We're scheduled to start removing the floor and cabinets during the second week of January on a Tuesday, so I arrange to work from home that day, just to make sure nothing horrible happens. [cue Bernard Herrmann]
On Tuesday, only one of the two guys shows up, but he's an animal, and I mean that in a good way. He is there to work, and he starts prying up floor tiles. They're coming up whole, some of them, and he's vocalizing his approval. "Yeah!" "Oh, nice!" He's basically Englishing the crowbar. Every so often, he takes a break on the one chair I've left in the kitchen, but he doesn't sit long. In no time, he's got a big hunk of floor done. The tiles are breaking now, but they're still coming up nicely.
Every so often, I hear a little "shit" or "damn it!" I yell, "Are you OK?" and he is. At 11:00, he calls me in to take a look at something. He has found a section of damp floor, and the sub-floor is peeling like paper. The closer he gets to the fridge, the wetter the floor is. So he moves to a different part of the floor, and I call Lowe's, where I bought the Whirlpool refrigerator in 2013.
The contractor, who was supposed to come by at 10:30, has sliced his fingers and has gone to ER to get stitches. The tile guy keeps working until the tile is gone from everywhere except the area around the refrigerator. And then, at 2:30, he borrows my shop vac and cleans up and goes home.