The Basement Was Flooded, and So Was I
I was standing in three inches of lukewarm water with socks I forgot I had on, a half-loaded washer frozen mid-cycle, and the weight of that year sitting square on my chest like a cinderblock. This was Chicago in late March — the snow just starting to rot and everything else still too cold to believe in spring.
The basement light buzzed above me, and I swear it sounded like it was laughing.
I don’t even remember what I’d put in the machine. Towels? Maybe jeans? I’d stopped caring by then. It wasn’t about the laundry. It was about that feeling — the one where you know something is broken but you keep pressing buttons like maybe this time the machine will change its mind.
I’d been doing that with my marriage, too. Same result.
The First Time I Tried to Reset It, I Broke the Door
It wasn’t the machine’s fault. It really wasn’t. But I treated it like it was. I yanked on the door before the lock disengaged, stupidly thinking force was a substitute for patience. Heard something snap. I still hear it sometimes when I close cabinets too hard.
I stood there for a full minute afterward, hand still on the handle, breathing like I’d just run ten blocks. It wasn’t just the washer. It was me. I was stuck. Locked up. Mid-cycle with no way to spin out.
I said out loud, “You just have to reset.”
Like it was that simple.
Like I hadn’t already tried.
My Kid Watched Me Pretend to Know What I Was Doing
He was sitting on the last basement step, knees pulled up, chin resting on top. Seven years old and quiet as a ghost. He didn’t say anything — didn’t need to. His face said it all: Is Daddy gonna fix it this time, or break it worse?
I crouched down in front of the washer, holding buttons in combinations I’d half-remembered from some forum. Power + Start. Cancel + Spin. Nothing. Just lights blinking like Christmas lights in a house nobody lived in anymore.
I made up words. I said things like “diagnostic mode” and “hard reset” like I knew what I was doing. I didn’t. All I really wanted was to feel in control of something. Anything.
The washer stayed quiet. And so did he.
The Lie I Told Myself About the Power Cord
I pulled the plug from the wall like I’d seen people do on YouTube. Left it out for a few minutes. Plugged it back in like it was CPR. I wanted that satisfying click, that sudden reboot, the digital version of “everything’s fine.”
Nothing.
Not even a flicker.
I checked the outlet. It was fine. I checked the breaker. Still fine. I told myself it had to be the cord. That somehow, magically, the one part I couldn’t see was the one to blame. I started looking up replacement cords on my phone like I was ready to perform surgery I didn’t understand.
But the cord wasn’t the problem. I was. I wasn’t unplugging the machine to reset it — I was unplugging myself from the truth. That I was in over my head. That I couldn’t just hold something down for ten seconds and erase all the damage.
Life doesn’t work like that.
Neither do washers.
The Water Just Sat There
I didn’t have a wet vac. Didn’t own a sump pump. All I had was a busted mop and a bunch of bath towels I didn’t mind ruining. I sopped up that mess for an hour. Didn’t even notice I was crying until I wrung one out and the water came out warm and salty.
Funny how a machine full of water can teach you how heavy a life you’ve built really is.
That night, I left the washer unplugged. Not because it helped, but because I needed the illusion of a break. Like maybe both of us could come back stronger in the morning.
I fell asleep with Google open on my phone, thumb still on the screen, half-reading something about “resetting cycles” and “calibration modes” while the radiator clanged like a drunk ghost in the wall.
The Guy From Pilsen Saved My Life and Didn’t Know It
His name was Rudy. Found him on Craigslist of all places. No website. Just a phone number and the phrase “appliance repair — honest, fast, cheap.” I didn’t believe any of it, but I didn’t have another card to play.
He showed up in a rusted-out blue van with duct tape on the passenger window and smelled like menthols and peppermint. Asked if I’d tried resetting it. I said yeah. Then I said no. Then I said, “I think so?”
He didn’t laugh.
He opened the panel on the back, tapped something with the back of his knuckle, and said, “Sometimes the brain just gets stuck.”
I wanted to ask him if he meant the washer or me.
He flipped a few wires, replaced a fuse I didn’t even know existed, and then — with one firm push of the power button — it came back to life. Lights. Whirring. That familiar hum like a sigh from the house itself.
Rudy nodded once, like it was no big deal.
But it was. It really was.
What I Put In the Washer That Night Had Nothing to Do With Clothes
After he left, I stood in front of the machine like it was a holy thing. I opened the lid slowly, like it might change its mind again. I dropped in my hoodie — the gray one my ex used to steal — and the jeans I’d worn the night she said she was done pretending.
I didn’t care if they got clean.
I just wanted to watch something go through the cycle and come out different on the other side.
I sat on the steps next to my kid, who was playing with a flashlight, and watched the washer spin. Water rush. Agitate. Drain. Spin again.
I envied that clarity. That sense of purpose. That reset.
Here’s What I Know Now
People love to say just unplug it, wait thirty seconds, and plug it back in.
But those people haven’t stood barefoot in cold water, staring at a machine that won’t listen, trying to fix something without understanding what’s really broken.
You ever try resetting a washer when it’s not just the washer that needs resetting?
I have.
And it’s not a button. It’s a reckoning.
Anyway — that’s how it went down.
Not proud of it, but it’s mine.
