It probably sounds weird that I recently was sitting here in 90-degree heat and humidity and thinking about winter fuel. But economically, I’ve been feeling compelled to get the best bargain. And if that means thinking about my furnace in the middle of a July heatwave, then so be it. I mean, it’s no worse than those Christmas in July sales going on everywhere right now, right?
The thing is, a few days ago I received a very tempting offer from a competing propane company…like a dollar less per gallon than my current supplier is charging me. And when you have a 500-gallon tank to fill every winter, that’s a pretty significant chunk of money.
So I called my current propane company and told them I was going to switch to another supplier because they were charging $1 less per gallon. I thought the switch would be fairly simple. I'd just close my current account and then sign up with the new company.
However, I had no idea blackmail would be involved.
“Well,” the customer-service representative said, “If you switch, that means we’ll have to come over to take back OUR tank, seeing we own it. Your new supplier will have to install one of their own for you.”
My hopes took an immediate nosedive. So I told her I’d think about it and then get back to her.
Too clearly I remembered the tank’s original installation when the house was under construction...and there was no way I wanted to go through it again.
Back then, when the tank arrived, the shape and size of it reminded me of the Hindenburg. Even worse, the gas company determined that the ideal location for the most direct access for the gas line would be directly in front of the house.
"It's so ugly!" I said to my husband. "How on earth are we going to camouflage that thing?"
"We could always paint it to look like something else," he said. "It kind of reminds me of a giant pickle."
Somehow, the thought of having a giant pickle sitting on my front lawn didn't really appeal to me – not unless I wanted to open a hamburger stand.
When I complained to the gas-company guy, he said, “Well, we can always bury it, if you prefer.”
He didn't have to suggest it twice. In fact, I was so eager to be rid of the eyesore, I was ready to grab a shovel and dig the hole myself.
The actual hole, as it turned out, was big enough to bury a Greyhound bus. But when the tank's burial was over and done with, all that could be seen above the ground was what looked like a small manhole cover with a hole in the center of it. As I stared at it, I imagined a circle of lovely flowers concealing it…or a big hedge. Either way, I was pleased with the results.
Three weeks after that, we finally had the heating system installed in the house. I called the gas company and told them I was ready to have the propane tank filled and get everything hooked up.
A truck delivered propane a few days later, followed by a workman who arrived to connect whatever fuel lines needed to be connected.
He was at the house for less than a half-hour when he came over to me and said, "I have bad news."
Bad news was something I'd heard a lot of since trying to build that wretched house, so I braced myself for what was to come. I was pretty certain of one thing, however – that whatever it was, it was going to cost money.
"The propane tank leaks," he said. "This is really rare with new tanks. They're all supposed to be rigorously tested before they leave the factory."
Obviously someone had been less than rigorous. Leave it to me, I thought, to get the misfit.
He led me over to the tank, lifted the little manhole cover and then squirted something that looked like dishwashing liquid down into the hole. The tank instantly turned into a bubble-making machine.
"That's not good," he pointed out, just in case I might have thought a tank spewing soap bubbles was a good thing – like a party event or something.
"So how do we stop it?" I asked him, thinking he'd probably just slap a patch on the leak.
"We'll have to send a truck over to extract all of the propane first," he said. "Then we'll dig up this tank and replace it with another new one. It will be an all-day job. I'll have to get back to you and let you know when we can schedule it."
With that, he was gone, leaving me with the bubbly tank.
"Am I wrong to feel nervous about this?" I asked my husband later that night. "Isn't a gas leak an emergency? I mean, on TV I've seen them evacuate entire city blocks for less!"
"That's natural gas, not propane," he said.
"So gas is gas, isn't it? You wouldn't toss a match at either one, would you?"
“I’m sure they shut off the tank to all of the possible connections,” he said. “Nobody is living in the house yet so no gas is being used anyway.”
Still, when I drove up to the new house the next day, I was nervous just being within 20 feet of the tank. I became even more nervous when I spotted one of the construction workers smoking a cigar to ward off mosquitoes as he installed the railings on the front porch.
I had visions of him unconsciously tossing the lit cigar butt in the direction of the tank and having it fall into the hole, where it would send the tank shooting out of the ground like a missile, straight into orbit.
Also, the gas tank was located so close to the chemical toilet I'd rented for the workers, I was worried that gas fumes might seep into it, mix with the toilet chemicals and create some dangerous toxic reaction. The thought of keeling over in a porta-potty with my jeans down around my ankles prevented me from setting foot in there all day, no matter how much my bladder threatened to burst.
It took over a week for the gas company to return. A new tank was installed and buried, and it’s been fine ever since.
So the thought of digging it up again really didn’t appeal to me, even if it did mean saving $1 per gallon.
Discouraged, I called the propane company that was offering the lower rate and told them I wouldn’t be switching over to them after all, because my current company was holding the gas tank hostage.
“What if we make them an offer they can’t refuse?” the employee said to me.
“It doesn’t involve a horse’s head does it?” I asked, recalling the Godfather movies.
“No,” the woman said, laughing. “We’ll offer to give them a brand new tank if they will leave yours where it is and allow us to use it.”
Suddenly I felt like royalty. I mean, was my business really so valuable to them, they were willing to sacrifice an expensive new tank for it?
I dared to feel optimistic once again. “Sure, give it a try.”
Within an hour, I received a call from my propane company.
“We have decided,” the employee said, “not only to match the price per gallon of the other supplier, but also to deduct an extra five cents per gallon…if you remain with us.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Two companies suddenly were so determined to get my business, they were involved in a price war? Things like that just never happened to me. At that moment I went from feeling like Queen Sally to feeling like the Queen Mother.
So I ended up keeping my current company, keeping the tank, and getting $1.05 off on every gallon of propane – effective until the end of next April – complete with a written contract to seal the deal.
I think I might be on a lucky streak.
And just in case I am, I'm going to call DirecTV and tell them I’m switching over to Dish TV.
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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
