The Poop Diaries Read online

  Judging by the amount of feces layering the room, it was more than a problem. It was an infestation. At least forty rats pooped on take-out Styrofoam containers and boxes scattered around the room. I anxiously whipped out my flashlight, terrified they were going to jump out and maul me. I looked for eyes and teeth, bracing myself for the attack.

  Giving me a much-needed distraction, an employee came downstairs.

  “I need more carry-out containers,” he said.

  Acting as if the poop magically disappeared, the woman nonchalantly pulled out a few Styrofoam containers. With her bare hand, she briskly wiped away the brown poop pellets and handed the containers to the employee.

  “Here,” she said. “Take these upstairs.”

  I stood there frozen, full of judgement and shock. How could she put customers’ food inside the same containers that were covered in rat poop? Who does that?

  “You know that is a health hazard, right?” I asked.

  She did not reply. Her eyes shifted down to the floor.

  I was about to walk out and report her to the Chicago Department of Public Health, but a question popped up in my head for which I needed an answer.

  “Why did she call a plumber and not pest control?” I thought.

  I pointed my flashlight towards the sewer and sure enough, spotted giant holes that were so big I could fit my fist through them. The holes were a welcome mat for rats. I imagined them flashing their pointy teeth, walking through the holes, and into the restaurant.

  “Hey, what’s up? Beef and peapods tonight?” I pictured them saying.

  Snapping out of my trance, I showed the owner the holes.

  “See those holes? That is how the rats are getting inside. I need to break open the ground and plug the holes,” I explained, assuming she would give me the green light to proceed.

  “I do not want to pay for that,” she said, to my surprise. “How about I give you food as your payment instead of cash?”

  Disgusted, I politely declined.

  She called me a couple days later, trying to haggle again. The image of rats pooping on take-out containers haunted me. I declined again.

  Despite my deep hatred for rats, I do not turn my back on all rat calls. One time a dog walker called me to fix her sewer. Every day for weeks, she flushed down the toilet doggy bags full of poop. It was not the smartest thing to do. She had seventy feet of piled up sewage comprised of poop-filled doggy bags. I had to break open the sewer to fix it, and when I did, two rats scurried out. I jumped, holding back a scream.

  Thankfully, I was not alone on the job. My buddy chased the rats into her yard and killed them with a gardening tool. We then fixed the pipe and backfilled it that same day.

  The saddest rat infestation I have witnessed happened to a nice, young couple who just bought a new home. The wife was pregnant. She and her husband bought the house when it was in foreclosure. It looked a hundred-years-old and needed a lot of work. The entire structure was leaning to the side - Chicago’s very own Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  Their plan was to have the baby, live in the house for a year or two, tear it down and rebuild. Unfortunately, things did not go as planned.

  The wife called me because her washing machine was not draining. The water kept seeping out onto the basement floor. A section of the floor was dug out. When I shined my light on it, I saw a hundred pairs of eyes staring back at me. I nearly shit myself right there.

  “Uh, ma’am, sorry to say this but you have a really bad rat problem,” I said, in a slightly higher-pitched voice.

  “Noooo!” she yelled, dropping to her knees.

  Tears fell from her face.

  Knowing the army of rats may emerge and attack any minute, my body kicked into flight mode, wanting to run out of there. My mind, however, chose to fight. I felt sorry for her.

  “Ma’am, I am so sorry. Have you ever noticed one or two rats running around this room?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” she uttered, sniffling and rubbing her eyes.

  They tore down the house a couple months later.

  BATHTUB CRINGE

  In my line of work, every day is a learning experience. A couple jobs have taught me lifelong lessons, which I will graciously pass along to you. If you buy an apartment building, make sure to do your due diligence in thoroughly understanding your potential renters. Background checks will not cut it. Interview them on the phone and in person. Take them out for drinks and see how they handle themselves. Talk to their friends and family. Call their employer or a professor if they attend college.

  As a party lover and moderate socialite, I am not about to poo-poo partygoers. I have the utmost respect for people seeking a good time. On one hand, there is responsible partying, which I welcome. On the other hand, there is outer space partying, where people drink so much, they truly believe they are on another planet, and they don’t stop. I do not love that level of partying, although it does pay my bills.

  The outer space partyers are the types of people I usually encounter. And I must say, their creativity in toilet alternatives blows my mind.

  On an early Sunday morning, my phone rang.

  “Hey, Jon,” said one of my regular customers.

  He owned an apartment building in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago.

  “Can you stop by one of my three-bedroom units? Five college girls are renting it. They threw a party last night and their toilet seat and tank broke,” he explained.

  “Sure, no problem,” I said. “I will head there now.”

  These calls never surprise me. They are the typical college campus plumbing stories, although in this case, I saw something I had never seen before.

  I arrived at the apartment at 10 a.m. Standing outside the door, I could hear music and people chatting. Clearly, the party had not ended. When I knocked on the door, a twenty-something girl answered.

  “Hi. I am Jon, the plumber,” I said.

  It was pointless to make small talk. Her eyes drooped to her cheeks. Her body hunched over. After partying the night away, it was obvious she was not in the best mindset to discuss what subject she was studying at school.

