The Portable Toilet and Henry Powell

A True Fictional Story

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Today’s post is something I like to call true fiction. Based on a real story, but also totally made up. Thanks for reading and listening 😸

The Portable Toilet and Henry Powell 🌷

Henry Powell stood on his long, covered porch. His newly-sided, dark green home sat at the end of a highly coveted cul-de-sac in a desirable neighborhood. Henry’s award-winning tulips framed the yard. Minnesota State Fair award winning tulips.

The Powells were getting a solarium constructed on the back of their home. The company called it a “three-season porch,” but it was a solarium in Henry’s eyes. He could already dream of sitting back there, drinking a Tom Collins, watching the birds and flowers in the evening.

Henry nervously glanced at his watch. He worked from home and needed to get back at it.

The pounding of hammers and the whirring of a saw cut through his mind.

Mr. Miller, the foreman, had asked Henry to stand out on the porch and watch for the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet Company’s delivery truck.

Henry had not wanted a portable toilet at his home, but he also didn’t want workmen coming in and out of his house all day long. After two days of contractors using the downstairs bathroom, he had asked Mr. Miller about the possibility of getting a portable toilet. The foreman agreed, and it would only cost Henry seven-hundred and eighty dollars.

The construction would take another four to six weeks, which meant eight to ten weeks in contractor-speak.

The portable toilet was worth it, thought Henry.

Henry’s wife, Kari Powell, was a lawyer who worked downtown. His son, Jaxon—with an ‘x,’ was in middle school, and Henry typically only saw Jaxon for about twenty minutes per day.

Nobody in his little family understood what he had to endure each day.

Henry was considering exactly how much coffee the contractors were drinking to necessitate the use of his bathroom every thirty minutes when he heard the beeping of a truck.

It was the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet Company backing into Henry’s driveway. Henry despised speaking with contractors or other general laborers, but that seemed to be his lot in life that May.

There were four portable toilets on the back of the truck. All light blue and four feet by four feet. “Blue Bucket” with a picture of a toilet was imprinted on the sides.

When the truck came to a halt, Henry heard the liquid slosh inside the toilets and he shuddered.

He jogged out to greet the truck. One of the Blue Bucket Professionals jumped out the passenger side door.

“Hello, hello!” Henry said with a big smile on his face. He couldn’t wait to get these guys out of his driveway. “Looks like you found the right place!”

The Blue Bucket Company employee wore dark blue coveralls, yellow rubber gloves, and had a name patch that read, “Steve.”

Steve looked down at his clipboard. “You Henry Powell?”

“Why, yes, I am,” said Henry confidently, holding out his hand to shake.

The workman didn’t know what to do. “You probably don’t want to touch my hand, sir,” he said.

“Right, of course!”

“Well, where do you want it?” Steve asked.

“The portable toilet?”

“Yup.”

“I can choose where the toilet goes?” asked Henry.

“Sure, why not,” said Steve with a slight eye roll that Henry definitely noticed.

Henry hadn’t pre-thought the location of the portable toilet. At the end of the driveway? Closer to the house? He didn’t think he would be responsible for all those logistics. Usually Kari handled that sort of thing.

“Anywhere is fine,” said Henry.

“Alright, sign here,” said Steve, jutting the clipboard into Henry’s hands. He signed it without reading and thought about washing his hands.

Steve banged on the side of the truck, and a burly man with a full beard and hardhat climbed out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t say a word and adeptly moved up, onto the flatbed of the portable toilet delivery vehicle.

Henry wondered how they were going to get the little toilet off the truck. Perhaps there was a pneumatic lift?

The driver simply bear-hugged the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet, picked it up and handed it down to Steve.

Steve proceeded to drag it across Henry’s immaculate concrete driveway, which had just been power-washed, and he plopped it at the end of the driveway.

“Alright then,” said Steve. Both workmen got back in the truck and drove away without another word.

Henry noticed a few drops of blue toilet chemical on his driveway.

