My first shed lot was a small parking lot between two buildings in the city of Fort St.
John. It was a good location, within sight of the Alaska Highway, which cuts through the city on its journey north.
There were a lot of people around, and I left the buildings unlocked so potential customers could explore the buildings.
For the first few years, it worked fine. Once in a while, there would be a bit of trash around, but it wasn’t a big problem.
For the first few years, that is.
One day I got a call from a customer who was checking out the buildings while we talked. He went from one shed to the next, asking questions about them.
“Whatever!” he exclaimed suddenly. “This shed has stuff in it!”
Whatever indeed. I knew nothing of this. But at the earliest opportunity, I made the 20-minute run into the city to check this out.
This shed was an 8 by 16 building. And it was well loaded—a 3-foot layer of detritus from front to back. Clothes, boots, shoes, new pampers, a few tools, the seat from a van, and Christmas decorations.
The building had no evidence of actually being lived in. It was simply a storage shed for some unknown individual.
And that was precisely the problem. I had no way of knowing who was storing their stuff in my shed. I locked the building for the time being. No need to have more potential customers being turned off by the unsightly mess.
I talked to the owner of the business next door. He had no idea whose it might be. I thought very briefly of piling the stuff outside the shed. But that would have been disgusting. Imagine the enthusiasm that would arouse in the onlookers.
At my wit’s end, I called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP). Hopefully, they would be willing to help solve this mystery. But, no, indeed, they didn’t want to get anywhere close to such a petty problem. The officer I spoke with advised that I take everything to the landfill and dispose of it.
In the end, that’s what I did. I hated to throw out the possessions of Mr. Unknown, but he hadn’t asked permission to stow them in my shed or left a calling card. So, I loaded up the shed, hauled it to the dump, and pitched out most of the debris.
A few of the tools looked useful, so I kept them.
Then, I moved the shed to another lot. It didn’t smell the greatest after its recent experiences, but at least it was clean and empty.
A friend of mine was interested in a shed soon afterward, and he liked this particular building. I offered him a reduced rate, in light of the smell. So, he bought the shed, I delivered it, and everyone was happy. The story was ended, I thought.
Uh, actually not.
A few weeks later my phone rang with the next installment in the tale. The man on the other end was trying to track down his possessions. A friend of his was storing them for him and had stowed them in one of my sheds.
Where was the stuff? Had I done something with it?
Well, yes, I had. I was sorry, I told him. I didn’t know who owned this stuff,
or what to do with it. The RCMP had advised that I dispose of it, so that’s what I had done. I don’t remember if we discussed the tools or not.
The man was cheerful and understanding—not a problem at all. He had just wondered what had happened. No worries.
From then on, the sheds on that lot were locked. But if not, please give me a call before you unload into one of my sheds.
I’m always glad to help a friend. I just like to know who they are!
