Maple Tree Misery

The absurdity leaves me stumped

During a severe storm a few weeks ago, two enormous limbs detached from their giant maple tree like icebergs calving from a glacier and crashed into my small backyard. Showing off, they knocked out big chunks of my fence on both sides and stretched over into my neighbors’ yards too.

When something like this happens, every leaf on every branch looks like a five-dollar bill. This isn’t a job you can handle yourself. You have to find someone to do the work.

That should be a simple process, but like most things lately, it’s become a convoluted shit show of trying to figure out who to trust and marveling at how loosely the word “expert” is thrown around.

In over his head

My first call was to a tree service owned by a man named Rick who lives around the corner from me. I only know him enough to say hi in passing, but his business has a good reputation so it was a no-brainer.

A guy named Rocco called me back and said he’d be over to take a look in a couple of days. When he arrived, I learned that Rick had retired and sold the business to Rocco, a longtime employee.

After inspecting the damage, he noted that my narrow gate, and the narrow walkway leading to, it wouldn’t allow room for machinery.

“We’re going to have to cut all this and carry it out by hand,” he said.

He looked overwhelmed.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” I said.

“That’s gonna take a while.”

It seemed like he said this not to set expectations, but as an expression of self-pity. Then he quoted me a price, which seemed fair enough, given that I had no basis on which to judge it.

“What about the tree?” I asked. “Do you think it needs to come down?”

“Nah,” he said. “It looks pretty good.”

This surprised me, as the tree did not, in fact, look pretty good and hadn’t for a long time. But Rocco’s the expert, right? What do I know?

We stood there for a while as he told me how he’d bought the company for his son to eventually take over, and that he found the whole thing to be more complicated than he’d thought. Paperwork, scheduling, insurance—these were things he never had to worry about before.

“It’s not easy running a business,” he said.

“No, it isn’t.”

It would have been a perfectly normal conversation if I had been his drinking buddy and not a potential client he’d met ten minutes before.

Shuffling back to his car, Rocco said he’d let me know when he could do the job.

A hairy potter scenario

I happened to see my neighbor Oleg the next day. He mentioned that he was having someone come over to give him an estimate to trim one of his trees and offered to bring the guy over.

A couple of days later, Oleg came to my door with Dennis. This guy seemed more professional (it’s possible that I imbue company polo shirts with too much credibility) and wasn’t carrying the weight of a questionable business decision on his shoulders.

“What do you think about the tree?” I asked.

“It’s in bad shape. It should really come down.”

Goddamnit, Rocco.

Dennis also noted the impossibility of getting any equipment back there, but he had an idea. The three of us walked back to Oleg’s and down his driveway.

“Yeah, I thought so. I can park the crane right here,” he said.

Oleg and I glanced at each other, unsure.

The people who own the house between mine and his had just refurbished their old eyesore of a garage into a beautiful pottery studio.

Using a small rangefinder, Dennis calculated that, from the spot where we stood, the crane could reach the tree as well as down into my yard with room to spare. Then they’d just ferry the enormous tree parts over the brand-new pottery studio and into a wood chipper, also in Oleg’s driveway. Easy peasy.

It sounded like a terrible idea, but Dennis is the expert, right? What do I know?

I hadn’t heard from Rocco, so I left him a voicemail asking him to call me back with the date he had in mind. Meanwhile, he hadn’t even sent me a formal estimate. I remembered that paperwork wasn’t his forte. Neither was returning calls, it seemed. It’s not easy running a business.

Dennis did send me a formal estimate, but I’d already scheduled another appointment with a different tree service for the next morning.

An education and a complication

This new company also looked professional, particularly Tim, the guy who ended up coming.

In his online photo, Tim sported a bowtie, and something about the dichotomy of that fashion choice and working with trees appealed to me. It was like I’d found Professor Forrest Branch, world-renowned arboreal expert. (It’s possible that I imbue bowties with too much credibility.)

As I’d hoped, Tim was impressive. We discussed the wreckage for a bit, and then I asked the magic question.

“What do you think about the tree?”

“I’d strongly recommend taking it down.”

Then he showed me why. He pointed to a dark spot a few feet off the ground, and the dark streak above it.

“You can see here that it was struck by lightning, probably years ago. And that big hole up there—that’s bad. For all we know, this whole tree could be hollow. You know, we’re in the business of helping trees to thrive, but unfortunately sometimes you just can’t.”

Okay, professor. I’m sold.

I told him about Dennis’ plan to swing limbs and trunk parts around like Cirque de Soleil members over my neighbor’s studio. His face grew solemn.

“That’s a terrible idea,” he said in a near-whisper.

“That’s what I thought!”

As I’ve written about before, my backyard butts up against a Wendy’s. Whatever was going to be done to that tree would have to be done from the vantage point of the House That Dave Thomas Built.

