The Case of the Cracked Terrazzo (Part Two)
It had been a week since my trip to Atlanta, and I was back at Flo’s diner for my morning dose of caffeine and sarcasm. Flo slid the mug across the counter without saying a word. She just raised an eyebrow like she already knew I’d be heading back to Yuppyville.
“You’re goin’ back, aren’t ya?” she finally asked.
“Yep,” I said. “Gotta take samples, send ’em to the lab. Insurance company wants proof before they start pointing fingers.”
“Better you than me,” she said, walking off to yell at a guy who was trying to pay with Canadian coins.
Back to Yuppyville
By mid-afternoon, I was back in the Woody, rolling into the same parking garage. The yuppy squad was waiting again, like some kind of welcome committee. Same suits, same handshakes, same awkward line-up. If they’d had a marching band, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
This time, I came prepared: hammer drill, coring bit, moisture meter, and a little attitude. I started popping cores from the terrazzo while the suits looked on in horror, like I was defacing their Mona Lisa. “Relax,” I told them. “You wanted answers. This is how you get ’em.”
A couple hours later, I had enough samples to make the lab techs happy. I boxed them up, slapped a rush label on the package, and shipped them out overnight.
A Few Days Later
The lab called me as soon as the results came in. “You’re gonna like this,” the tech said. “Water-cement ratio’s high, and there’s no sign of proper cure time. And we’re seeing shrinkage cracks consistent with lack of expansion joints.”
Exactly what I suspected.
I booked another flight back to Atlanta. This time, I sprang for the aisle seat. I wasn’t risking another crying baby episode.
When I got there, the suits were waiting in the same perfect line, like nothing had changed. We all sat down in their glass conference room, and I laid the lab report on the table.
The Verdict
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “You’ve got spider cracking because they rushed the job. Too much water in the mix, no proper cure, no expansion joints. It’s a perfect recipe for a cracked floor.”
They all looked at each other like I’d just told them the stock market had crashed. Then the head suit asked, “So, what’s the fix?”
I leaned back. “You can try routing and filling the cracks, but honestly, this floor’s gonna keep moving. Long-term, you’re probably looking at tearing it out and starting over. Oh, and next time, put in expansion joints. They’re not just a suggestion.”
They didn’t look thrilled, but that’s why they called me. I packed up my gear, shook a few reluctant hands, and headed back to the Woody.
Back at Flo’s
Flo was waiting for me the next morning. “Well?” she asked, topping off my mug.
“Bad mix, no cure, no joints,” I said.
She shook her head. “You’d think people would learn.”
“You’d think,” I said, taking a sip. “But then I’d be out of a job.”
