I did not kill my washing machine repairman.
I feel like that’s important to establish right up front.
He’s alive. I’m alive. The washing machine is alive. There were no police, nor body bags, and I won’t be in The Trentonian with a repairman found underneath the washing machine in my basement.
But it came closer than you might think.
Saturday morning, I went downstairs to put some laundry in the dryer.
I opened the washing machine door.
And was immediately attacked by a tsunami.
Water poured out of the machine, all over me and all over the basement floor.
What. The. Hell.
Like we do nowadays, I Googled the problem.
Apparently, the washing machine wasn’t draining. Gee thanks.
Probably because the filter was jammed.
Ok.
So I found the filter.
It was approximately two inches off the floor.
I pulled it out.
Another gusher.
There is apparently a shocking amount of water inside a washing machine.
Because the filter was so close to the floor, there was no way to get a bucket underneath it. So I grabbed some nearby aluminum baking pans and started catching the water with the sort of calm competence you develop when you’ve already accepted that everything is going to hell.
Then I realized something:
It didn’t really matter.
The basement floor was already flooded.
So was the old rug I’d thrown down there years ago.
And…there was nothing wrong with the filter.
Great. Here it comes again: decision fatigue. That’s the mental exhaustion that comes from having to make every single decision yourself and bear complete responsibility for the consequences. And let me tell you, Saturday was really leaning into the concept.
Because that same day, I had also taken the car one daughter mostly uses to get fixed because it was overheating.
Not mildly overheating.
Overheating to the point where you could feel heat coming out of the vents while the cabin filled with a burning smell.
Which is exactly what you want from a car.
Anyway, back to the washing machine.
I found someone who fixes appliances on Saturdays.
A miracle.
I waited a while, and eventually the repair guy - name withheld to protect the nearly squished - showed up and started fiddling with the machine.
“Blown drainage pump and sensor,” he tells me.
He’ll check his vehicle for the parts.
You know how this goes.
They never have the parts.
And…
He didn’t have the parts.
He’d order them and call me back.
Fine.
So today he returns, parts in hand, and disappears into the basement.
I’m upstairs in the kitchen answering work emails while I hear the familiar sounds of an appliance repair happening somewhere in the house.
Clank.
Thunk.
Clank-clank.
Then, finally the glorious hum of a washing machine, and the sound of water draining.
The machine lives.
He calls me downstairs and shows me what he did. He mentions that he’s in a hurry because he has another house call.
We shake hands.
He’ll send me the invoice.
One more project checked off.
I’m feeling pretty good.
Then suddenly:
“Oh no, sir.”
I look at him. What now?
“My cell phone is in the washing machine.”
Oh.
I assume he means he left it in the part of the machine where you put the clothes, which is now filled with water as the machine finishes its test cycle.
“In there?” I ask. “It’s probably dead now!”
Unlike Saturday, the door is locked when the machine is full of water.
“No,” he says. “It’s inside the machine.”
I stare at him.
“I put it back together with the phone inside it.”
Oh.
The poor guy is working hard and already in a rush, and now he has to take the entire thing apart again to retrieve his phone.
But wait…
“I have solution,” he says.
He pulls the washing machine away from the wall, looks at me and says:
“Push and hold it up.”
So I push and lift the top of the washing machine back until the machine sits at roughly a 45-degree angle, with the back still on the floor and the front sticking up into the air.
And then, quicker than any human being should be able to move under those circumstances, he jumps onto the floor and slides himself underneath it.
His entire upper body is now underneath approximately 200 pounds of metal and machinery.
All I see is a waist and legs.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, “you didn’t tell me you were going to do that. This feels very unsafe.”
“Just hold it. I have a solution.”
Yes, I heard.
He starts fiddling around underneath the machine like a mechanic working underneath a car.
Except there’s no hydraulic lift.
I’m the hydraulic lift.
He pulls out a rubber thing.
Then a metal ring of some sort.
More clanking.
More thudding.
I have a solid grip on the machine, but I’m thinking about that Breaking Bad episode with the ATM. If you know, you know.
And another concern is that the backside of this thing is going to skid back toward the wall.
Because if that happens, I am not saving him. Gravity will instead do its thing.
“Well, Officer, he slid under there without telling me. I’m innocent. I swear.”
“HEADLESS REPAIRMAN FOUND IN LAWRENCE BASEMENT”
Hopefully they at least spell my name correctly in The Trentonian.
Then, from underneath the hulking appliance:
“I can see it.”
Great.
“I’m going to reach for it.”
“Hurry up, and don’t get your arm stuck.”
More knocking.
More pushing.
More pulling.
“Hey, stop pushing and pulling down there. I’m worried about the back side skidding back toward the wall.”
“No,” he says. “I have a solution.”
Yes. I heard.
Finally. Plink. The unmistakable sound of a cell phone bouncing onto the basement floor.
He slides back out.
Phone in hand.
Alive.
No murder charges.
No Breaking Bad ATM situation.
No need to explain anything to the police.
And, thankfully, no need to, um, mop up the basement floor.
The washing machine is fixed.
The repairman is alive.
I did not kill a man.
Ok.
What’s next?