Skip Norsic has a full schedule planned for the long weekend: three weddings, several charity benefits, multiple parties in the Hamptons and an outdoor opera in the West Village. Alas, he's not a guest—he's bringing the toilets.
Summer is high season for the port-o-san industry: Providers say they do more than 60% of their business between Memorial Day and Labor Day. And now that the economic good times are back, party hosts are blowing their budgets on luxury toilet trailers with fresh flowers and smiling attendants. Mr. Norsic, the third-generation owner of Emil Norsic & Son in Southampton, says that while he tries to accommodate last-minute requests, his 1,500 toilets are booked solid for the season. Folks started calling in February to secure the portable thrones.
But if you really want to wow your guests, I'd suggest tapping Callahead in Broad Channel. These folks offer a vast selection of super-wonderful novelty toilets including the red Tele Toilette ("Guests will be pleasantly surprised to find out that the British style telephone booth in your backyard is actually a full service outdoor portable bathroom"); the flowery La Femme Toilette For Women; and the arboreal-themed Toiletree ("While guests might feel like they are literally walking into a tree, inside they will find a fully self contained restroom").And what thrones they are. Options include the 26-foot Hamptonian, a "triumph of technology and design" featuring gold-tone pipes, and the Estate, with its marble sinks, sound system and mahogany paneling—that's the model the Clintons rented for Chelsea's wedding, says Mr. Norsic. While you can rent a standard portable john for $150 or so, a fancy trailer with all the amenities can cost $5,000 for the weekend.
Yes, the portable-john business is plumbing the depths of sophistication. Engineers map out toilet placement for big events using CAD software, says Debbie Russo, co-owner of A Royal Flush, which supplies the New York City Marathon's 2,500 portables. And whether it's a golf tournament or an outdoor concert, clients are requesting fancy flush models with sinks and air conditioning. Another popular add-on: professional toilet shepherds who steer crowds toward the mid-row port-o-sans, which nearly always stand empty.
Of course, special events are the glamour end of the business. On the other end, you've got your standard "econohead" portables that might occupy the same construction site for years on end. Someone has to clean those toilets.
When I joined Rich Milko on his service route earlier this week, he'd already completed most of the day's 27 stops, having scrubbed portables at Ground Zero, the Hudson River Piers and at construction sites all over Midtown. His 14-hour shift typically starts at midnight, when it's easy to get around Manhattan. Mr. Milko, who works for Mr. John, a big New Jersey outfit, says that everywhere he goes, construction workers hail him with cheerfully foul greetings. "Yeah, yeah, I'm the poop man," he says.
Climbing into the cab of his 16-foot red Peterbilt, I couldn't help but note a curious absence. "I don't smell anything," I said. "Wait til I turn the truck on!" he replied. "All bets are off!"
We pulled into a small, single-toilet construction site on East 46th Street. Mr. Milko vacuumed the previous day's waste through a two-inch hose into his tanker truck, which holds a thousand gallons of ordure. Then he filled a plastic bucket with a blue chemical mix from a second tank (contents: "I have no idea!"), sloshed it around the cabin interior and poured the rest down the bowl. Every surface got a good scrubbing and hosing; he doused the seat with oven cleaner. The final touch: fresh TP and a sparkling new urinal cake.
This stop was relatively easy, says Mr. Milko. Most construction site portables get covered with graffiti, which he has to remove.
Then there's the alarming finds. Among the items he and fellow Mr. John servicemen have discovered while cleaning port-o-sans: pants, needles, bottles, wallets, cellphones, foam fingers, underwear, a deer head, a turkey. When the weather gets bad, Mr. Milko occasionally finds a snoozing bum. "It scares the hell outta me," he says.
"Mr. Milko didn't set out to be a port-a-san man. The 53-year-old Jersey native drove dump trucks, pumped gas and, down in Louisiana, worked in the drilling biz. When he moved his family back 10 years ago, he applied for a job at Mr. John inspecting septic tanks. They told him he'd be cleaning toilets. He said that was fine, as long as they didn't give him a route in New York City. They gave him a route in New York City. It worked out. "I love my job, I really do," he says.
"He's proud of his profession, an attitude that infiltrates an industry dominated by large, family-run outfits. Folks in the business are fond of noting that they always deliver a sparkling clean port-o-san. The problem: cheap hosts who don't rent enough toilets. The rule of thumb (set by the Portable Sanitation Association International with the help of university researchers) is one toilet for every 50 guests; increase when serving liquor. "Believe me, we'd love to sell more portable toilets and offer more service—that's how we make money," says Mr. John's president, Gary Weiner.
Mr. Milko knows how people feel about portables. His own wife won't even touch a port-o-san, "Unless I've cleaned it, of course." But the job comes with plenty of perks. He enjoys Teamster wages. Driving his Manhattan route, he sees celebrities like Donald Trump and Will Smith "just walking around!" And unlike other city drivers, he never has to worry about finding a bathroom.
When folks scoff at his job, Mr. Milko sets them straight. In the winter, he tells them, he enjoys AM/FM radio and heat in his truck. Come summer, he's got AM/FM radio and air conditioning. He's only outside 10 minutes at a time. How great is that? By the time he's done explaining, he says, people usually ask, "Can I get a job with you?"
—annekadet@yahoo.com
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