We had a real head-scratcher at my place – a persistent sewage smell in the kitchen that would come and go, like a phantom menace. Sometimes it would greet you in the morning, other times it would creep in during the evening. It seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, vaguely emanating from the walls or maybe bubbling up from the kitchen sink drains. It was that distinctive, charming aroma of sulfur and fecal gas, with just a hint of ammonia to round things out. The worst part was it was faint, just enough to make you constantly sniff around, questioning your sanity.
Desperate, I called every plumber in the phone book. Some would arrive, sniff the air, and declare they smelled nothing, which was beyond frustrating. You could see it in their eyes – they thought I was either making it up or completely clueless. Other plumbers did acknowledge the odor, and a couple even charged me a pretty penny to try and pinpoint the source. They pulled out all the standard tricks: snaking video cameras down pipes, running water, crawling around the basement, even pacing the yard to see if the smell was coming from outside. But nothing worked. They were stumped, and frankly, they seemed annoyed by it. Each one would preface their bewilderment by mentioning their decades of experience. “Sir,” one declared, “I’ve been doing this for forty years, and I’ve never encountered anything like it.” A ghost smell, a whiff of something awful that appeared and vanished, smelling unmistakably like… well, you know.
It got so bad that my wife started talking about moving. That really shook me because we love our house, we truly do. But nobody can live with that kind of smell hanging over them. Finally, at the end of my rope, I confessed the whole saga to the last plumber we tried in that first wave of desperation. I remember his name was Sean. Reddish hair, goatee, tattoos – a modern plumber. I basically pleaded with him, explaining that if we couldn’t solve this, we might have to leave. I asked if he had any suggestions, any experts he could recommend.
Sean tilted his head, considering. He was dressed in the classic plumber uniform of cut-off shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. “There is this one guy,” he said slowly. “He’s kind of a guru. Works for the city.” And then he dropped the name: Mike Sullivan. Which, strangely enough, was my father’s name. I tend to put stock in coincidences like that. I immediately called city utilities and asked for Mike Sullivan.
Mike showed up, a tall, clean-cut guy with a Southern drawl and a repertoire of plumbing jokes. Official blue jumpsuit, neat brown hair – he looked younger than I expected. He listened to my story with an air of familiarity, like he’d heard it all before, maybe even that very morning. His response was quick and matter-of-fact, as if I’d asked him for directions. “Here’s what you do,” he said, and proceeded to outline a plan. “Drive about an hour, across the state line into South Carolina. Find a fireworks stand. Get some real smoke bombs, the powerful kind. They usually come in packs of ten.” Then, he continued, “Get a box fan and an extension cord. Take them out to your side yard. Locate the outflow, then find the cleanout. Should be a green metal cap on it.”
Mike, realizing I was probably lost, clarified, “Outflow: that’s the sewage pipe leaving your house. Cleanout plug: access point to the sewer line, outside your house.” He led me outside to show me exactly what he meant, pointing out the outflow and the cleanout. He pried off the cap of the cleanout. Inside, visible in the pipe, were… tampons. “White mice!” he exclaimed, with a plumber’s characteristic humor. He had a whole vocabulary of plumbing slang – he called his suction hose a “honey-dipper.” He offered some sage advice about only flushing “fluids, waste, and toilet paper.”
Then he got back to the smoke bomb instructions. “First,” he said, “wad up a towel and stuff it in the pipe, on the side going away from the house. Keeps the smoke from going the wrong way.” Only then, he emphasized, should I light a smoke bomb and drop it into the cleanout. “Next,” he instructed, “put the box fan, on high, face-down over the hole. You’ll be pumping smoke through all your pipes.” He finished with a cheerful, “Then just go inside and walk around! Leave the fan running.”
Three days later, armed with smoke bombs and a box fan, I was ready to follow Mike’s unorthodox plan. I stuffed the towel, lit the bomb, dropped it in, and positioned the fan. Then, I went inside. Ground floor – nothing. Staircase – nothing. Upstairs hallway – wait, something. I couldn’t see smoke, but I could smell it, that distinct fireworks scent. I turned into the guest bathroom and looked at the toilet. Smoke was billowing out from the base. The whole bathroom was filling up with smoke. I can’t describe the pure, almost childlike joy I felt. I had found the source, the monster!
