Sad death: Bobby Regan

Bobby Regan left us early. He died last Tuesday night, November 17. He was only 38.
I don't know how he died. Heart attack? Aneurysm? Embolism? Car accident? Suicide? The funeral mass is today. I considered going, but I would be an intruder, a voyeur.

We did not know him well. In fact, our association with him was mostly difficult. We found Bobby in the Yellow Pages. His business? The Deck Protectors. In the last promise of warmth in September we decided to have our 1100 sq. ft. of decks power-washed and stained. We chose Bobby from several quotes. His estimate seemed fair and for an extra sum, he'd stain the house as well. He would also repair any loose boards or siding.

On a steamy Friday a young man showed up and power-washed all the decks leaving the exposed wood looking new and a mess of residue on all the glass doors. His machine ran out of gas in the middle of the job. Bobby came round with some. He said he'd be back on Monday to do the staining.

But he didn't show up that Monday, nor the next day. We called. He said he'd been in hospital with diverticulitis but that he'd be there. But he wasn't. He simply didn't show up. We'd paid him for the power-washing and given a substantial deposit to the next stage of the work, the cheque made out to him personally, at his request. At the time my husband said, "You didn't give him a personal cheque! That was so stupid." I hadn't even thought.

We suspected drugs or gambling or booze. We believed he always intended to do the work: that he just couldn't keep it together.

Still. We sure did feel ripped off, duped, conned. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened to us. There was that roofer...also from the Yellow Pages.

Bobby didn't answer his phone and his message service was full. Finally, we reported him to The Better Business Bureau, with which he was registered. They did a follow up but had no response.

In the meantime, we decided to stain the decks ourselves and got halfway through, realizing during the whole tedious job that we'd chosen the wrong colour. The grey was too light and glared as if there were snow on it. So we sat and stared at it through all our glass, fixed to our armchairs, furious.

We went on a glorious trip to France and came back and the deck still glared at us. It was cold and wet out. Too late to do anything. Or so we convinced ourselves.

And then, one morning, early, a couple of weeks ago, the doorbell rang. My husband answered it and came back and said, "You'll never believe who it is." Bobby Regan. Two and a half months later. He hadn't shown up because he'd been sick and it had been raining. But he was ready to stain the house and the decks. Trouble was, he had a cash flow problem, a big deal gone bad. Could we buy the stain?

"Absolutely not!" I said to my husband, livid. "I want to get this job done," he answered. He went out and bought 12 cans of stain. Bobby argued for more money and my husband gave him a couple of hundred extra bucks. "You know I'm a recovering alcoholic," Bobby said.

My husband and I were barely speaking. But Bobby showed up the next day with a crew of about half-a-dozen. And by the way, he'd just moved and all his business records were packed. Could we give him a copy of our contract?

The crew spent the day taping brown paper on all our windows, emprisoning us in yellowish light. "They won't be back," I said.

But they did come back and did a splendid job of staining the house. They cleaned up meticulously and took off all the brown paper. But a large chimney and the decks still weren't done. "We've seen the last of him," I asserted.

Sadly, it was the truth but for a reason we could never have imagined.

Bobby came by last Monday, no crew, to say his truck had been carjacked in Cicero and he'd lost everything: wallet, cellphone, business records. It had been horrible. He gave me a temporary cellphone number.

He didn't come on Tuesday but my husband talked to him Tuesday night, around six or seven. Bobby was going to start on the decks the next day. Could we buy more stain? "No!" I said again but my husband went out and bought it.

It was cold and rainy on Wednesday. No Bobby. Mid-morning, three young Hispanics, part of Bobby's crew came to my door. Did I know where Bobby was? Had I talked to him? He owed them money for weeks of work.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I know how you feel. We paid him for work he didn't do."

"We phoned him," they replied. "A woman said he died."

"That isn't possible," I said. "My husband just talked to him. He tells stories. But if you finish the job, we'll pay you what we were going to give to Bobby."

They finished the decks in a day. That was last Friday. I had been in the city and when I returned there was a picture of Bobby with some copy on my computer. It looked like a resume.
"Did Bobby drop this off?" I scoffed. "No," answered my husband. "I got it from the obits in The Daily Herald."

Oh my. Omigod. Bobby. How terrible. How sad. How terribly sad.

When Bobby was good, he was very good. He was amiable, purposeful, thorough. He had a creative eye, good colour sense. The grey he suggested for the house and decks looks dark and weathered, perfectly suiting the barn-like character.

I believe he must have endured an inner chaos that catapulted him and his family and friends into agony, his clients into anger and aggravation. In the obit, his family said they "loved him very much and would miss him dearly."

I'm so sorry, Robert Paul Regan. May you rest in peace.