Edward C. Phlegg, the builder of Suburbian Gems, made Howard Hughes look like an exhibitionist.

No one had ever seen him.  His phone number was a candy store that took messages.  The billboards bearing his picture showed only the back of his head.

"If it's an emergency," said my husband, "I suppose I could track him down."

"Well, every time I push down the toaster, the garage door goes up.  The hot-water heater is hooked up to the garden hose and I am sautéeing the lawn.  The sliding-glass doors don't slide.  The wall heats up when I turn on the porch light.  The hail toilet does not accept tissue.  Half of our driveway is on our neighbor's property, the grapes on the kitchen wallpaper are growing upside down, and I have a sign on our front door reading, 'OUT OF ORDER!  PLEASE USE HOUSE NEXT DOOR.'"

"I think our best bet is to try and pin down the contractors, said my husband.  "I'll see what I can do."

Two months later, we had tracked down our plumber.  He had defected to a small country behind the iron curtain taking with him the last of the 1/15-inch pipe used in our bathrooms.  Delivery was guaranteed in three years.

Our electrician was facing charges of involuntary arson of a large office building where political corruption was suspect.  (He contended his bid was the lowest offered - a case of Coors.)

Our building foreman had returned to high school.  He explained it had only been a temporary summer job to earn enough for a bicycle.

Our furnace man was living under an assumed name in Yuma, Arizona.

Our painrer was drying our in a Sanitorium in upper New York State.