I immediately called Mike, John Jeremiah Sullivan, and told him his name would forever be blessed in our house. He sounded genuinely proud, which almost brought tears to my eyes. “All in a day’s work!” he chuckled. However, he cautioned that the smoke bomb trick wasn’t a permanent fix. We now knew the smell was real (as if I ever doubted it) and which pipe was the culprit. But actually getting to the pipe, finding the crack, and repairing or replacing it – that, he said, was “another matter entirely.”
So, I called Sean again, the plumber who had recommended John Jeremiah Sullivan. I thanked him profusely and raved about how helpful Mike had been, describing the smoke bomb and towel trick. “Never heard of that,” Sean admitted. I asked if he would come back now that we knew which pipe was the problem.
The next day, Sean returned with his video camera and snaked it into the offending pipe. He spent a good half hour trying, but he didn’t see anything. I was crushed. “I’ve been doing this for forty years,” he began, launching into his familiar speech. But it got worse. He explained that even if we could locate the crack, fixing it would be a nightmare. We were dealing with a hundred-year-old cast iron pipe, and the section of the house it ran through was a disaster in terms of accessibility. The old bathtub had this massive plaster slab with chicken wire underneath. Sean wasn’t even sure we could cut into it without the whole thing collapsing. He listed problem after problem. I was barely listening – I was beyond discouraged. There was no way I was going to come this far and give up. I repeated my desperate plea: “If there’s anything you could suggest, or anyone else, some kind of expert?”
Sean cocked his head again. “Well,” he said, “there is this one guy.” And he gave me the number for a man named Fran. “Fran’s a little… fucked up,” Sean warned, “but that might be exactly what you need.” I asked him to elaborate. “Well,” Sean explained, “me and my guys, we’re good plumbers. But Fran and his crew, they’ve got ‘crackhead power.’ Sometimes, that’s what you need. A crackhead,” Sean elaborated, “will just throw himself at a wall, even if it’s pointless.” Somehow, I understood exactly what he meant. We had exhausted all conventional approaches.
I called Fran, who miraculously was free and said he could come right over. Oh, Fran! I will never forget that man, the only Fran I’ve ever known. Let me try to paint a picture of him as he was when I first appeared. Not cut-off shorts for Fran – denim culottes, hanging down to his shins. Stained white t-shirt. White high-top sneakers. White gym socks peeking out between the culottes and sneakers. He was about five foot four, buzz cut, with a remarkably flat head. Like, completely flat, noticeably so. A vape pen hung around his neck. I don’t actually think Fran was a crackhead. He moved slowly, usually smiling. Not crackhead behavior. He gave off more of a weed-pills-cigarettes vibe. He looked at you dreamily, like he’d just woken up, and talked the same way.
Now, Greg? Greg was a crackhead, no question about it. Greg was Fran’s partner, number two, helper, assistant, right-hand man, but also his rival, underminer, frenemy, worst enemy, and designated scapegoat. They’d been working together, and against each other, for about ten years. Greg sported a formidable gray mustache, strong hands, and intense, piercing eyes. Long, wavy gray hair – great hair, honestly, for any man his age. He had the weathered face of someone who had spent a good portion of his life on the streets. Where Fran whispered sleepily, Greg’s voice was a loud, almost manic shout. They competed to see who could sell the other out first and most dramatically. Greg would tell me Fran was a thief. Fran would claim Greg smoked crack. It soon became clear that both accusations were absolutely true. But they delivered these bombshells as if expecting me to be shocked and scandalized.
The amazing thing was, both men were skilled, even brilliant plumbers. They loved to talk about their craft, and I enjoy being around people like that. They shared stories of horrific, disgusting plumbing situations, tales that left them covered in unimaginable filth. They were impressed by our guest bathroom toilet, the scene of the smoke bomb revelation. Vintage, they declared. “That is one of the best flushing toilets ever made,” Greg stated authoritatively. He assured me people would pay serious money for one of those. Greg had a habit of talking about BMs – bowel movements. He was fixated on them. I hadn’t heard the term since childhood. It was both delicate and crude. “Always do a courtesy flush,” Greg advised, “after a big BM.” Flush immediately after the initial deposit, he explained, and you’d avoid 99% of toilet troubles. “But that one upstairs,” he gestured, “that can handle any size BM.”
