The woman, Sarah, met him at the door in a dressing gown, holding a plunger like a sword she didn’t know how to wield.
“Just doing my job, ma’am.” He handed her a fridge magnet shaped like a toilet. “Call us if anything else goes south. Or, you know, down.”
He laid out his tools like a surgeon. Not the cheap auger from the hardware store. This was the K-1500 Hydro-Jet—a beast of a machine that used pressurized water to blast away anything in its path. He fed the hose into the bowl, careful not to spill a drop. Sarah hovered in the doorway, biting her nails.
The call came in at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday. Abingdon was asleep, save for the faint hum of the highway and the occasional barking of a fox near the Thames.
The van rumbled to life. Another crisis averted. Another satisfied flush.
“Abingdon Clogged Toilet Services, this is Pete. Is it an emergency?”