“Why’d you put it all the way at the end of the driveway?” a voice boomed. It was Mr. Miller standing in front of the garage.

Henry didn’t know what to say. “They … umm … just placed it there.”

“Alright then,” said Mr. Miller matter-of-factly, walking past Henry. He went right into the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet.

First customer.

Henry scratched his head and headed back inside.

---

Henry sat at his desk the next morning gazing out at his front lawn. It was a blue sky morning with dew on the grass. He let out a relaxed sigh and took a sip of coffee. No contractors in his house had been a boon to his productivity.

Unfortunately, he had a direct view of the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet through his office window.

His office was on the ground-floor, west side of the home. It was a large but efficient office. Henry’s diplomas hung behind his desk.

The bright blue portable toilet bothered him. It ruined the view of his tulips which were in rare form. Just before peak bloom. He shook it off, lazily staring out the window. He considered the grant proposal on his computer screen.

Henry spotted Margaret Troy and Millie Troy a block away. They were sisters and wore bright, fluorescent, track suits. The two lived together only a block away and never missed their morning power walks.

Henry always waved to them through his window and they always waved back as they curved around their cul-de-sac track.

Today, when they reached the end of the road, Henry waved at the two through the window and they waved back, but then they stopped. They examined the Blue Bucket Toilet and seemed to be discussing something intently.

Millie then proceeded to enter the portable toilet. She must have really had to go, Henry thought.

When Millie reemerged, Margaret went in.

Strange that they would both have to use a portable toilet just a block away from their own home.

Personally, Henry avoided portable toilets at all costs. He would rather let his bladder explode than use a portable toilet.

Then, Margaret was out and they waved at each other once again. The two sisters disappeared back up the road, speed walking away.

Henry didn’t think much of it and got back to his proposal.

About thirty minutes later, Henry was diligently filling out boxes in his grant proposal when a black car pulled into his driveway. It stopped. It was a late model Audi Q5. A large, fancy magnetic sign was stuck to the side of the car’s door which read: “Rick Peterson, High-End Realty.”

Realty? Henry couldn’t understand why a realtor would be at his home. He planned on living at the end of that cul-de-sac until the day he died.

A well-dressed man in his late forties jumped out of the car. He wore pressed khakis and a black polo shirt with his company emblem embroidered on it.

Rick Peterson scanned the area and when he thought the coast was clear, he rapidly opened the door to the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet and went in.

Henry’s brow furrowed.

A good five minutes later, Rick Peterson re-emerged from the Blue Bucket and he seemed nicely relieved. He went to the passenger side of his car, crouched down and checked his slicked-back hair in the rear-view mirror.

After fixing his hair, Rick jumped back into his car and disappeared up the road.

What was going on, wondered Henry?

Henry's mail was typically delivered at 11:45 am, on the dot, everyday.

The postal carrier's name was Stacie. Henry had never gotten her last name, but she was always friendly.

When the appointed hour arrived, the small woman with blonde hair and a Post Office uniform marched up to Henry’s house. He waved at her. She smiled big and waved back.

After dropping the mail, she headed back up the drive but stopped. She examined the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet. A moment later Stacie hefted the postal bag off her shoulder, set it to the side of the portable toilet, and went in.

A few minutes later, Stacie came back out, looking relieved.

She waved back at Henry, picked up her mail bag, slung it back over her shoulder, and continued back on her route.

Henry did not wave back. He was flummoxed.

Henry came to a stark realization:

His driveway had become the city’s most popular public toilet.

This epiphany brought no end of consternation to Henry.

All day long there was a constant stream of Blue Bucket Portable Toilet users: realtors, joggers, contractors from other construction sites, the FedEx guy, the UPS guy and the DHS lady. Even the delivery man from Woodbury Edible Bouquets popped in for a use. Henry made a mental note to avoid Woodbury Edible Bouquets in the future.

All week long, all manner of folks randomly parked on the cul-de-sac, or even in his driveway to use the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet.

