Plumbers

In life every profession, every trade seems to attract a certain personality.   Doctors are clinical, lawyers gluttons for minor detail.  Nurses are givers and analysts are analytical always asking questions and looking for inconsistencies.   Engineers are problem solvers and financial people sleep and dream numbers.  There are the people who like to work with their hands and become craftsmen and people with minds for marketing.  Then there are plumbers.  Plumbers seem to be unique even amongst those engaged in the construction and home servicing trades.  Just turn on the television and what do you find?  A show built around plumbers who are ghost hunters.  The plumber is a man we seldom see unless it is an emergency and when you call, they know that they have you.

The other day I had a plumbing emergency.  It started in the morning when I walked down to my basement and noticed an odd smell.  All around my washing machine there was a brown spatter pattern on the linoleum.  My son was with me and together we crept up not knowing what we were dealing with.  I wanted to see if it was wet and reached for a piece of dirty laundry.

"Don't use mom's shirt!"  Noah said as I reached for the closet thing.

"Fine." I thought as I rummaged through the pile of laundry for a dirty towel.  Smearing it on the floor I realized it was moist.  Further analysis led me to conclude it was completely wet under my washing machine and dryer.  "Was it leaking?  Oh God, another expensive service call.  I just paid to have my dryer fixed when lint accumulation burned out the element."

I pulled the machines back and still couldn't find the source of the leak.  From upstairs I heard the tell tail sign of a toilet flush and the water draining through the pipes.  Suddenly like a hot spring, water began spewing out the washing machine drain.  It was a fountain.  I hurriedly grabbed towels and attempted to blot the flow.   Another toilet flushed, more water.  "Oh God,"  I thought. "something was very wrong."  I figured it had to be something in the washer drain and soon commenced poking a bent coat hanger down the drain extracting large mounds of hair and other goo.  Another flush, another fountain.  Water was pouring down the wall as I desperately mounded more towels on the floor.  Moments later I was perusing the plumbing aisle at Walmart trying to find the most caustic substance every created to pour into my toilet and my drains.  The one I chose was so deadly it came in a sealed plastic bag encasing the bottle. Large stickers cautioned not to remove the outer plastic bag. I returned home and pulled on a pair of purple latex gloves.  After a cursory reading of the directions I commenced pouring it in all my drains.  Now I was in charge!  I could see the blockage melting inside my pipes.  In moments the problem would be solved, the bottle promised no less.  I would be a hero.



"Maybe we should call a plumber."  My wife suggested.

I wasn't about to yield to a plumber.  This problem could be solved.  Strategically positioning my family on the suspect toilets I ordered a flush.  There was a whoosh of water followed by nothing!"  I began congratulating myself when all hell broke lose.  Water began bubbling and shooting higher than before as if to tell me how insignificant I was.  This time as I commenced dumping more towels on the mound my skin began to burn from the acid I had poured in.

Surrounded by raw sewage I caved.  I picked up the phone and called a plumber.  The hours passed and I was notified of several delays due to a plumbing emergency at some other location.   Periodically to make sure there was still a problem I braced a bucket against the wall and called for a flush.  Each time it was the same gush of water.  I wanted to call the plumber again and tell them my son was urinating in the back yard and my wife was assuming a constipated sneer but accepted my fate.  When the truck finally pulled up it was after dark.  It was a modern panel truck and the plumber backed it down my driveway a warning signal guiding his way.  When he emerged I found him to be a rotund man, well dressed with a sweater.  He seemed to have a New Jersey Italian look to him as he hoped down from his truck and commenced assessing the situation. 

"Do you have a back flow valve?"  He asked.

I had no idea and shrugged my shoulders.

"If you do and I put in the auger it is your responsibility if I destroy it."

I had no idea what the man was talking about.  All I knew was I wanted the shit to stop flowing in my laundry room.

"What direction does your sewer run?"

"I don't know," I shrugged. "Up the street I guess."

He looked at me with a coy smile.  "You have no idea do you?"

"Not really." I said.  I felt in adequate. 

"Price is 99 dollars to unplug the drain.  If I destroy your back flow valve it is your fault."  He turned and walked over to his truck and lifted the back gate revealing a mobile plumbing shop on wheels.  Racks of parts and pipes lined the sides.  He extended a ramp and walked inside emerging moments later with a big round spool on a cart.

"I hope your house hasn't settled." He said.

"What does that do?"  I asked, completely at his mercy.

"Well if it settles it can destroy the flow of the pipes."

"What then?"  I had to know.

"Well then we have to rip your back deck off and bring in a back hoe."

"Oh my God!"  I thought, my mind numb.

He pulled his cart over to a drain plug in the garage and after unscrewing the cap asked me to flush again.  I shouted orders to the flushing crew and water came spewing out all over my garage.  Little bits of toilet paper floated away.

"Oh wonderful!"  I half expected a giant turd to float by.

The plumber pulled on industrial strength rubber black gloves.   At that moment I thanked sweet mother Mary I was not still wearing my purple ones.  He activated his snake and began feeding it into my drain pipe.  A whirling tip wound its way in as he guided it with his hands.   

I looked at him for a clue but could find nothing.  Finally he stopped the machine and reversed it. 

"Are you sure you don't have a back flow valve?"  He asked.

"Jesus,"  I thought.  "I don't even know what a frigging back flow valve is."

"Flush."  He said and after another command I watched the water rush by in the drain.  "Might be fixed, might stop up again, hard to say."  He said.  "I will have a guy come out with a camera."

With that he put away his cart, climbed in his truck and wrote my invoice.  He handed it to me and looked at his watch.  "Time to take a shower and go get drunk."  He said.  "I do like that Chivas and Coke." Finally he said something that made sense to me.  I felt like a drink myself.


Thank God he didn't mention a back flow valve.  For the next week every toilet flush came with nervous hesitation.  Every trip to the basement was made with a sniff, trying to anticipate a clue.  The camera man never came but the toilet is still working.  Despite this fact, every time I hear a toilet flush I ask myself, "I wonder if I had a back flow valve?"