We are having broadband installed. This requires a visit from the cable guy, because shockingly the self-install process didn’t work. Actually I’m not shocked, because the customer service person at Comcast assured me I shouldn’t be. “You’d be surprised how often we have to have a service call to come and get people set up”, she told me. I assured her I was not at all surprised a cable company would do everything in its power to milk service fees out of customers. Well, I didn’t say that exactly, but I think I implied it with my sighs and snotty tone of voice.
I have a deep distrust of the cable guy. Not this guy in particular, who at this very moment is out back working on a ladder. He seems fine. But once, a long time ago, I was ripped off by a cable guy, and that experience has tainted the profession irreparably in my eyes.
It happened when I moved in with Jane in Summer of 1995. I insisted as a condition of our cohabitation that we get cable. The cable guy came and did his thing in the morning. He did it in the morning because that was the time I specified I would be home, which of course strongly implied that I would not be home in the afternoon.
Lo and behold, I come home from work late that afternoon and my phat-ass stereo amp and pre-amp, which just happened to be right near the spot where the cable guy was doing his business that morning, were gone. I don’t think the cable guy stole them. I think the cable guy called some of his criminal perpetrator friends, and they stole them. When I ran that theory by the police, they assured me that was a common ploy. Why they weren’t following up with the cable company and tracking all the burglaries that mysteriously happened after that particular cable gay had worked a place was beyond me. I guess they had bigger fish to fry.
Needless to say, I’ve carried a hard grudge against cable guys ever since 1995. So it was with some trepidation that I willingly had one come into my home and work right next to my beloved new computer. But this time, I had a plan.
More specifically, I had a dog.
A big dog. But even better than that, a big LOUD dog. Maxine’s the name. Annoying guests is her game. And maybe, just maybe, with a little help from me today she would add deterrence to her repertoire.
When the guy knocked, I riled Maxine up real good and then let her loose. She threw her body againt the door and sounded double her 85 pounds. I opened the door a crack and said, with Maxine barking bloody murder behind me, “Please wait while I put my dog away so she won’t hurt somebody…like she did last time.”
The cable guy said, “No problem.”
I took Maxine upstairs into our room and closed the door. This always incenses her, and she will bark and growl and hurl herself into the door to get out. This continued during the duration of the cable guy’s visit. Every once in awhile I went upstairs to rile her again, and would return to tell the guy about what a great dog she was with the family, but she took her protector status a little too seriously.
The cable guy said, “I understand.”
It turned out the cable guy was allright. At no point did he seem to be casing our house, and he was able to get me up and running on broadband in no time. We had a nice, cordial conversation about computers, the Timberwolves, the fact that I was going to be getting a couple more dogs very soon, and that I thought pit bulls didn’t deserve their bad reputation.
Then the cable guy left, for good I suspect.