I assumed the roof collapse was either a rite of passage for a young homeowner or the cherry on top of the sundae of my recent string of bad luck. Maybe it really was a little bit of both. The house felt like a dream come true on closing day when I signed the mountain of papers, and the keys were pressed into my eager, waiting hand. Now, truthfully, it was more of an ongoing nightmare, and it was getting more difficult to wake myself up from those horrible dreams.

Time after time, after something broke or even crumbled, I maintained my sunny point of view that everything was fixable even if it required a significant outlay of cash. Then a roof caved in…literally. The little roof over the back patio to be exact.

I was standing at the French doors that provided an exit from my kitchen to a beautiful brick patio out back. I had a mug of coffee in hand, and I was contemplating a back yard edged in beds of voluminous flowers spilling out on to the grass.

The morning was windy. Thirty-mile-an-hour winds were blowing in off the lake. Most mornings in the Bayview neighborhood, just three blocks from Lake Michigan, were windy. My house was nearly eighty years old, and I was used to minor creaking noises every time the wind blew hard.

The only warning of the collapse was something that sounded ominously like a crack instead of a creak. It sounded like it came from above. I cast my eyes toward the ceiling and then back down toward the doors just in time to see the corner posts holding the roof buckle and come unmoored. A split second later the far side of the roof itself crashed to the bricks with a loud crunching sound.

My first reaction was to simply turn away and place my mug in the coffee machine to brew another cup. Instinctively, I knew that I would need more caffeine to deal with the situation.

As I watched the invigorating brown liquid slowly fill my mug, I tried to think about what my father did in a situation like this. Unfortunately, I couldn’t come up with a precedent. The Paulsen family homestead back in Minnesota was apparently a much more sturdily constructed one than the city bungalow that I recently purchased in Milwaukee.

As I stared out the doors to the patio again, just to make sure I hadn’t imagined the collapse, I hoped this was the climax of the recent string of disasters I experienced. I reached up and raked my fingers through my straw-colored hair and wanted to blame it all on the breakup with Stuart. I reasoned that his ghost must be haunting me.

Stuart and I were three years into a mostly well-functioning relationship when I received word from my bank employer of a promotion opportunity that required a move to Milwaukee. Stuart didn’t want to move. He made strong arguments about the sophistication of Minneapolis, but we both agreed the promotion was difficult to turn down. I explained that a few years in the future I would likely have the opportunity to return to Minneapolis with an executive banking position.

In the end, Stuart followed me to the shores of Lake Michigan, and I purchased a house using my bonus pay as a big chunk of the down payment. He rented an apartment, but we lived at my house…for three months, a miserable late spring and early summer.

Stuart hated everything about the house. He woke up in the morning complaining that the kitchen cupboards were on the wrong side of the sink. When he slept over, he went to bed complaining that the toilet was too short. I won’t even get started on his comments about the city in general. His mood bounced back and forth from grey to black.

Our best day together in Milwaukee was a day at the beach. Stuart stood barefoot on the sand staring out at the horizon on a windy day. The waves were being whipped occasional whitecaps. Stuart turned to me, poked at his glasses to push them further up his nose, smiled and said, “It really is pretty.”

He never did find a job after the move, and that should have been the flashing neon light to tell me that he wasn’t planning to stay. He told me that he was looking, but I never heard about any job interviews. Stuart’s uncle promised that he would keep a job open in case his nephew wanted to return to Minneapolis. In the end, he left without saying goodbye. He didn’t show up for dinner as planned, and he didn’t answer phone calls or text messages.

Three days later I received an e-mail that said, “I’m sorry.”

After I finished another mug of coffee and was satisfied that I’d stared long enough at the collapsed roof to make sure that I wasn’t imagining things, I called my office assistant Anita. I said, “House disaster number 13, or is it 27? It certainly feels like 27.”

Her voice was soft and supportive. She said, “I’m so sorry Mr. Paulsen. That house has just been one thing after another. Are you okay? You didn’t fall off a ladder or anything, did you?”

“If I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, does that mean I’m okay?”

With a gentle laugh of her own, she said, “I’ve already checked your schedule. None of the meetings today are urgent. I will take care of notifications. Do you expect to be in tomorrow?”

I said, “I’m planning to be there by 2:00 p.m today. Clear the schedule, but I can handle any communication, and Rodney should have a report for me by noon.”

Anita said, “Perfect, Mr. Paulsen. Have another cup of coffee, call the insurance company, and we’ll laugh about the house when you get here.”

Work was the one part of my life that continued to move along just as I planned. I was on a fast track toward being a banking executive. I was told that I had an easy, confident charm that built trust from clients and coworkers almost instantly. Maybe they just liked looking at a tall, blonde, blue-eyed Norwegian, too. I was happy with any explanation for my success as long as it worked to my advantage.

