The Poop Diaries

  The Poop Diaries

  Abby Ross

  © Copyright Abby Ross 2020

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2020 by Abby Ross

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  This is a work of non-fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s interviews with plumbers across North America. For anonymity purposes, some of the names, and the physical descriptions of homes and people are fictitious.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-426-1

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Thank you so much for checking out one of our Humor novels.

  If you enjoy our book, please check out our recommended title for your next great read!

  Parrot Talk by David B. Seaburn

  “…a story of abandonment, addiction, finding oneself—all mixed in with tear-jerking chapters next to laugh-out-loud chapters.” –Tiff & Rich

  I dedicate this book to all the plumbers who took the time to share their stories with me. Thank you for supporting this project and for the hard work you do to give us life’s essentials.

  I also dedicate this book to my loving husband, Denis, and our two children, Felix and Heller. Thank you for bringing laughter, support, inspiration, and joy into my life every day.

  Finally, thank you to my mom for always being my number one fan.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Recommended Reading

  Dedication

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CONTACT

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BRW INFO

  “If I would be a young man again and had to decide how to make my living, I would not try to become a scientist or scholar or teacher. I would rather choose to be a plumber or a peddler in hope to find that modest degree of independence still available under present circumstances.”

  – Albert Einstein,

  published in Forbes.com in 2009

  INTRODUCTION

  One chilly, Wednesday evening in Chicago, I clogged our toilet. My husband suggested we wait until the morning to call a plumber; however, I knew I could not sleep without a working toilet. We moved into our house a few months prior, so we did not have a go-to plumber. After a brief online search, we found Jon. He showed up at 9 p.m. that night, cheery and unexpectedly chatty.

  I embarrassingly lingered outside our bathroom door as Jon got to work. He rodded the toilet and convinced us to purchase a new one. The entire job took thirty minutes, yet Jon did not seem to want to leave. He leaned against our kitchen island, chatting away about anything and everything. He was such a nice guy. I did not want to push him out. It was also useful to have a plumber in my back pocket. After ten minutes of chatting, I embraced his extroverted personality and asked him to share his best plumbing stories. What came out of his mouth was so hilarious I felt compelled to write a book.

  That is how “The Poop Diaries” was born. After interviewing Jon, I set out to find other plumbers. I asked each one about the most interesting (and sometimes craziest) people they have met, most memorable surprises they have found, and any other “greatest hit” stories that were disgusting, hilarious or scary.

  You may assume this book is all about poop, and rightfully, so. When most people think about plumbers, including me, they envision poop. This book, however, is about poop and so much more. Dildos, snakes, rats, fake vaginas, hauntings, weapons, boobs, cheaters, shower obsessions, and drugs are only some examples of what these plumbers have encountered.

  I hope you enjoy reading their diaries.

  CHAPTER 1

  JON

  With thirty years of plumbing under my belt, I have seen it all.

  I began working in plumbing when I was 13-years-old. A neighbor asked me to join him on jobs. Instead of money, he paid me with free hot dogs and fries, which for most teenagers, was better than money. I attended a few colleges but did not graduate. I am not that good looking, so modeling was off the table. I was in the Navy for five years and was a professional lifeguard, but neither of those jobs paid the bills. So, plumbing was my best option. It paid the bills and made me get my head out of my butt (no pun intended).

  If you think plumbing is only about poop, you are wrong. I have seen people during their most vulnerable, naked (literally), and embarrassing moments. I have rescued people from showers, pulled snakes from pipes, and gone head to head with an army of rats. When I go on jobs, I skip peeling back the onion. From the rich to the poor, famous to the everyday “Joe,” black, white, Indian, Asian, every color and culture out there, I see people for who they really are, inside and out.

  I am Jon, and these are my diaries.

  THE COSMO MODEL

  On a sunny day in Chicago, a woman called me.

  “My basement is covered in poop,” she said. “Please, can you come soon?”

  “Sure. No problem, ma’am. I will be right over,” I replied.

  Those kinds of jobs were run of the mill for me. I went to her house and knocked on the door.

  “Hi. I am Jon,” I said.

  “Hi. I am Amy,” she replied, opening the door and gesturing for me to come inside.

  Whenever I meet a new customer, I like to make small talk to break the ice, especially because the situation tends to be personal.

  “So, what do you do for a living?” I asked.

  “I used to be a model. Now, I am a mom,” she said.

