There is only one thing that makes you feel more stressed out than expecting a baby: getting “work done” in your apartment.

Even though we were only renting, Andy and I wanted to make a few improvements to the place before the baby’s arrival. We asked our next-door neighbor landlord if it would be okay.

“Sure,” Johnny said. He was sitting on his stoop, talking on his cell phone. “Only helps my property value,” he winked and added, “You got someone to help you out? Cause I have a great guy. Won’t cost you an arm and a leg either.”

Who better to do the work than someone who knew our landlord – especially if that someone worked cheap? My husband and I looked at each other and nodded back to Johnny eagerly. He gave us the number of his guy, Bobby, and told us to tell him Johnny sent us. “He does a lot of work for me,” Johnny explained. “He fixed up your place before you moved in.”

That evening, we called Bobby’s cell phone. “Hello,” he said, his accent thick with the sound of steel drums and island breezes. “This is Bobby.”

We told him who we were, where we lived, a bit about what we wanted done – and, of course, that Johnny referred him. He took it all in and said, “No problem.” Mentioning that there was a baby coming, we asked when he could do the work. “I’m finishing up a job around the corner from you,” he told us. “I’ll come by in an hour to take a look.”

Andy and I beamed at each other. All we’d ever heard about contractors was how unreliable they are. This was service.

“Johnny is the world’s best landlord,” I said as we awaited Bobby’s arrival. “First, he turned us on to the Magic Block. Now this.”

Andy nodded in agreement. “Can you believe we went from Tonya,” our psycho 20-something receptionist-turned-waitress landlord who started eviction proceedings against us because we wanted her to fix the boiler, “to this?”

I said, “Don’t even mention Tonya.” I was still convinced she’d given my belly the evil eye while we were moving out of that place.

Around dinnertime, our buzzer rang. “It is Bobby,” the voice rang out. Even through the crackly intercom, you could hear the island breeze. Moments later, a round-faced man in a painter’s cap appeared in our doorway. “I’m Bobby,” he said, tipping the cap and smiling. “Now what can I do for you?”

We introduced ourselves – “that baby’s coming soon,” he said, nodding at my belly as if impressed. The first thing, Andy told him, was to install the new lighting. In that manic burst of energy unique to the newly moved, we’d purchased tracks and halogen lights at Home Depot while settling in, only to realize that actually setting them up would take the two of us novices roughly a weekend.

“Not a problem,” Bobby said, nodding.

We showed him an awkwardly shaped corner where we wanted a bookcase. “Not a problem,” he said, nodding again.

We showed him the odd space in what would be the baby’s room and wondered if some kind of closet could be built there. He said, “Maybe not a real, full closet, but, not a problem, I’ll get you some storage space there.”

Then we showed him what we thought was the biggest challenge – the area where the kitchen met the living room. “We’d love to close that off somehow,” I explained. Bobby nodded and said, “Maybe with a countertop, and a place to put chairs?” “Exactly,” I said. He walked around the space and bent to take mental measurements. “We can maybe get you some more cabinet space there, too,” he said. “Not a problem,” he added, straightening to stand.

The price he quoted us was reasonable, so we asked when he could begin the work, and he said later that week. “Do you think you’ll be done before the baby comes?” I asked. “Not a problem,” he said, somewhat unsurprisingly.

Once he left, buoyed by Bobby excitement, we called Johnny to thank him for the recommendation. “No problem,” our landlord told us. “He’s a great guy.”

Later that week, my buzzer rang at around 11 o’clock in the morning. “It is Bobby,” the voice rang out. I welcomed Bobby in, and he got to work on the track lighting. In less than an hour, he’d completed the task.

“Looks great,” I said, inspecting his handiwork. It made a huge difference in the space. Heading to the fridge for a glass of water, I asked Bobby if he’d like one as well. Over our waters, Bobby told me a bit more about himself. He was from Trinidad, a place he referred to as “my country,” as in, “in my country, the food is much fresher than here” and “in my country, there is a lot more relaxing and a lot less work.”

He asked if I knew the baby’s gender. When I told him I didn’t, he said, “I’ll tell you. Easy, man. That’s one healthy boy in there.” I smiled and said, “You think so?” Strangers on the street said the same thing. I told him neither Andy nor I had a gender preference, and Bobby said, “That’s the way to be.”

Then he got back to work, building what would be the foundation of our kitchen-meets-living room divider. At about 6 o’clock, he called out to say he was done for the day, and I said, “See you tomorrow.”

He didn’t come back for another full week.

I tried to call Bobby and left messages. Then I called Johnny to see if he knew what was up.

“Hmm,” Johnny said. “Bobby’s a good guy. He’ll get the stuff done for ya. But you know the saying, ‘island time’? Bobby kinda works on it.”

“Oh,” I said, though I was thinking, “Now you tell me.” “Normally I wouldn’t mind,” I said, “but with the baby coming. …”

“I’ll give him a call and have him get back to you,” Johnny told me.

A few minutes later, Bobby called me back. He told me he’d meant to come, but another of his jobs had had some kind of emergency. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” he assured me. “Not a problem.” I told him I didn’t mind the delay; I just wanted to be certain he’d be done before I had the baby. He said, “Yes, I know. It will be done, man. Not a problem.”

And though I said, “Great! Thank you!” I was crossing my fingers it wouldn’t be.

The Brooklyn Chronicles, a work of fiction, appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.