The Prodigal Sink

Last week, my upstairs sink stopped working. There was no note, no explanation, nothing. I tried turning the knobs underneath and discovered that they leak very nicely when you do.

“Honey, the upstairs sink has no water. I should call a plumber.”

“You always want to call a plumber. It just stopped working…maybe it will start up again.”

“That’s like thinking the sink is Lassie and she ran away and might come back.”

“You never know. It’s a harsh cruel world out there and she might miss the comfort and safety of having green watermelon toothpaste smeared to her sides on a daily basin.” My husband tried turning the knobs, discovering the same leak.

“She might have quit because of the toothpaste. Think she prefers one with tartar control?”

“Just give it time. We don’t have to call this second. The kids can use the other sink. We can wait.”

“What are we waiting for? Godot?”

“No, we’re waiting for the spigot to go.”

A vigil for the recalcitrant sink began.

Meanwhile, other plumbing fixtures decided to pull an intervention. Toilets began random gurgling in solidarity with the sink. These were annoying, but insufficient to merit what I guessed would be a hefty service fee and four hour wait by the doorbell.

The fixtures grew more impatient, so the kitchen sink took action. The stream from the faucet became an anemic trickle. Worse than pure stoppage which would have ensured a prompt phone call to the proper authorities, it became work to get things wet. I limped through dishwashing. It took hours. I tried switching to an all paper plate economy but cooking still required some items be washed.

In desperation, I tried running the faucet before there were even dishes to do. Forty five minutes later, the sink was full and I had to drain the pasta. Watching that hard earned water go down the drain, I had an inspiration. I replugged the sink and drained the pasta, hoping the water would cool by the time I did dishes.

That evening, the plumber was looking oh so affordable and lovely to my reddened hands. Being weak, I called.

“We can send a truck next Thursday sometime between twelve and four. Will someone be there?”

“I have a Dr.'s appointment at two.”

“The next time available is June 5th.”

Visions of family visiting Memorial Day weekend and finding a non working sink and languid kitchen flow made me impulsively ask, “How much for coming tomorrow?”

“An extra $100 for the emergency service plus the standard rate of $55 for the first half hour.”

Meekly agreeing to the fiscal extortion, all I could think was “Lassie! Lassie come home!”