Masonry Magazine March 2001 Page. 12
A Day in the Life
of a Construction Estimator
(Living on Your Own Island Ain't All It's Cracked up to Be)
By Steve Saucermann
An estimator's greatest fear is coming in too low.
I'm a construction estimator. My talent and worth rest in my ability to compile and calculate costs for a variety of building and construction projects. I live alone on my 12 foot square island with one north window and the sand underfoot feeling suspiciously more like 26 oz., low-pile Berber (over a 3/8" pad). It's Friday. Awash in faded triangular scales, solar calculators, and incomprehensible architectural plans, I measure, enter, convert, and SWAG my way through the workday until the muscles at the back of my neck grow too restricted to further relay a pulse from brain to fingers. And then I go home.
As I drive, the vast, myriad detail of the day races around my brain. Unrelated and unwelcome shards of data pelt away at more pleasing thoughts: the width of the hearth... the gas piping spec... water table depth... addenda number 3... and more. "Why am I thinking about this?" I say to myself, as I try to push it to the back of my mind. The clattering continues, ebbing and flowing throughout the drive until - finally - weariness brought on by the week begins to creep in to calm some of the clamor. Relief.
I pull into my driveway (3 degree pitch; 3,500 PSI concrete), hit the garage door button (1/3 horsepower auger-drive operator with 2 controls) and navigate my way through the (16' x 7' flush insulated; no lites) overhead door. I line the car up perfectly with a mark I made on the back wall and stop my bumper a perfect 10" away. Wife and kids are gone tonight. "Perfect." I pace 13 steps from car door to the back door and fumble for the (Weiser") key to the back door and stick it into the (Troy style x 3 brass finish entry) knob. "Five sloppy spring-loaded pins. A child could pick it." I turn the key. "We're all gonna' wake up dead some day." Reflecting on the impossibility of my last thought, I enter the kitchen and make a bee-line for the (21 cubic foot white Frigidaire" with ice maker) refrigerator. I reach for a beverage (Budweiser"). Kicking off my shoes, I plop dormant on the sofa and sit without moving for forty-five minutes. Mind and body are in neutral. After a while, I'm sure a shot of Christian Brothers would go good with the beer... but there's no way I'm walking the seven feet to the liquor cabinet. The control is on top of the cabinet... so it looks like TV is out too. I look around the room for my imaginary French maid... but she's still not there and I'm still not rich. I find France on the globe next to the sofa.
Content in complete exhaustion, I reminisce on the week. It started out good enough. On Monday, I took a little one by just $400; a storage building for one of the local parks. My number was $69,500 and the second-place guy came in at $69,900. That was sweet. It was a little one - but still sweet. Getting it was great, but it's always nice to know someone else is in the same neighborhood. An estimator's greatest fear is coming in too low. More than one comrade has ended up on the street for leaving too much on the table. This one turned out OK though. Tuesday and Wednesday were unremarkable; mainly getting ready for the bid on Thursday.
On Thursday, things started going downhill. The bid for the fire station was due at 2 PM. I'd been fiddling with it off and on for the last couple of weeks but only really got into it on Tuesday morning. The plans were a mess, the specs boiler-plate, and the architect pompous and defensive.