Shooting from under the sink like a geyser that's been training for the Olympics and is really committed to getting the gold medal in property damage.
"WHAT THE HELL!" I shriek at the pipe. At the water. At God himself. "What did I ever do to you? I've been nothing but nice! I used drain cleaner! I was RESPECTFUL to your plumbing sensibilities!"
The pipe continues its aquatic assault, completely unconcerned with my attempts at negotiation.
Water is everywhere. The floor is flooding. The walls are streaming. My makeup bag floats past like a tiny, waterlogged refugee fleeing a disaster zone.
I need to turn off the water.
The shutoff valve. Basement. Next to Dad's old workbench where he kept all his tools organized by size because he was that kind of person.
I run, because I’ve never run for anything in my life, but lately this is becoming my new habit.
Except "run" is generous. It's more like "slip and slide while screaming internally and possibly externally." The hallway is a death trap. The stairs are trying to murder me. I grab the railingand take them two at a time while my soaking wet pajama pants do their absolute best to trip me and end this whole situation quickly.
The basement door is stuck.
This house was built in 1952 and apparently everything in it has decided to stage a coordinated rebellion on the same night.
I throw my shoulder against it. Once.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still nothing.
"OPEN, YOU GLORIFIED PIECE OF COMPRESSED SAWDUST!"
It flies open on the third hit, and I stumble into the darkness, catching myself on the wall before I can face-plant down the stairs and add a concussion to tonight's festivities.
I fumble for the light switch. Find it. The fluorescent bulbs flicker to life with a sound like angry wasps who did NOT appreciate being woken up at this hour.
The basement looks exactly like it did the last time I came down here. Which was approximately never, because basements are where spiders live and spiders are basically tiny demons with too many legs.
But it's also Dad's space. Was Dad's space. His workbench still has tools scattered across it, arranged exactly how he left them. His jacket still hangs on the hook by the furnace. His coffee mug, the one that says "World's Okayest Dad" that I got him for Father's Day when I was twelve, sits on the shelf gathering dust.
My throat gets tight.
Not now. I can cry later. Right now I need to stop the flood before my childhood home turns into an aquarium.
I splash across the concrete floor because yes, the water has made it down here too, because why wouldn't it, and locatethe water heater. The shutoff valve is right there. A red handle crusted with age and what looks like decades of accumulated rust and possibly the remnants of a spider's architectural ambitions.
I grab it with both hands and pull.
Nothing happens.
"Come on," I grunt, bracing my feet against the floor and pulling harder.
The valve doesn't budge. It's rusted shut, probably hasn't been turned in a decade, and my arms are shaking with effort.
"MOVE!" I scream at it.
Still nothing.
Upstairs, I can hear the water still rushing. Still flooding. Still destroying my bedroom and probably the hallway and possibly spreading to the other rooms while I'm down here wrestling with a valve that's decided to cosplay as an immovable object.
"I swear to GOD," I snarl, "if you don't turn right now, I'm going to... to..."
