I couldn’t believe it. I came out my front door one morning and there was a port-a-potty parked in my driveway. I didn’t order it, and it wasn’t dropped to one side, but right in the middle, so I couldn’t get my car out. Who makes this kind of mistake?
I thought about it for a minute. I did have major construction completed a couple of weeks earlier, and the contractor did use a port-a-potty. The job was long finished, but maybe the contractor had ordered it by mistake, or the company had the date wrong.
So I called my contractor: “Did you perchance order another port-a-potty for my house after you finished work here recently?”
They thought I was batty. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, somebody left one in my driveway that I didn’t order.” (Silence.) –Oh, it obviously wasn’t you. (Silence.) –Never mind.”
Next, I called the number printed on the side. I realized it was a different company. A lady answers, so I tell her: “One of your drivers left a port-a-potty that I didn’t order in the middle of my driveway.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you forgot you ordered it.”
(Huh?) “Well, I did have some work done on my house, but that was a couple of weeks ago.”
“So your contractor ordered it. Why don’t you give ’em a call.”
“I already talked to them. They didn’t leave it, and they used a different company. This one has your phone number on it.
“Somebody ordered it.”
Look, can I talk to your boss?”
The woman leaves me on hold for a minute or two. Now I’m fuming. I’m thinking about pushing this floating bucket of crap into the street with my car. But what are the ramifications of that? I mean do I really want it in front of my house? What if somebody hits it?
Finally Nick gets on, says he’s the owner. “Are you sure you didn’t order this?” The woman who answered the phone had been filling him in while I was on hold.
So I explain the situation again and make it clear that his driver obviously delivered to the wrong address. There’s another street nearby with a similar name. He listens and then says to me, “Look lady, I only have one truck, and it’s on Staten Island. It won’t be back your way until Monday or Tuesday.”
It’s Thursday, mind you. “So I politely tell the owner I’m not going anywhere right away, but I want it out of my driveway.”
He says he’ll try to contact the driver and promises to get back to me. Two hours go by. When I call back, the same woman answers. “I called before,” I say.
“Who are you?”
“I’ve got the port-a-potty in my driveway, remember?”
“Oh yeah. We deal with people like you all day, understand.”
“No, I don’t understand. Can you explain that for me? What kind of people do you deal with?”
“Nick’ll be with you in just a moment.” I picture her chewing Juicy Fruit. I can tell she’s cupping the phone with Nick right there. He’s hearing every word.
When he finally picks up, I jump right in: “Nick, you were going to call me back…”
“Well, it got busy. It’s always busy here.”
“I don’t care what else you’re doing, but you better get your port-a-potty out of my driveway today or I’m going to either push it into the street with my car or I’m going to call the police?”
“Listen, lady, you really don’t want to push it with your car. You hear me?”
I know he’s speaking from experience. “Well, I’ll just call the police then. Maybe I should just call them now.”
“What are the police gonna do?”
“Well, call you I suppose. –Look, did you get ahold of the driver or not?”
“Yeah, the driver was going home for day. I mean, he’s not happy.”
“I don’t care if he’s happy. What did he say?”
“He should be there in 90 minutes — could take longer. Don’t know what the traffic is gettin’ across the bridge now or the rest of the way.”
The driver did not come in 90 minutes or even two hours. But I did peek out the window after dark, and it was gone.