After some more discussion, Tim walked over there to get the lay of the landscaping and texted me a bit later:

“Hi Chris. I’m over at Wendy’s and there is not enough room for a crane without blocking their drive thru / roadway….the only option is to do it with a bucket truck manually. Much slower process but we can keep their drive open while performing the job.

“With this approach we don’t need a damage waiver signed.

“Just need them to give you the okay for us to set up on the rear parking area for a day or two.”

Shit.

There’s something I haven’t told you yet.

Who owns the unstable maple?

There’s always been some confusion about whose tree this actually is. About a quarter of its trunk is squarely in my yard. It kind of serves as part of my fence, with the actual fence dead-ending into it from each direction.

The majority of the trunk, however, sits behind my fence.

The complicating factor is that Wendy’s also has a fence, and the lion’s share of the trunk is between our respective fences in a no-man’s land of bark and ambiguity.

I’ve always believed my fence to be the end of my property line, thereby putting the bulk of the tree under Wendy’s purview.

Now, I’ll admit that when you view the scene from their parking lot and see exactly none of the tree on that side of the fence, my case appears weak. Or, as Wendy’s might say, not Biggie.

But when faced with the choice of shelling out thousands of dollars or leveraging a legitimate question of liability to try to get one of the largest fast-food chains in the world to pick up the tab, you have to go for it.

With that in mind, I walked over there one day shortly after the storm and spoke to a manager named Kevin. He said he’d have his district manager call me. Instead, later that afternoon, I heard from another manager, Cece. I met her at the store.

Upon explaining the DMZ between our two properties, she looked dubious. In retrospect, I think a double-cheeseburger analogy would have been helpful, with the cheese representing the gap in-between the meat of the fences.

We then walked around the corner and down the street to my house, where she came to understand where I was coming from a little better. Like Kevin, she said she’d have her district manager call me.

If I were a Wendy’s district manager, I imagine I’d want some kind of proof showing why I should add this line item to my quarterly balance sheet. So I contacted the township to request the plans for my lot.

A nice woman named Susan said she couldn’t find them, so I asked if she had the plans for Wendy’s property. She emailed me the document.

It was no help whatsoever.

Neither was Wendy’s. The mysterious and all-powerful district manager hadn’t called, so I left Cece a voicemail. I never heard back from her either. Maybe they were both hanging with Rocco, who was MIA.

It’s not me, it’s you

To get on Dennis’ company’s schedule, I had to sign a contract, which I did to hedge my bets since all the tree companies were swamped after that storm.

After meeting with Professor Tim and feeling more comfortable with his saner, albeit more expensive, approach, I called Dennis’ place within the three-day cancellation window.

Sally, the woman who answered, sounded stunned and pained, as if I were ending our long-term relationship out of the blue.

(Extended pause) “Uh…do you mind if I ask why?”

“Well, the plan was to move everything with a crane out of my yard and over my neighbor’s yard, and I’m not comfortable with that.”

“I’m sure we can figure something else out,” she said.

“That’s okay, I just want to cancel.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What…don’t you understand?”

“How about I have Dennis call you to talk about other solutions?”

“No, thanks.”

“You don’t even want to hear what he has to say?”

“No, I’d rather just cancel.”

“What if I have Jake, the owner, call you?”

“No, I just want to cancel.”

(Extended pause) “All right. I’ll cancel it for you.”

She said this with the confused resignation of the suddenly jilted. I almost asked when she’d be swinging by to get her stuff.

Within minutes, Dennis called. I let it go to voicemail.

Minutes after that, I got a call from an unfamiliar number. I let it go to voicemail. As expected, it was Jake.

Both requested return calls so they could try to patch things up, but I felt that I was very clear with Sally that this relationship was over.

Emotionally spent, I still had to approach Wendy’s again, after they so coldly ghosted me. I really didn’t want to drag my sorry ass in there and whine, Hi remember me I know you don’t want to pay for the tree but would it be okay if we bring a bucket truck over in a couple of weeks pretty please?

So I called instead. I was expecting either Kevin or Cece to hear my voice and hang up, but another manager answered. It seemed to me that for a location that consistently provides the worst service I’ve ever seen, they sure have a lot of managers.

This one was a woman named Jay. Or maybe J. Whoever she was, I was relieved. All I needed was someone to give me permission so I could give that information to Tim. Jay obliged after I assured her that none of this would interfere with their drive-thru.

When work begins next week, I’m almost certain she’ll have no recollection of this conversation, nor will she have informed Kevin, Cece, her district manager, or anyone else. But that’s Tim’s problem. They don’t call him The Professor for nothing.

In the meantime, Rocco texted me last week—five days after I left that voicemail—to let me know he’d be there the next morning. I explained that I’d had to move on. He apologized and said he thought he’d told me the date. I remembered that scheduling wasn’t his forte. It’s not easy running a business.

Can I interest you in a combo meal of Wendy’s adventures?