She called Mark. “The washing machine is possessed. We have a drain clog from hell.”
Sarah sat on the damp concrete floor, the stench of ancient, anaerobic water filling the basement. Her back ached, her hands were raw from the auger’s handle, and the soggy, half-washed towels lay in a weeping heap in a plastic laundry basket. The washing machine, now empty and silent, looked defeated. A thin, brownish trickle of water was still weeping from the open cleanout. drain clogged washing machine
But the true heart of the clog was a penny. A single, copper 1997 penny, wedged sideways into the elbow joint of the pipe. For years, that penny had been a dam, its surface slowly collecting lint, hair, and soap scum until the pipe’s diameter had shrunk from four inches to the width of a drinking straw. Tonight, the jeans—heavy, abrasive denim—had shed just enough indigo lint to seal the deal. She called Mark
Twenty minutes later, Mark was on the floor too, his shirt speckled with black water, the snake coiled in a tangled mess at his feet. The chemical declogger had only created a hot, caustic puddle that was now eating through the cardboard box it sat on. They looked at each other, a silent agreement passing between them: We have lost. Her back ached, her hands were raw from
After the plumber left, Sarah and Mark hauled the sodden towels to the laundromat. The next morning, they ran an empty cycle with bleach, then a cycle with vinegar. The washing machine hummed its old, familiar song. But Sarah couldn’t shake the feeling that the machine was different now—smarter, somehow, and holding a grudge.