AUGUST 20, 2023 – Blogger’s note: Ninety-nine years ago today was UB’s birthday.
As soon as the Fox and the Wolf were gone, UB and I returned to the issue of getting the roof of the house restored. Now that the scammers and schemers had pretty much been discredited—in my mind, anyway—I suggested to UB that the best place to turn was a local, reliable architect, who could give us help on the design and structure front and also provide solid referrals for trustworthy builders. UB offered no immediate reaction to my idea.
But who was a “reliable architect”? Back in Minnesota, I had an extensive network to draw on for recommendations.
For a diversion, at about 3:30, UB and I left Headquarters to pick up a sizable check at the office of one John Wilhelm (not his real name), UB’s insurance agent in Rutherford. Before leaving Holman Corner, I dropped by Cliff’s office briefly just to mention my idea about retaining an architect. He thought it was a great idea but said nothing more.
To my surprise, on the way to Wilhelm’s office, UB decided that we should ask the agent for an architect referral. Just then, however, it occurred to me that perhaps we should call on the architect who had done the work for the Culture Cup, the small café that would be opening soon on the Highland Cross side of the Holman buildings. For once, and I do mean for once, a tenant would be moving into space that would be done up right—that is, in an aesthetically pleasing fashion, instead of the usual cheapskate, jerry-rigged fashion that had been the history of just about all office/retail space in the buildings, dating back to when Grandpa had still been in control.
A primary criterion for hiring an architect (and builder, electrician, plumber, et alia) in New Jersey seemed to be the individual’s connections with local officials. Were they known? Could they cut red tape? Could they shorten the time Frank had said it would take to obtain approvals? The Culture Cup’s architect was located in downtown Rutherford. Surely he would meet this criterion.
Cliff had warned me about John Wilhem. “Wilhelm is no friend,” he said. “He’s an agent of an insurance company and insurance companies are in business not to pay claims.” I tried to keep an open mind about the guy, and in person, he looked like an animated version of Grandpa at about age 70. When he handed UB the big, whopping check[1]—big and whopping but not big and whopping enough, given the losses sustained—UB asked John for recommendations for architects and builders. In response, John vented.
“Why are you asking me?” he said, rather intemperately. “That’s why you hired that public adjustor. Go ask him.” John’s dislike of Frank was more like open contempt. I mentioned the Culture Cup architect, whoever he was, and John said, “Yes, he’s good. His office is right down on Park Avenue—115, I believe.”
So, it was good-bye to John and off to the lower end of Park Avenue, where UB and I searched for 115. It was squeezed between two storefronts and amounted only to a door. We opened it and ascended a long, narrow staircase. Along the walls were fine photographs of famous architectural wonders of the ancient, classical and modern eras. I was favorably impressed by the man’s tastes, whoever the man was.
At the top of the stairs, we entered an open office area staffed by two people at computer screens. Neither seemed to be the principal, for neither looked up to acknowledge our intrusion. I peered around the corner to a back room and saw a tall man with a professional bearing draw some coffee from a small coffee maker. “Hello,” I said. He looked at us as if to say we were welcome. “May we come in?”
“Yes, of course,” he responded, and without further ado, he ushered us into the back room and offered us seats at a plain table. “Gary Kleitsch,” (his real name) he said, as we shook hands. I then introduced UB and myself, told him about the fire, with which, of course, he was very familiar, and explained that we were looking for assistance in restoring the house to its previous grandeur. UB remained utterly silent. With very little to go on, I decided I liked this architect. He was serious and bore a look of sincerity and honesty. After all the slime-balls I had encountered since my arrival in New Jersey, he cut a decidedly trustworthy image, with his modest attire, including a cardigan sweater, kind face, gentle and intelligent eyes, and the frame and movements of a gentle giant.
He increased his stock with me when I produced an old architectural drawing showing the third story of 42 Lincoln. It was the original drawing, which UB had managed to fish out of all the crap in the warehouse. The architect spread it out on the table and eyed the drawing carefully. I liked the expression on his face, which told me that he had an appreciation for what he was viewing. “This was a grand house,” he said, with measured words, “and it would be a personal and professional honor to work on this project with you.” I then knew that he was the man for the job.
“Within the next day or two,” I asked, “would you be able to give us an estimate of the total project cost, including your fees?”