  She opened the door wider, without a saying a word. A waft of shit smell blew into my face. Walking through a trail of beer cans and empty wine bottles, I followed the scent to the bathroom.

  The room was small, which made the smell even more dominating. Considering the toilet broke the night before, the communal sewage had been sitting in the tank for a while. The stench was strong, to say the least. It burned my eyes.

  Fortunately, the fix was easy. I drained the toilet and replaced it, which took about fifteen minutes. With a new toilet installed, I expected the stink to fade away, but it stayed, as strong as ever. I was perplexed. I just installed a fresh, new toilet. Why did it still smell like shit?

  Interrupting my thoughts, one of the girls popped her head in.

  “The tub is clogged too,” she blurted out, and ran away.

  Like most apartment bathrooms, the tub sat next to the toilet. It had an off-white color shower curtain, which was closed. The end of it was tucked inside the tub. I pulled it back.

  “Holy shit,” I accidentally said out loud.

  The tub was filled with at least four inches of pee and poop. Brown nuggets clung to the side. Yellow urine pooled at the bottom. Up until that moment, I had never seen anyone shit in a tub. It was different and disgusting. Fortunately, since I had already spent quite a bit of time with the stink permeating, I was used to the stench.

  I called the landlord.

  “This is going to cost you extra,” I said.


  THE COVER GIRL

  I am a lucky guy to have magazine models calling me, begging me to come over. I confess most of the time, they only want me to unclog their toilets. It still counts though, and I enjoy it, except for one time. I would have been just fine if I had not taken one model’s call.

  “Hello,” she said. “My toilet is clogged. I need help fixing it.”

  It seemed like a run-of-the-mill job.

  “I will be right over,” I said.

  Her house was a sprawling two-story white brick home. It had a long driveway that snaked through the front yard. I parked near the end of it and walked up to the front door. When she opened it, my jaw dropped to the floor. My eyes bulged out of their sockets. I had never seen such a gorgeous woman. Her skin was flawless. She had an unforgettable smile and legs that went on for miles. She was phenomenal. I nearly forgot why I was there.

  “Hi,” I squeaked. “I am Jon, the plumber.”

  “Follow me. The bathroom is down this hall,” she said, snapping me out of my trance.

  Framed cover pages of magazines filled the walls of the hallway. Each one featured the gorgeous woman leading me to her bathroom.

  “Those photographs are of me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I am a model.”

  My legs felt like they were going to collapse. I needed to snap out of it.

  “I am here to unclog her toilet,” I thought. “There is nothing sexy about that, but she is so hot!”

  The bathroom was at the end of the hallway. It was clean and modern. A white, porcelain sink and vanity stood against the wall. Gray wooden shelves lined the walls. It even had a large shower with a double glass door.

  “So,” I said, clearing my throat. “Can you explain to me again what is wrong with the toilet?”

  “Oh, my toilet,” she responded, her cheeks flushing from embarrassment, which I thought was adorable. “It is messy in there.”

  “No problem. Let me look,” I said.

  The second I lifted the seat; my encounter with this gorgeous woman quickly went south. The bowl was so abominable, I instantly vomited into it. I will spare you the revolting details (like chunks of fava beans) but to give you an idea, I have only vomited on a job three times in three decades. This was one of them.

  She was mortified. I saw her from the corner of my eye, slowly stepping backward out of the bathroom. Feeling bad about my reaction, I wanted to make her feel better. I never want to embarrass people.

  “Don’t worry!” I thought about saying. “I vomit all the time on jobs. It is par for the course!”

  I did not say any of those things. My eyes were burning so badly, I could not get a word out.

  Half blinded, I quickly used my air ram tool to clear the toilet. She walked away, leaving me alone to finish the job.

  Her toilet set the record for the worst clogged bowl I had seen up until that point. Little did I know that record was about to be broken.

  SIXTEEN YANKEE CANDLES

  The call seemed like every other call.

  “My toilet is clogged,” said the woman. “I need you to come over and fix it as soon as possible.”

  “Sure, ma’am,” I replied. “I will be there soon.”

  She lived on the tenth floor of a modern high rise in downtown Chicago. When I arrived, she opened the door.

  “Hi. I am Jon, the plumber,” I said. “I am here to fix the toilet.”

  The woman had grayish-brown, shoulder-length hair. She was wearing reading glasses with a chain connected to them.

  “Come in,” she said, pushing the glasses down to the tip of her nose to get a better look at me.

  Her apartment was clean. It had dark wood floors and light gray walls. She walked me past the open living room, dining area, and kitchen, and into the master bedroom, which connected to the bathroom.

  “This is the clogged toilet,” she said.

  Surprisingly, the bathroom smelled kind of nice. Big, purple, Yankee candles were scattered everywhere – inside the bathtub, above the sink, and on the toilet tank. It looked like she lit them hours ago because soot stuck to the ceiling. Air fresheners sat in every corner of the room. Clearly, she had something to hide.