Fran talked less about plumbing specifics than Greg. I don’t think he was quite as technically knowledgeable. He knew his stuff, but Greg was a kind of plumbing savant, and Fran seemed a bit awestruck by him, despite being the boss. Fran was Southern, while Greg had this wild, swamp-Yankee energy. Fran always made sure Greg knew who was in charge. It bothered me, honestly, how Fran would constantly find ways to subtly undermine Greg. Each time I paid Fran, as I counted out the cash, he’d lean in and say sotto voce, “Here’s the sad thing, Mr. John,” in a soft, mournful tone. “Greg’s the best plumber I’ve ever seen, been at it since high school.” Then would follow a list of Greg’s undeniable talents. “But the second I pay him, he’ll be out there hunting for his crack rock.” I’d shake my head sympathetically. Fran, maintaining eye contact, would add, “I know. It’s sad.”
At the same time, we were both reliant on Greg’s “crackhead power.” Fran, because it allowed him to pay Greg meager cash wages weekly. Me, because I was counting on it to get access to that pipe and stop the smell. And it worked. I’ll never forget the day they finally attacked the plaster slab. I knew instantly that no ordinary, licensed plumber would have even attempted it. Greg took the lead, accompanied by another bearded guy named Sherman, who claimed he’d worked on our house decades ago for a family I didn’t recognize. They balanced precariously on ladders, wielding electric saws and a sledgehammer. I had to walk away. It looked so dangerous, like they could be seriously hurt, and the house might collapse. Dust rained down, coating them in white. Greg blew dust from his mustache. They cursed each other, Fran, their tools, the job, the house. But they didn’t stop. That was the power. Crackhead power, or whatever you wanted to call it. They persisted, and eventually, Fran yelled up to my office that I needed to see something.
I rushed downstairs, and there it was, lying in the hallway: a six-foot length of cast iron pipe, like a piece of antique artillery. And running along the top of it, a clear, foot-long crack. I looked up. Greg was grinning at me, dust and sweat streaking his face. “Greg,” I said, “Greg, man. You found the crack. You actually did it.” Fran stood there with his dreamy smile, but I could sense he was a little put out that Greg was getting the praise. Fran just said something like, “That’s just what we do.” He explained that because the crack was on top, we never saw a leak. The water flowed along the bottom. But the gas, backing up from the sewer, could escape. As for why the camera hadn’t found it? “Sometimes,” Fran shrugged, “people buy the fancy tech but don’t really know how to use it.”
When my wife came home, I told her the news. She acted excited, but I wasn’t sure she fully believed it, or that it was truly over. For us, the smell had been a form of psychological torture. The kids didn’t quite grasp it, but they saw we were happy and that seemed fun to them.
So, everything was great. But things took an unexpected turn. Partly out of gratitude, we gave Greg and Fran extra work, little plumbing jobs around the house we’d been putting off. This gave Greg more opportunities to showcase his plumbing genius. And maybe that was the problem. Fran’s resentment seemed to grow. Greg did this incredible workaround for a claw-foot tub and shower, a complex improvisation with angled pipes that looked like something M.C. Escher designed. Greg was clearly proud of it. It worked perfectly, but the tension between Fran and Greg escalated. They argued constantly about materials, about everything. Afterwards, each would pull me aside to complain about the other, warning me not to trust him.
