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.
“A sag. Old building. The pipe drops a little right after the toilet flange. Water sits there. And this—” he held up the wipe Leo had confessed to, “—this is just the spark. The real fire is further down.”
“For a clog,” Leo whispered.
But the cost—the real cost—had just dropped from twelve thousand dollars to a single, clean, negotiable zero.
Chuck gave him a look—the kind a father gives a son who just asked if money grows on trees. “Read your lease, pal. Section 12, subsection C. ‘Tenant responsible for all clogs originating within four feet of the fixture.’ Your toilet to the main stack? That’s three feet eleven inches.” cost to unclog toilet
“So how much?” Leo asked.
Twenty-three percent. On twelve thousand dollars. For a toilet. Leo did the math in his head. He’d be paying off this flush until he was thirty-seven. Leo hung up
“You got a belly in the line,” Chuck said.
