For those of you who have been around for a while, you know that I do not do well in the wind. Not only does it wreak havoc with my coif, but it messes with the circuits in my brain causing my otherwise sunny disposition to sour like a carton of milk left in a parked car in the middle of summer.
Today it was windy.
And somewhere a customer service representative for the cable company has gone home and killed his wife. Because of me. And the wind.
I had done my part. I was here between 12:00 and 2:00 when the repair man was scheduled to show up to figure out why my “high-speed” Internet service was now operating as if walking through a vat of peanut butter. I had waited. Patiently.
When the customer service guy-- let’s call him Brad -- went to work this morning, he already knew his day was going to be shit and it had nothing to do with the wind. It was because of those goddamn repair guys who didn’t show up at their scheduled appointments when they were supposed to. And he was the one who had to hear about it. But, hey – it was a job. Not the one he’d planned on when he wracked up that $100,000 of student loan debt, but he’d learned to make the best of it.
At 2:00 – sharp – when it was evident I’d been stood up, I placed the call:
Brad: Comcast Cable, may I have your account num –
Me: I had an appointment today to fix your crappy Internet and no one showed up!
Apparently, listening to a stream of profanities is not is their job description, or so he continued to tell me. He seemed less than sympathetic by the fact that I had scheduled two hours out of my day to sit at home and do nothing. What he wouldn’t give for two uninterrupted hours all to himself. But no. Somebody always wanted something from him. He was in the goddamn service business 24/7 and now here was this raving bitch all up in his face because she didn’t know what to do with herself without Twitter.
Brad: I’ll schedule another appointment for you. How’s tomorrow from –
Me: Oh, great! So I can sit around waiting for another fucking two hours? Fine, asshole! Just make sure he shows up this time!
Slamming down the phone, I immediately knew I’d crossed a line. Poor minimum wage S.O.B really didn’t deserve that. I suck. Will this damn wind never stop?! I needed a glass of wine. It had to be cocktail hour somewhere.
Returning home that night, Brad was prepared to drown out the memory of her wretched hyena-like voice with a six-pack and catch the last couple of innings of the game. A large, dried branch from the wind-whipped palm trees blocks his path to the stairs that lead to his one-bedroom apartment. He roughly kicks it aside.
I began to breathe slowly, evenly. Thank God for wine. The smooth Cabernet instantly eases my tension. I really have to lighten up. In
they had a freakin’ tsunami this week. Talk about your bad hair day. I smile at my own wit. Indonesia
Remote in one hand, cold bottle of beer in the other, Brad sinks into the second-hand Lazy Boy smelling of cat piss he’d long learned to ignore and feels relaxed for the first time all day. He presses “power.” Nothing.
“Can I get a little help in here? I’ve been working all day, too, you know,” she calls from the kitchen. This wasn’t the life she’d had planned either.
His shoulders tighten. “I’m not hungry!” A gate outside slams in the wind. He presses the “power” button again – two, three, four times – harder, faster, harder, faster -- Oh, wait. That’s another story.
“Fine! I’ll just throw yours out then!,” she shoots back.
The explosion of the beer bottle connecting with the old tube TV was the last thing Brad remembered.
Hours later when later asked by news crews about the young couple who lived in the corner unit, neighbors said they were always very quiet and kept to themselves.
From down the block a cable company repair truck slowly rounds the corner. “Damn wind,” the driver grumbles. He’d hoped to get home in time to see the game.
Happy Halloween. Your “Sunday Recap” will return next week.