This behavior of his fellow townsfolk went on even through the night.

On Wednesday night, Henry and Kari were awoken by a loud bang. A couple of drunk teenagers had pulled up into their driveway and were throwing up in the Blue Bucket. Henry could hear the sounds through the bedroom window.

Henry informed his wife that he had had enough. Honestly, he didn’t know how the portable toilet wasn’t overflowing with sewage by that point.

He knew he had to take action, but Henry didn’t want contractors back in his home using the downstairs bathroom.

The next morning, Henry was beat tired. He hadn't been able to enjoy his tulips, and they were at peak bloom that morning.

Millie and Margaret had just finished using the facilities when Henry blew his stack.

After careful consideration, Henry stormed out of his home as only Henry could storm.

Quietly.

There he stood, in front of the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet. He examined it closely. It was a simple structure. Plastic, about seven feet tall. The door had a latch on it.

Why a filthy plastic box with a toilet in it attracted so many users was a conundrum. He scratched his head.

A car pulled up to the curb behind Henry. It was Rick Peterson. Rick jumped out of his car and ran past Henry, straight into the Blue Bucket.

After more careful consideration, Henry had determined that he had indeed had enough.

When Rick Peterson exited the toilet, Henry was prepared to confront him.

Before Henry could get a word out, Rick said, “You should get that thing cleaned, man. It’s nasty in there.” Then, Rick jumped back into his Audi and took off.

Henry was not about to look inside the Blue Bucket Portable. Over a hundred people must have used the thing since it had been delivered at the beginning of the week.

That’s when he spotted it. There was a little metal latch on the door.

For a lock.

Henry had a lock, and he even knew the combination.

Henry almost ran to his garage and dug around in his junk drawer. He found his simple metal combination Master Lock and rushed back to the Blue Bucket.

After he had fastened the lock on the door, he spun the little combo wheel and felt relief. No more!

He turned around to go back to his office.

Behind him stood his mail carrier, Stacie.

“Do you mind if I use your facilities, Mr. Powell?” Stacie, the mail carrier, asked.

“Sure, no problem,” he stammered. He spun the lock to the proper combination and whipped it back off the door. “There you go, Stacie!”

“Thanks so much!” she said, setting her mail bag on the curb. “Would you mind watching my bag, Henry?”

“No problem.”

After she had used the Blue Bucket, she thanked him. Henry picked up her mail bag and handed it back to her. She slung it over her shoulder, smiled, and went on her way.

When Stacie was out of sight, Henry put the lock back on the door and sighed.

After giving the combination of the Blue Bucket to Mr. Miller and his crew, Henry happily went back to work. He secretly watched out the window, hoping to catch one of his Blue Bucket users being foiled by the lock.

The sound of a car caught Henry’s attention. He looked up from his spreadsheet.

It was Rick Peterson, the realtor. Rick jumped out of his car and ran up to the Blue Bucket Toilet. He flipped the latch but noticed the lock.

“God Dangit!” Rick Peterson screamed.

Henry took joy in Rick’s fury. Who did he think he was to use HIS Blue Bucket Portable Toilet? Why was Rick Peterson mad? Henry should be the one who was mad.

And then, Rick Peterson did something Henry Powell will never forget:

Rick Peterson put his foot up on the door of the Blue Bucket Toilet and kicked it over.

Rick ran back to his Audi and squealed away, out of the cul-de-sac.

Henry couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. He got up from his desk and ran out to the scene of the crime.

The portable toilet was on its back and had crushed a whole row of his tulips. Blue liquid leaked out from a crack on the side of the Blue Bucket all over his driveway.

“I knew you shouldn’t have put that lock on that Blue Bucket,” said Mr. Miller, the foreman, who was standing behind Henry. “Happens every time somebody puts a lock on one of those toilets.”

“It does?” Henry exclaimed.

“Yes, sir, it does. Say, do you mind if I use your indoor bathroom?” asked Mr. Miller.

“Sure, go ahead,” said Henry.