“I can get right to it. How about if I come over first thing tomorrow morning to take some measurements?”
Before UB and I left, I asked Mr. Kleitsch about some of his other work and learned that he was the chairman of Rutherford’s storefront restoration project—a project that Cliff had told me about a year earlier. “You must know Cliff, then,” I said. “Cliff Witmyer.”
“Yes, sure, I know Cliff.”
With that, UB and I bade farewell and descended the stairs back down to the street. I was thoroughly pleased that we had finally found someone we could trust and entrust with the daunting task of restoring 42 Lincoln. Even UB expressed approval of Mr. Kleitsch.
When we stepped out onto the sidewalk, UB announced that it was time for dinner. We drove to The Diner, where each of us ordered a turkey dinner for the bargain price of $3.85. UB then saw me to the bus for Port Authority, which stopped at Union Square in Rutherford, right around the corner and across the tracks from The Diner. That evening, back at my temporary digs—Jenny and Garrison’s apartment—I slept unusually well.
I returned to Rutherford at about 9:30 the next morning, and UB was quite ready for action. I followed him into the house to take measurements for additional plywood on the window openings. While engaged in this task, we heard voices and movements on the third floor. It was Mr. Kleitsch and his intern. True to his word, Mr. Kleitsch was already measuring dimensions. We talked at length about the house and the roof in particular. He had actually looked into the price of real slate, and I was excited by the prospect of restoring the house to its original condition. “I figure the total cost of restoring the roof—framing, real slate shingles, labor, builder’s profit and my fees—is going to run between $20,000 and $24,000,” he said. I was dumbfounded. When I revealed to Mr. Klietsch the other, much higher bids by Duane and Hutch, he screwed up his face and said, “Something’s wrong with those. Definitely wrong.”
I had two reactions. First, what I had suspected about Duane, Frank and Hutch was all confirmed by a credible source. Second, Mr. Kleitsch was going to prove to be UB’s angel, the family’s angel, the redeemer of my great grandparents’ dream materialized, now destroyed.
After my discussion with this miraculous architect, I joined UB back down in what was Gaga’s day room for the last 15 years of her life. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “You know, Uncle Bruce . . . in your life there are at least two angels. One is Cliff. The other is Gary Kleitsch.” UB smiled. Little did I know just then what an angel Cliff really was. That evening, quite late, I would learn. I would know.
After Mr. Kleitsch had left the house and while UB was puttering around with his newfound toy—a tape measure—I visited Cliff back in his office. I told him happily of our meeting yesterday with Mr. Kleitsch and how immensely pleased both UB and I were with the architect’s involvement. Cliff then confirmed not only my instincts about Mr. Kleitsch’s integrity, but about Cliff’s, as well.
“You know what, Eric?” he said, leaning back in the swivel chair in his office. “I know Gary very well and have worked with him closely on a number of projects for the town—you know, the restoration committee. He’s a really great guy.”
“I’m surprised, Cliff, you didn’t tell me that before,” I said.
“As much as I wanted you to meet Gary,” he said, “and as much as I wanted you to work with him and hire him, I didn’t want to push you that way. I didn’t want it to appear that I had influenced you in the slightest way. And I’m absolutely thrilled that you met up with him. He’s good, fair and honest—and this is New Jersey. Can you imagine that!” Cliff let out a laugh.
Not more than a minute later, Mr. Kleitsch just happened to call Cliff about an unrelated matter. Cliff took the occasion, however, to inform Mr. Kleitsch that he, Cliff, had had no influence over our decision to interview and retain Mr. Kleitsch. The architect was dumbfounded.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] The total insurance proceeds, covering restoration of the house, the loss of its contents, including, amongst the mountains of trash, many valuable antiques, and UB’s living expenses during construction, was a closely guarded secret. On one occasion, however, UB hinted that the house had been underinsured. I did manage to see the amount of the check—$260,000—that John handed UB during our visit, but there were more. Given the extent of the damage, $260,000 by itself would have been grossly inadequate. However, given UB’s inevitable cheapskate approach to renovation, it is impossible to imagine that more than a fraction of that amount actually went into repair of the house. He would later pride himself in having used the cheapest materials available. Despite my persistent demands years later, UB refused ever to provide an accounting.