  She must have repeated the model part at least five times during the following five minutes, telling me stories about her modeling days, etc. etc. etc.

  I assumed the poop in her basement would be an easy problem to solve, like a backed-up toilet that overflowed, nothing I had not seen before.

  I was wrong. It turned out, her sewer had been backed up for weeks, to the point where layers upon layers of feces were caked on the floor, walls, and everywhere else. And it was not all from humans. She had dogs, which she never let outside and cats that forgot how to use a litter box if there was one. Kids’ clothes were piled up everywhere, also covered in feces. She did not remove anything from the basement, allowing poop to cover it all, like chocolate frosting on a cake.

  I spent hours on my hands and knees, scraping off the poop so I could access the sewer. She hovered over me, yapping and yapping, sharing more stories about her modeling days as if I gave a shit. Finally, I scraped away the poop, found the sewer and unclogged it. Trying to escape qui
ckly, I found the closest table, hunkered down and wrote up the paperwork. My eyes remained focused on the paper, which I hoped would show her I did not want to talk anymore. Then, things got weird.

  After filling everything out, I turned around to ask her to confirm the information on the bill was accurate. She was standing over me, stark naked. My eyeballs were almost touching her nipples. I froze, not sure how to proceed.

  You may be thinking, “C’mon man! A former model is standing in front of you, naked! Do something! Seize the day!”

  Moments prior, I scraped layers of her shit off the floor. I imagined her naked body covered in hard, brown poop, like a statue that stunk.

  She continued standing there, unbothered, waiting for me to confirm her information on the bill was accurate. A part of me wondered if she forgot she removed her clothes. A minute later, I snapped out of it.

  “Uh, hello?” I said, gesturing my hands up and down to clearly show I was uncomfortable.

  “What?” she asked nonchalantly as if standing in front of plumbers naked was a thing she did all the time.

  “Lady, please cover-up.” I blurted out, relieved I finally said something.

  She looked up and down her naked body, giggling. I was clearly the only uncomfortable person in the room.

  “Oh, sorry. I am used to being naked from my modeling days,” she explained casually. I cringed at the word “modeling.” Enough was enough.

  She put her clothes back on, signed the paperwork, and walked me out.

  Believe it or not, customers – men and women – stripping in front of plumbers is not a novelty. My buddy, who is a very good-looking guy, has been on a few calls where he finished the job, went to his truck to drop off his tools, and headed back inside with the bill only to find customers standing in front of him, naked.

  “Add it to my bill,” they would say.

  One time, I went on a seemingly ordinary call that ended up far from ordinary.

  The woman’s kitchen sink was broken. While I was shoulder deep inside the cabinet fixing the pipes, she stood over me, staring.

  “Want to see something?” she asked. I looked up, without saying anything.

  She shoved an entire beer bottle into her mouth, down her throat and back up again to her lips.

  “Want to go out Friday?” I blurted out, praying she would accept the invitation.

  I had never seen anything like that before. Hell, I wanted to marry her right then and there. We ended up going on a date, just once.

  MR. CLEAN

  (BUT NOT THAT BALD GUY

  YOU ARE THINKING OF)

  The strangest call I have ever received has nothing to do with poop.

  A woman, who lived in Michigan, called me about her son.

  “My son lives in Chicago,” she said in a panicky voice. “He has issues and needs help right now.”

  “Ma’am, we all have issues,” I replied, trying to lighten the mood.

  “No, seriously,” she said, not amused. “He really has issues and needs help.”

  The urgency in her voice, coupled with her evasiveness made me concerned. My plumbing alias is ‘The Plumbing Doctor.’

  “Maybe she meant to call a real doctor?” I thought.

  “Which day works best for me to stop by his house?” I asked.

  “Can you go right now?” she replied, her voice shooting up an octave.

  It was 7 a.m.

  “What is the urgency?” I asked.

  “He needs to go to work, but his shower is broken,” she said. “Please, please can you go now?”

  I did not understand the problem. Admittedly, although my line of work lends itself to getting dirty, I have gone a day without showering. Although I was not going to argue with the woman. She sounded worried and as a parent myself, I understood that when it came to your children, even the most minor problem was major to you.

  She gave me her son’s address. He lived in a four-story apartment building that was made of brick. His apartment was on the fourth floor. When I knocked on the door, no one answered. I knocked again, slightly louder.

  “Come in!” shouted an echoey voice from inside the apartment. “The door is open.”

