Tanks Be To God

I finally got rid of my old oil tank, Ms J. It’s been sitting in the driveway outside my kitchen window since November when the men removed my oil furnace and tank.

I spoke to them when they were carrying it up the basement stairs.

“Where are you going with that tank?” I asked.

“Oh, we’ll get rid of it for you,” was their response.

I assumed they’d sell it, Ms Journal. It was only two years old and cost $400. when it was new. I didn’t pay for it, though. The man from whom I bought my house replaced the old tank, which was leaking slightly.

“Just leave it out back,” I told the removal crew. “I’ll dispose of it myself.”

So they did and in the spring, I put an ad in the newspaper. I got a few calls.

“Does it have a gauge?” they wanted to know. “And a filter?”

It did, Ms J, once upon a time. But the guys who removed the tank had helped themselves to those items and left me with a tank I couldn’t sell. Bastards, eh?

I tried and tried to sell the thing, but no one wanted it without a gauge and a filter. Finally, in desperation, I called a scrap metal dealer.

“I have an oil tank. How much is it worth to you?”

“Is it cut in half?” the man asked, “Or still in one piece?”

I thought it a silly question and I told him so.

“Well we can’t take it unless it’s cut in two. It’s the only way we’re allowed to crush it. Too dangerous in one piece.”

I called the city garbage collection people.

“No, we can’t take that. It has to go to a special dump, for environmentally hazardous items. Try calling a scrap metal dealer.”

I even phoned a junk removal company. At first, they didn’t want it at all.

“Is it cut in half?”

After a bit of pleading on my part, they agreed to fetch it.

“Sixty-five dollar disposal fee, sir. Plus GST.”

At last, I called the company that sold me my gas furnace and as gently as possible, suggested that perhaps their employees had absconded with some key pieces of the tank they’d removed.

Of course, the man with whom I spoke defended the honour of his work crew and denied any wrong-doing whatsoever.

“Well,” I told him, “the tank had both filter and gauge the morning your lads were here. Now it doesn’t. I believe what I believe. I can’t sell the stupid thing now. I think your fellows should come back here and get this tank.”

“They don’t work for us directly,” he said. “They’re contractors. But I’ll contact them and give them your number. You can deal with them directly. I’m really busy here today, Mr. Pringle. I have to go. You’ll hear from the removal crew in a day or two. They’ll come by and get your tank.”

Sure they will, I thought. When they get good and ready. I'm building a deck. I’ll need that space. I want the bloody tank out of there!

That was a couple of weeks ago. I was beginning to lose hope.

I got a call yesterday from a man who’d seen my ad on the internet.

“You still got that tank?” he asked.

I told him about it and about the missing pieces.

“Hmmm,” he said. “No gauge, eh? I was hoping for a gauge.”

In desperation, I told him if he’d just come and get the darn thing, he could have it for free.

“Really?” he said. “That’s fantastic! Will you be home tonight?”

I told him yeah and now he’s gone. The tank is gone. I no longer have to see the huge container, painted in battleship grey every time I gaze out my kitchen window.

I feel relieved now simply to be rid of it.

God is good, Ms J. All the time.

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