CABLE CRAB

Ah, the cable company.  It's like the Black Hole of the Service World.

I have five power cords that connect the little black cable boxes (the auxiliary ones, not the main box) that power the televisions.  I have five of them because I have five TV's, which is almost ironic since I hardly ever watch any of them.  Twice now the damn power cords have shit the bed.  Twice now I have had to suffer through going to the cable company for replacements.

The first time I go to replace the cord, I get lost.  I don't know how the hell I can get lost because I lived in that neighborhood of Lawrence for about a decade, maybe more, and I have been to the Comcast office at least twenty times.  But I cannot find Glenn Street to save my life, and I drive around in circles on roads right next to it.  This all happens because I say to myself, "I'll go in the back way.  I know where it is!"  Well, apparently the last one hundred times I was over there was to take my youngest to the daycare, which is on another side street in that same industrial park, and by day care, I'm talking sixteen years ago. 

I finally find the place, walk in, take a number, and realize I am the only customer.  It still takes five minutes to get called to the open window.  I politely explain that the television power cord doesn't work any longer.

The guy at the counter takes the cord from me and asks, "Are you sure?"  His tone is accusatory, as if I am scamming The Great and Powerful Oz. 

At this point my left eye starts twitching.  No, you fucking dumbass, I think, I'm making it up because I just wanted to spend the entire damn afternoon at the cable office.  I force myself to smile sweetly and reply, "Yes, I tried it on three different televisions.  It definitely doesn't work."

"Is this for the cable box?"

"Yes, sir, the cable box.  For the television."  I do believe this has already been established.

"The big one?"  He looks at me as if I have more heads than Scylla.

The big what?  The big TV?  How does he know I have a big TV?  Truthfully, it's not really all that big. 

"The big box," he clarifies.

"Oh, no.  No, just the little box," and I make my two hands into a hollow rectangle about yay-big by yay-big.  You know, like the size of a sandwich made on rip-off-sized, crustless Sunbeam bread.

Then he stares at me like I'm going to renege and take the broken cord back.  Like he's daring me to tell him the real story.  After about thirty uncomfortable seconds of this no-blink contest, he says deadpan, "I don't know if we have any more of these."

You don't …wait … wait a second.  Isn't this the cable company?  How in the hell can you NOT have any more of the damn mini power cords that connect to the wall?  Is this guy for real?  Is he speaking English?  Am I on Candid Camera?

He goes to the back room and eventually emerges with a small cardboard box.  "Is this what I need?" I ask as he hands it over.  I realize instantly that I shouldn't have said such a stupid thing until the box was entirely in my possession.  Cable Man stops, grips his end of the package like a crab's pincers, and starts muttering under his breath.  Shit.  Now he knows I suspect he's a stupid moron.

I manage to wrestle the box away, thank him profusely, and do not even attempt to look at the cord until I am safely locked into my car, the motor is running, and it's already in drive while my foot is on the brake.  Just in case the dude decides I stole something or has some other whacked out thought, I need to be ready for a quick getaway, possibly running him down in the process.  I get the power cord home, plug it into the wall then into the small cable box, wait a few seconds for the green light, then I'm good to go. 

This is all fine and well until… it happens again.  Again I try the cord out on different televisions.  Again I prepare to do battle at the cable company.  This time when I arrive, five people are in line ahead of me.  I take a number, find a seat (because they now have a few seats in the waiting area), and I notice this time there are four windows open, all staffed.  This should be a piece of cake!

The guy sitting next to me says, "I've been here for fifteen minutes, and no one has been helped.  They're all playing video games back there."

I gaze behind the counters and, damnit, he's right.  The clerks all appear to be playing some elaborate game of Let's See Who Can Ignore the Customers the Longest.  The guy has an internet ticket; I have a cable ticket.  Cable problems are easier to fix, so I move to the line ahead of him when my C158 comes up before his I224.  I get to the window and smile cheerfully at the clerk.  I know where this conversation is going, as I've had it recently.  When the clerk turns around on his glorified barstool, I realize it's déjà vu:  this is the same guy who waited on me last time.

Without so much as cracking a grin, Cable Crab looks at me.  I hand him the power cord and go through the entire conversation as I had the first time around.  It's almost word-for-word the chat we had a few months ago, only this time when he emerges from the Back Room of Doom, he is carrying a much larger box.  As he passes it under the plexi-glass to me, my mouth opens.  Even as the words escape, my brain cannot shut off fast enough for my fingers to grab the box.  "Are you sure this is the right cord?  It's only for the small bo----" 

Shitmotherfuckersonofabitch.

He pulls the box back toward the office window, grasping it tightly in his old man clutches.  He has decided that I will not get the cable cord after all because I am an idiot.  I suck in my breath as if to say something else, and when he looks up at me, I feel his grip on the box loosen ever so slightly.

I yank the box all the way through the window and back two steps away from his counter.  Even if he were to stretch his arm through the opening, he wouldn't be able to reach me.  He would have to abandon his station, rush around the turnstile, and get out into the room with me.  He realizes he will never make it and watches me with beady eyes as I back away. 

I slow down by the seats and see I224 Ticket Man watching me.  He smirks a crooked half smile at me.  "Good move," he compliments me.

"Close one, right?"  I say.  I fold my arms over the box, as if this power cord is the most precious thing on Earth.  "Well," I say, and give a small wave, "I hope you get home before dinner.  For that matter, I hope you're out of here before Christmas."

"Me, too!" he responds.

I open the box as soon as I am safely in my car, windows securely rolled up, ignition engaged, car in gear with my foot on the brake just in case.  It appears to be the correct cord.  I don't know what all the extra crap is in the box, but I seem to have what I need.  I pull out of the parking lot, hanging a left and driving through South Lawrence to head home.  No need to sight-see in the industrial park again.  Been there; done that.

I still haven't plugged the new cord in.  I sure hope it works, though.  I stole the old cord from my son's bedroom so I could watch television in the kitchen again.  Kid's coming home from college tomorrow.  I hope the cord is all set because if I have to go back there one more time, that clerk really might suspect me of running some kind of Black Market scam on cable box power cords.  I've bested Cable Crab two in a row - I'm not sure I can pull it off successfully three times.