Because I love the mountains and enjoy wilderness environments, I decided to move from Toronto to Calgary. In Calgary, I could be close to the mountains, where I could enjoy the sports I love: mountain climbing, whitewater kayaking, skiing.

With only eight years’ experience, I am still a young builder trying to make my way to bigger and better projects. Starting in a new town with no contacts isn’t easy. So to get my start and meet the people who could keep me busy, I pulled down the Yellow Pages. During the day, I was cold-calling designers and architects. If they did residential renovation work or custom homes, I tried to arrange a meeting. Failing that, I sent them a promotional package.

Calls kept me busy only part of the time. Some days, I worked with framing crews. And in the evenings, if I had nothing else to do and if I had any energy left, I tried knocking on doors in the affluent neighborhoods where I wanted to work.

With the costs of my move to Calgary, money was tight, and I needed to work fairly steadily to get my finances in order. That consideration had me pounding the pavement one chilly Saturday night. I decided it wasn’t cool to work past 8:30 on a Saturday night, no matter what. At 8:29 p.m., my last call looked to be a house with a party going on. I’m a tough boss; I wasn’t going to let myself off. I strode up to the front door, presentation book in hand.

Several guests greeted me with a hearty, “Come on in, fella!” So I walked in and began my spiel: “Hello, I’m just in the neighborhood—” Someone cut me off. “Want a beer?” Sure, I thought, but I felt compelled to clarify my business. By that time, the homeowner had arrived at the door. Everyone at the party seemed friendly, happy and, in a few cases, a little drunk. The homeowner listened to my introduction and then doubled over laughing. “Last year, it was a cop,” she said. “Get this guy a beer! Do you need music?”

I didn’t understand why people were laughing and crowding around me. As I stood there baffled, someone said, “You’re not a stripper?” “Of course not,” I replied. Bit by bit, I learned what was going on.

I had crashed a birthday party for a middle-age woman. The year before, her friends had hired a stripper as a practical joke. Dressed as a police officer, he arrived at the party reportedly responding to a noise complaint. But after a short lecture on noise control, the officer began to remove his uniform. The joke was a big success. No one had planned to duplicate the event, but when I showed up unannounced in my plaid shirt and workboots, everyone thought someone else had scheduled a repeat performance.

After we had a laugh, I was invited to join the party, although I did occasionally have to remind some of the female guests that I wouldn’t be taking off any more than the coat and workboots I’d left at the door. And as it turned out, the basement and bathroom of the house I’d stopped at needed work. Something tells me that this job might be one where it’s okay for me to work shirtless when it gets hot.

—Eric McGaw, Calgary, AB, Canada

Drawing by: Jackie Rogers

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