I couldn’t complain about my slowly expanding circle of friends either. The day that I received Stuart’s “I’m sorry” e-mail, I visited one of Milwaukee’s most durable institutions for the first time, the local bar. In this case it was a gay bar named the Toolbox.

After downing two Old Fashioneds, I was shocked to hear a pathetic pickup line roll out of my mouth. The line was actually true, but it still sounded desperate.

I said, “Did anyone ever tell you that you have the most handsome smile in the room?”

I was surprised that the target of my ham-fisted attempt at an introduction didn’t just throw shade and exit stage left. Instead, he said, “No, but that’s very sweet of you.”

That’s how I met Ian. A few minutes later, he introduced me to his best friend Reggie. Over time, the acquaintances grew into solid friendships. By the time Christmas rolled around, both Ian and Reggie were comfortably settled into solid dating relationships with Blake and Connor respectively. They began to turn their attention toward looking for my Mr. Right.

As winter began to wane, Reggie leaned on me to play in their gay softball league. The thought of it brought back memories of high school gym class and the easy ball I dropped after Kyle Becker shouted, “This one’s for you, blondie!”

I wasn’t completely lacking in athletic skills, but most teachers, coaches, and jocks assumed I would be more talented on the sports field than I was. In a word, I was awkward. I hit my growth spurt early, and as a teenager it felt like my feet were more fitting for a clown than a teenage boy. I was almost always one of the boys picked first for teams in gym class, but my performance rarely lived up to expectations.

I tried to convince Reggie that the trouble I would cause would far outweigh the benefits of having me on the team. Our conversations followed the same pattern time after time. He said, “But we just play for fun, Sven, and you would look good on the field. Half of the point of gay softball is looking good.”

I shook my head and said, “Looking good doesn’t win games.”

Reggie answered, “But if you can’t win, it’s the next best thing.”

I gripped a pint of beer in my right hand and laughed. I said, “I just really don’t know.”

Then one night at the Toolbox, he brought Ian over to deliver the trump card. Ian said, “It’s a great way to meet guys, and you can’t stay locked up in that house by yourself forever. We won’t allow it.”

They were both perfect examples of how love could be found on the softball diamond. Reggie’s boyfriend Connor played for an opposing team while Ian’s boyfriend Blake was the best player on their team the Soft Serves. I sighed and said, “But it will just be embarrassing when they see how bad that I play.”

Reggie said, “No one cares about that as long as we have fun. When Blake joined the team, he couldn’t hit the ball out of the infield to save his life.”

Blake worked at the Toolbox as a bartender. He was as tall as me and muscular with sandy-brown hair. I looked up to see him mixing drinks behind the bar. Every movement Blake made seemed to shout that he was a natural athlete.

I said, “I don’t believe that.”

Ian nodded saying, “It’s true. Reggie and I had to give him private lessons. He’s great now, but it did take a little extra work.”

My resistance was beginning to wane. I liked the idea of meeting new guys who were active and social. I loved the idea of doing something on a regular basis with my new friends. I was still wary that my clumsiness on the field could be humiliating. I asked, “Will you help me out if I need it?”

I was greeted with simultaneous smiles and nods.

The next day my patio roof caved in.

I made it to work by 1:45, and it was an easy afternoon. Anita and I laughed hard about the patio roof, and I said, “I’m not sure there is a lot more left that could happen to my house short of a car skipping the curb and driving into my living room. Maybe then I would make the evening news.”

Anita said, “Don’t even think about something like that, Mr. Paulsen. You might want to take that back.”

That evening when I arrived home, I found a note attached to the kitchen screen door. Then I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and shined the flashlight at it so that I could read the tiny scrawled letters. In better light, I also noticed the screen door was new. The little gash in the bottom right corner of the screen that I growled at every morning was gone.

The note read, “I got the door replaced, Sven. I’ve got a couple of weeks with an easier schedule, so we can get rolling on more of your projects. I have an idea about a good contractor for that patio work. Call me.” It was signed, “Louis.”

Louis was the handyman Anita suggested. When I contacted him just after Christmas, he was willing to work for me, but he couldn’t promise completing projects on any particular time schedule. The bulk of his work was on larger commercial projects, but he did his best to squeeze in residential work for friends on the side. Lacking the stomach for a diligent search for other options, I hired Louis with the verbal agreement that I would be first in line when he had any free time slots available.

I took the note and the new screen door as signs that my luck was changing. All that I needed to do was stick with the plan. My father always said, “Sven, it starts with a solid house and home. Keep that in shape and the rest of the dominoes of life will all fall in place. Trust me, son. That is the way it all works.”

I peered around the corner of the house briefly and saw the plastic sheeting that I’d hastily tacked over the hole torn in the soffit rippling in the wind. I sighed heavily, but then I held up the note from Louis and smiled. I said out loud as though the entire world could hear, “My luck is changing.”