There are few phrases in the English language more hopeful, and yet terrifying than: “Don’t worry, I know a guy.”

At first, it sounds reassuring. Comforting, you think. “Ah, excellent. This problem will be solved efficiently.” You picture a competent professional: a plumber who arrives early, a mechanic who charges fairly, or perhaps a mysterious handyman who fixes things while listening to music through his ear buds connected to his cell phone. 

But then comes the addendum.

“I know a guy… who knows a guy.”

Now we are no longer in the realm of efficiency. We have entered into the unknown.

Recently, I made the mistake of asking a friend if he knew someone who could take down part of a stone wall on the side of our driveway   My friend nodded knowingly, the way people do when they are about to make your life more complicated.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I know a guy.”

Good.

“…who knows a guy.”

Oh-oh….Less good.

“…who used to work with a guy who’s unbelievable with stone.”

What was I thinking when I even thought about the wall?

We are now spiraling.

At this point, I should have stopped him. I should have said, “No, thank you. I will simply keep scratching the front of the car as I make the right turn into the driveway. But no, I was curious. 

Within minutes, I was part of a chain of communication that resembled a CIA intelligence operation. My friend texted his guy. His guy called another guy. That guy apparently only communicated via voicemail, which was then transcribed by yet another guy, possibly in a different time zone.  The wonders of satellite communications.

By the end of day, I had not spoken to anyone in this chain, but I was hoping that someone had accepted the job.

The next day, I received a message.

“Guy says he can do it.”

Victory!

“What guy?” I asked.

No response.

Hours later: “The guy.”

Of course. The guy.

Arrangements were made. Or at least, something resembling arrangements. I was told someone would come by “sometime Thursday.” No specific time. No name. Just a vague assurance that a human being would appear.

Thursday came. I waited.

At 9 a.m., nothing.

At noon, still nothing.

At 3 p.m., I began to suspect that “Thursday” was more of a philosophical concept than an actual day.

Finally, somewhere around 6 p.m., there was a knock at the door.

I opened it to find a guy who looked like he had just stepped out of a construction site that didn’t go well.  He stared at me.

“Let’s see the wall?” he asked.

I showed it to him and told him how much of it I wanted removed.

He examined it for approximately four seconds, nodded once, and said, “Yeah, I know a guy.”

I froze.

“No,” I said carefully. “You’re the guy.”

He shook his head. “No, no. I’m not the chair guy. I’m the guy who knows the chair guy.”

Of course you are.

And just like that, the chain extended further into the unknown. Somewhere out there, beyond my comprehension, existed the true “wall guy,” a mythical figure, spoken of in hushed tones, never directly contacted, possibly living in a garage with a workshop, (Hey, it’s the country), accessible only through referrals and a cell phone.  The wonders of satellite communications.

Days passed. Messages were exchanged. At one point, I believe I was briefly in contact with a guy who only dealt in “stone walls.” Now, there’s hope.

To this day, I don’t know how many guys were involved. Three? Seven? A small village?

Guess what?  All that began last June, and the wall is still there.

But I learned an important lesson: when someone says, “I know a guy who knows a guy,” what they really mean is, “You are about to embark on a journey.”

And like all great journeys, it will involve confusion, delay, and at least one mysterious individual who insists he is not the guy. He just knows the guy.

Maybe when I come up in June, the front of the wall will be gone.  Maybe I’ll find a guy this summer. 

 It just might be simpler to buy a scratch kit in Walmart and leave the wall alone.