  Alarm bells screamed in my head. What is wrong with this guy? Why won’t he answer his own door? Clients always answer their own doors. Many go a step further and look through the peephole first to see who is standing there. Something did not seem right.

  “Sir,” I said loudly, still standing outside the door. “Please come to the door and let me in.”

  “I can’t,” he replied. “Just let yourself in.”

  I cautiously opened the door, looking for a booby trap or something like it. The apartment was clean and empty. I did not see any signs of a leak, nor smelled feces. The guy was also nowhere in sight. I was confused.

  “Where was this guy?” I thought.

  Then I remembered his mother said his shower was broken. I headed down a long hallway toward the back of the apartment. Low and behold, I heard a shower running, and he was in it.

  The guy was standing in a foot of water, clutching a shower curtain wrapped around his private parts. The shower was still running.

  “Sir, please come out of the shower so I can see the problem,” I said, trying to hide the frustration in my voice.

  “No. I cannot come out. I need to shower and get to work,” he replied stubbornly, clutching the curtain a bit tighter.

  “Sir, seriously, you need to get out of the shower. Not only is this making me uncomfortable, but I cannot do my job unless I get full access to the shower without you in it,” I said, trying not to raise my voice.

  He refused.

  “I am halfway through my shower. I am not getting out until I finish. You can fix it while I finish,” he said.

  “Wow,” I thought.

  He had the nerve to expect me to work around him while he stood there naked, taking a shower.

  I threatened to leave unless he got out. He still refused. I tried rationalizing with him, explaining in detail why him being in the shower made it tougher for me to figure out what was wrong. He begged me to stay, yet still refused to get out and would not turn off the shower.

  Suddenly, a change of heart struck me. Clearly, this guy had some sort of issue (as his mom said) that disabled him from leaving the shower for ten minutes so I could fix it.

  “Okay, I will stay. But please keep that shower curtain wrapped around you and move over slightly,” I said. “I do not want your junk on my head.”

  The guy obliged, relieved he did not have to get out.

  I stuck my head inside the shower. At least six cases of soap bars were stacked up on a shelf along the wall. The boxes nearly hit the ceiling. I noticed one of the bars was stuck in the pipe underneath the drain – an easy fix, thankfully. I carefully extended my arm past where the guy was standing, still wrapped in his shower curtain, and popped out the soap. The water drained instantly.

  I thought I saw a slight glimpse of “thank you, you are my hero” in the guy’s eye until he spoke.

  “Please make sure on your way out your tools do not touch my floor, and do not touch the washer and dryer,” he said.

  “Are you kidding me?” I thought but did not say. Obviously, this guy had much bigger problems than I did that day. At least I fixed one of them. I picked up my tools, glanced at the washer, and dryer on my way out, envisioning my foot slamming into them, restrained myself and left.

  EGG DROP SOUP

  (SANS THE EGG)

  Nothing scares me more than rats. I would rath
er swim in a basin of diarrhea than stand in a room filled with rats. Poop will not chase me. Poop does not bite. Poop will not give me rabies. My general rule of thumb is if I could potentially bring home a disease, I walk away from the job, which is what almost happened at a Chinese restaurant on the north side of Chicago.

  When the owner called, she did not say one word about rats.

  “I have an issue,” she said. “Can you please come to the restaurant?”

  “What is the issue, ma’am?” I asked.

  “You will see when you get here,” she said.

  I agreed to help her, reluctantly. I prefer to know more details about the jobs I agree to do; however, I did not feel like arguing. I had an open day, so I figured I may as well head over there.

  When I arrived, the woman was standing outside. She appeared flustered and stressed. Refusing to talk to me anywhere near the dining area, which had about a half dozen customers chomping away on orange chicken and Chow Mein, she silently walked me through the restaurant.

  At first, I did not smell anything outside the norm. The Chinese restaurant smell is always pungent, overshadowing all other odors in the room. The woman brought me to the back of the restaurant and down a narrow, wooden staircase that looked about a hundred-years-old. At the bottom, a plastic sheet hung from the ceiling to the floor, which freaked me out. It looked like a scene out of that television show, “Dexter.”

  “Is this woman going to kill me?” I thought.

  She pulled back the curtain and boom! The smell hit me like five hundred tons of shit bricks. Poop was everywhere, and it was not from humans.

  “We have a rat problem,” she said, so softly I could barely hear her.