Websites and 24-hour phone answering for contractors across the Verde Valley, Prescott, Flagstaff and the Rim Country. Built by somebody who spent a decade making sure nothing got out that wasn't supposed to.
A path by which noise generated inside the boat reaches the water outside it. Usually a vibration isolator that's been painted over, corroded, or bridged by something nobody thought about — so a mount designed to absorb energy now transmits it straight through the hull.
Machinery noise stays inboard by design. A sound short breaks that design quietly, and the boat has no idea it's doing it.
Once it's in the water, you don't get it back.
On a submarine you hunt sound shorts obsessively, because the thing you're broadcasting is the one thing you can't take back and can't see yourself. The whole crew hears normal. The ocean hears you.
A business works the same way. Yours is transmitting something right now — a phone that rings out at eight on a Saturday night, a Google listing with the wrong hours, no website at all for a company that's been licensed twenty-eight years. You hear a good outfit doing good work. The market hears something else entirely, and it's already made up its mind.
That gap is the whole job. Find what you're putting in the water without meaning to, and shut it off.
She calls three plumbers. Two go to voicemail. The third one answers, and that's a $2,400 job that was never going to be yours.
Here's the part that stings: you didn't miss that call because you were sitting on the couch. You missed it because you were already elbow-deep in somebody else's emergency across the valley, and a man can only be in one place. But she doesn't know that. All she got was a beep — and she'd dialed the next number before your voicemail finished playing.
Being busy shouldn't cost you the next job.
Nothing about that is a marketing problem. It's a coverage problem, and it's fixable in an afternoon.
Five pages that work properly on a phone and full-size on a desktop, your ROC number displayed, and genuine pages for the towns you actually serve. Not a template with your name dropped into it.
It picks up when you can't, gets the problem and the address, and texts you the details. The caller gets a person-shaped answer instead of a beep.
Claimed, right hours, right service area, right categories — then every finished customer gets asked for a review. Together those are nearly half of what decides whether you show up on the map at all.
No discovery session. No three-tier proposal engineered to push you into the middle one. This is what it costs.
Everything built, tested and live. Paid once.
Keeps the site working and found.
Everything above, and your phone stops going to voicemail.
Almost half of what decides whether you show up in the local map results comes down to two things: your Google listing, and your reviews. Not your logo, not how often somebody posts a blog. That's where the monthly work goes.
Most contractors around here have eight or nine reviews from customers who happened to think of it on their own. You should have eight or nine a month. That's not a trick — it's just asking every customer, every time, which nobody does because they're busy working. So I do it for you.
Every other month I write a piece on something you actually deal with — what a failing pressure tank sounds like, what a septic permit really runs in Yavapai County. You read it and tell me if it's right, and it goes up under your name. You don't write a word. It won't rank you on its own, and I won't pretend otherwise — but it catches the people searching that exact question, and it keeps the site from looking abandoned.
$650 a month is $7,800 a year. One HVAC changeout or one well pump replacement covers most of that on its own. Two, and the year is paid for with money left over. For smaller service calls it runs three or four jobs.
So the real question isn't whether it's expensive. It's how many after-hours calls you didn't get to last year — and whether you think that number was under four.
Ten years in the Navy submarine service, where a missed step isn't a bad quarter, it's a casualty. After that: automated test systems for semiconductors and photonics at Motorola, and a $3M facility build I ran that came in early and under budget — with enough left over to outfit the labs.
Then five years as flight director on the Yuma tethered aerostat, running crews of five to seven through every launch, recovery and safety-critical maintenance evolution. After that, radar and FLIR — forward-looking infrared — systems integrated onto eighty-foot tower platforms for forward operating bases in Afghanistan.
That was rapid fielding. Fourteen systems built, shipped and standing watch on a schedule that didn't allow for a second attempt, because the people waiting on them were in harm's way. They worked. That mattered more than anything else about the job.
I've never had work where the work was just work. When what you build is what keeps people safe, you don't ship it half-finished, you don't sell a man something he doesn't need, and you don't go quiet once the invoice clears. Nobody's life is riding on your website. But that habit doesn't switch off, and you get the same version of me either way.
So if a website isn't going to make you money, I'll tell you that instead of selling you one.
I'm up in Clints Well. You can come look me in the eye.
I'll tell you straight whether this is worth your money. If it isn't, I'll say so and you've lost five minutes.
Pick up the phone if that's easier —
(480) 757-9067Or fill this out and I'll get back to you. No newsletter, no drip campaign, no handing your number to anybody. It comes straight to me.