  Once my eyes adjusted to all the purple, I walked over to the toilet and lifted the seat. Without hesitation, I threw up in the bowl.

  Dried, crusty poop was packed to the brim. The smell of pepper and curry permeated the air. My eyes felt like they were on fire.

  “How long have you been without a toilet?” I asked, coughing repeatedly.

  “Three weeks,” she said.

  “Three weeks! Why three weeks?” I asked.

  “I thought the longer I waited, the less expensive it would be,” she explained. “And I was embarrassed.”

  Her face flushed.

  The first part of her explanation made no sense whatsoever, but I understood the latter part. Embarrassment is a natural reaction for my clients, and in this case, especially, I could see why.

  I shoved my air ram into the bowl. The poop was so hard it felt like I was pushing through a boulder of dried mud. The smell was abhorrent. I tried holding my breath. My eyes would not stop watering. No matter what I did, I could not escape the scent of curry, pepper, and shit. The candles topped off everything, like the cherry on a shit sundae. The purple haze and lavender smell only added to my nausea.

  The job was pure torture. It took me thirty minutes to scoop out the poop and get the toilet to work again. The moment I finished, I stuck my head out the doorway, gasping for clean, non-lavender-curry-pepper-shit smelling air.

  The woman watched me. Her face was bright red.

  “Will you clean the bowl for me too?” she asked, almost in a whisper as she looked down at the floor.

  “Clean the bowl? I am a plumber, lady! I do not clean toilets!” I thought.

  “No,” I politely replied and left.

  I HAVE HAD IT WITH THESE MOTHA**#*** SNAKES IN THESE MOTHA**#*** DRAINS!

  One job takes the cake for the weirdest thing I have ever found clogging a line. On a summer day in Chicago, one of my regular customers called asking for help. He owned an old apartment building downtown. Three tenants, who lived in a two-bedroom unit, had a backed-up sink.

  Within the hour, I went to the apartment, drained the sink, ran the water to make sure it did not back up again and left. I called the building owner after I finished the job.

  “It is done,” I said. “The sink is unplugged and working.”

  “Thank you so much, Jon,” he replied.

  Two weeks later, he called again.

  “The sink is backed up again,” he said. “I do not know what the problem is or what they are putting down there, but I need you to fix it.”

  He then dropped his voice to a low, muffled tone.

  “One of my tenants said you have no idea what you are doing and asked me to hire another plumber,” he murmured.

  “What?!” I exclaimed. “The nerve! I know I fixed that sink!”

  My face flushed with anger. I hate when people do not trust me. I knew I fixed their sink. I tested it. It worked. Plumbing is not rocket science, despite what people may think. There are only so many things that can go wrong on just a few things – sinks, tubs, and toilets. If the tub is clogged, you unclog it. First, rod it. If that does not work, use an air ram, jet or pistol rod. If the toilet is leaking, find out why. It is either a broken toilet, seal or pipe. Whichever one it is, replace it.

  If plumbing were rocket science, I would not be doing it.

  Fortunately, in this case, the owner and I had a
rapport. He trusted me. I went back that day and brought a couple guys with me. The tenants were not home. We did the exact same thing as I did the last time, however, unlike last time, the sink would not drain.

  “Did the tenants do something to it? What changed?” I said.

  We stood there, perplexed. I tried rodding it again. We worked on it for a couple hours to no avail. I called the building owner.

  “We need to remove the pipes and clean them out,” I explained. “It will cost you more money because it is a more time-consuming job. I need to figure out what changed between two weeks ago and today.”

  “Do you really have to?” he asked.

  “Sorry, man. We have been working on this for hours, and I cannot get it open,” I said.

  “Oh, okay,” he said, sounding disappointed.

  I felt bad for the guy. He was not expecting a higher price; however, we were also not expecting additional labor.

  My colleague cut up a section of the pipe. He then took a grinder to the next section.

  To my surprise, within seconds, he threw up all over the floor. Our other colleague walked over, took a whiff inside the pipe, and ran out with a mouthful of vomit.

  “What is going on?” I thought. “We rarely vomit on jobs.”

  And then the smell hit me. Out of all the toilets I have unclogged, all the poop, vomit and every other bodily fluid I have smelled, this stench was the worst. It smelled like death. It was a rancid, acidic, rotten fish egg-like stench. Within minutes, it infiltrated the whole unit. Our eyes were burning. We could not breathe. Our stomachs turned over and over. We frantically opened the windows and ran out.

  Standing outside the building, we looked up at the apartment window, wondering what the hell emitted that horrific smell. We stood there for two and a half hours, calming our stomachs and waiting for the place to air out.

  Committed to finishing the job, we went back inside. My colleague cautiously approached the pipe and stuck his hand inside. To our gruesome surprise, he pulled out a six-foot-long snake and two dead mice. It was disgusting. The snake was in pieces. We could see the greenish, brownish, yellowish skin. It must have eaten the mice, crawled into the kitchen line and drowned. I could not wrap my head around how the six-foot-long snake squeezed into the two-inch-long line, let alone with two rats in its stomach. I was not a genius with numbers, but I knew that math did not add up.