Back when I was welding in larkspur, there was a point where I started to feel frustrated; working with macho construction workers afforded me many fruitful stories with my fellow unmarried, latte sipping friends back in the Big City, but really, how many nasty burritos from the Roach Coach can a hard working wrangler stomach without having to run to the Scariest Outhouse in the World. There were tales of it being knocked over while someone was in it, of a tennis ball being thrown down the vent shaft while someone was in it, of it being moved by forklift while someone was in it…..I grew up with not one but two outhouses (!!!) and had never had a problem in either one, so I was happy to call it a day in the outhouse scene.
So it was that I had decided one day to find another job. One with a real flush toilet. After having put in six or seven years of restaurant work, washing dishes was out of the question. I liked the concept of construction, but construction sites were a drag. So during a lunch break from welding, I circled all the cabinet making jobs, went down to the pay phone, and started dialing. I figured I could improv my way through an interview, much as I did in getting the welding gig. I mean, how tough could it be making cabinets? I had cut my share of boards and 2×4s as a laborer, and I was a quick learner; I would be sure and tell them that-I’m a quick learner. Before landing the welding job, I had applied as grounds keeper at a cemetery. That interview must’ve lasted at least an hour, and I didn’t know squat about either grounds keeping or dead people. Yet, they seemed to be so impressed by how I was turning circles around their questions about the latest lawn-cutting tools that it dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. And that’s a long time in “cemetery years.”
So as far as I was concerned, this cabinet making thing was in the bag. The first place I called was a cabinet shop on Potrero Hill-a quick drive from my place in the Lower Haight. I wanted this job so badly, I could already smell the sawdust and white glue.
Ok, he needed to ask a few questions over the phone first, to get rid of the riff-raf. “I understand, go ahead.” “Alright-what are your tolerances?” “Oh, I work around all kinds of dangerous tools, nasty smells, loud grinding noises, and toxic chemicals, so I can tolerate almost anything.” Yes! I nailed it!
But wait….. what’s that sound of laughter and snickering on the other end? “Ah yeah, actually, that’s not what I meant. Don’t waste our or anyone else’s time until you learn what ‘tolerance’ means in wood-working. Bye.” Click.
Fast forward 20 years. I had diligently measured and re-measured the openings for our windows. I didn’t want to flub it and throw out my precious 200 kgs of glass. I wanted each piece to fit perfectly, with not a millimeter to spare. I wrote down each size on each opening, so I would know where the pieces went. The glass shop had lived up to its end, marking each piece and wrapping like-sized pieces up together.
So imagine my frustration when, while trial-sizing the pieces, nearly a quarter of them were just a tad too big. Well, not too big, but in measuring the openings, I hadn’t accounted for little imperfections in the metal, or weld beads in the corners that I couldn’t grind out.
I’ve learned since that fatal cabinet-making interview that “tolerance” means something like ‘how closely your measured cut can come to making the final joint with no extra space to spare.’
Now I can say I have zero tolerance. Minus 1 millemeter. Plus a sledge hammer.