Chuck leaned against the doorframe. “I’m not supposed to say this. Company policy. But if I were you… I’d buy a bucket of hydraulic cement from Home Depot. Twenty-eight bucks. And I’d fill that toilet bowl to the brim with it. Let it cure overnight. Then call the landlord and say ‘the toilet’s not working, seems like a building issue.’ He’ll have to replace the whole toilet to even start diagnosis. And by then, the roots will have grown another inch, and the main stack will be backing up into the basement anyway, which is his problem. You’ll be out a security deposit—maybe a grand—but you won’t owe twelve.”
Leo looked at the toilet. It sat there, white and serene, like a sleeping bomb. He thought about calling the landlord anyway. He thought about calling his dad. He thought about calling his ex-girlfriend, who had warned him about this apartment—“Leo, the baseboards smell like sadness”—and whom he had dismissed as paranoid.
Leo sat down on the edge of his bathtub. The tub was avocado green, original to 1973. He thought about his savings account, which had exactly $12,400 in it. He had been saving for a down payment on a used Honda Civic because his current car—a 2005 Corolla with a bumper held on by zip ties—had just failed inspection. cost to unclog toilet
“Deal.”
Leo hung up. He looked at the toilet. It wasn’t overflowing. It wasn’t even particularly full. But for the first time all day, he felt something other than dread. Chuck leaned against the doorframe
“Too late,” Leo lied. “It’s already overflowing. I’m documenting everything.”
That’s when he called Chuck. The number came from a fridge magnet left by the previous tenant: “A-1 Emergency Plumbers – We Come Before Your In-Laws.” But if I were you… I’d buy a
But the cost—the real cost—had just dropped from twelve thousand dollars to a single, clean, negotiable zero.