Other strange things happened during this period, mostly involving Fran. He tried to sell us raffle tickets for his girlfriend’s stepson’s school band. Another time, he was hit in the leg by a car, driven by, apparently, former friends? I sensed the stress in his life was intensifying. It all culminated on their last day of work, right on our front porch. Heated words were exchanged, inevitably about money. Greg felt he was owed “special-duty pay,” probably rightly so. He claimed Fran had promised it a week earlier. Fran’s denial, delivered with that fixed half-smile, didn’t seem convincing. The smile, I think, was the trigger for Greg. But Fran’s smile seemed involuntary. I was standing right there when Greg’s hands went around Fran’s throat. It’s a terrifying thing to witness up close, someone choking someone else. You don’t do that unless you truly want to kill them. Fran wasn’t weak, even with the pills and vape pen, but Greg’s hands had the raw power of manual labor. You feel it when you shake hands with men like that. It’s a different kind of solid. Fran grabbed Greg’s wrists. I saw the fear in his eyes as he felt that power. Greg took him down, off the porch steps, over a boxwood, onto the lawn. Now Greg was on top of Fran, strangling him. The initial shock wore off, and I realized I was witnessing a murder attempt.
I dropped to my knees, grabbed Greg’s left arm with both hands, and started pulling, yelling at him to stop, to let go. I stood up, pulled harder, finally getting his attention. “Greg, you’re killing him!” I screamed. “You’re killing your friend! This is Fran!” “This ain’t my FUCKING friend!” Greg hissed. “He ain’t never been my friend.” Fran was sputtering, struggling for breath. I wrapped my body around Greg’s arm, trying to wrench it with my weight. This momentarily broke his grip, just long enough for Fran to punch him in the face. I jumped in, doing the classic “break it up” maneuver.
Both men stormed off, shaken and furious, Fran towards the street, Greg back inside. Both pulled out their phones and called the police, simultaneously. Pretty soon, two cop cars arrived, each responding to a separate call. Small Southern town – the cops knew Greg and Fran. Each gave a passionate account of events. The cops looked annoyed to be there. They didn’t seem too interested in my version of the story. Afterwards, I had separate ten-minute listening sessions with Greg and Fran. Both apologized profusely, but each apology was laced with vicious accusations against the other.
One thing Greg said stuck with me, and I’m a little ashamed to admit it hurt. Greg told me Fran had been planning to trick me into giving him our vintage toilet, the valuable one. Fran was going to tell me it had cracked during the pipe repair. I’d have to buy a new toilet, Fran would get a cut, and then sell the old one for double, a double scam at my expense. Greg spat out the story so vehemently it seemed impossible he was lying. “I didn’t want to tell you,” he said, “but I just felt like you had a right to know.”
That was years ago. I haven’t seen either of them since. But I think about them every day, because of a mark they left. When Greg wrestled Fran to the ground, they damaged the boxwood. It grew back, but with a hollow, like a cavity. I touch it every time I go up the steps and say, “Greg and Fran.” Sometimes, in the mornings, I think of them with gratitude. Standing in the kitchen with my coffee, I take a deep breath, appreciating what I don’t smell, remembering what I used to smell. But Greg’s revelation about Fran’s toilet scam still stings. It sounds silly, but I thought we had formed some kind of friendship. I’ve never been good at recognizing when that’s happening. My friendship radar is broken. I wish Fran hadn’t planned it, or that Greg hadn’t told me. Though, I guess it’s better that he did?
A year ago, I ran into Mike Sullivan, the city plumber, the John Jeremiah Sullivan who shared my father’s name, the one with the smoke bomb solution. He was working at a neighbor’s house. I asked about Greg and Fran. For some reason, I assumed they were both dead. He told me only Greg had died. Fran, he said, was actually doing quite well. I was so surprised, I couldn’t even respond. I asked how Greg had died. Mike only knew it was something with his heart. I tried to joke with Mike about how crazy they’d been, but he didn’t take the bait. He wouldn’t badmouth them. That stuck with me, his gentle restraint. His silence seemed to imply that everyone, even Greg and Fran, dead and living, partakes in some kind of inherent worthiness, perhaps in ways too obvious to articulate. Sherman too. I barely mentioned Sherman, the tall, red-bearded man of the forest, devoted to his wife and son. He knew Greg and Fran well. He helped find the crack. Blue overalls. I remember his kind eyes. Dear Sherman. Phantoms. Holy.
Drawings by Jonathan Twingleyalt: Humorous line drawings depicting scenes from a plumbing mishap story, with a focus on exaggerated facial expressions and chaotic situations.
