story. Photo / Getty Images
Steve Braunias on the perils of getting in a home handyman
Things fall apart, the clothesline cannot hold. To own a home is to stand helplessly by and watch bits and pieces of it wear and tear, year after year; the only thing you can do about it is the
worst thing you can do about it. You get a man to fix it. You call The Handyman.
I hate handymen. I have no idea how to fix things around the house and put myself at their mercy. Well, that shouldn't be a problem; I have no idea about medicine or finance, either, so I go to see my doctor and my accountant, and they take care of the situation. One cures death, the other cures taxes.
Handymen ought to cure incompetence. They used to, all the time; the New Zealand handyman was one of the most well-loved figures in the community, an icon of trust and the Kiwi Way of Life, someone practical and capable, who heeded the call of the weak and the hopeless, arrived with a smile, was usually called Frank or Jimbo, and was in and out like a flash, having fixed the job with good cheer and a merry whistle, and was almost apologetic as they took your money, which wasn't much – the code of the handyman was based on service. They were your mate. They insisted on mate's rates. "Happy," Frank or Jimbo would say, pocketing $20-$30, "to help."
No longer. I was recently at the mercy of the handyman who I contacted at an online service because there wasn't anyone listed in the classified section of my suburban newspaper. He had tattoos on his knuckles and I guess he'd been inside, but that shouldn't matter a damn. Could he do the work? I had several minor jobs. I estimated that, all up, it might take him an hour, maybe a bit more. He stayed for weeks.