Day 8: Journal from the Edge of Survival (COVID-19 Shelter-in-place Diary)

 

Charlie Doesn’t Listen

Let me digress before I even start. It’s important to start this entry with a discussion on telephone technical support people.

These people are often quite nice. They really are. I’m sure it’s in their job description. But they are also the people who, in any given situation, have absolutely the least amount of information. Is there an outage in your area of their particular service or function? They have no idea. They haven’t heard about it. Have you had a repeated case that needs to be reopened? They don’t know about it, and the notes they can see (if their computer’s page on your account ever fully loads), are unclear on it. They really know absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, page 1 in their training manual always seems to be “blame the user and/or their equipment.” I’m not sure why this is. I think it’s some sort of “corporate shame avoidance.” But whatever… it ties in to the rest of the story, and it’s something that irks me in general, so I thought I’d start there.

Today’s story is about how Charlie doesn’t listen.

Cable guys (gals?) are essential personnel to the infrastructure of the country. And thank Zeus. Because my internet is wonky as fuck. It always has been, because we’ve had an outdated and overloaded node in this area for years. The people three steps up from the telephone support people know about this. The phone people do not. The techs who drive out to your house and say “the signal is fine… right this very second while I’m testing it” generally do not. You have to have fifteen appointments and make sure you smile JUST RIGHT into the phone every time you call before they bump up your issue to the people who do know. And that guy always says “yeah, your node is a piece of shit. We’re replacing it by the end of the year (he just forgets to say which year).”

Shit. I’m digressing again. I haven’t even gotten to the part where Charlie doesn’t listen. Bear with me. It’s early and my coffee hasn’t kicked fully in, yet.

OK, so after another wonky internet night, one that was wonkier than usual, including two 1+ hour outages, I broke down and spent the hour on hold to talk to Jamal in Arizona. Jamal was sweet. Jamal laughed at my jokes with enough “telephone mirth” in his voice to fool me into thinking I was actually funny. Jamal assured me there have been no outages in my area. Jamal knows nothing about nodes, sorry. Jamal says my modem is almost as old as I am and must be replaced. Jamal makes me reboot it, again, because apparently when I rebooted it before I had his moral support it wasn’t adequate. I guess I’m not fully licensed for a successful solo reboot. So we do it together. Internet comes back! Internet dies. Internet comes back! Internet dies.

Jamal can get me an appointment the next day, but…

…because I live in a zombie apocalypse quarantine state, the cable guy can come, but he can’t come into my house. But it’s not a problem, Jamal assures me. The cable guy can ring the doorbell and throw a new modem at me and run away while I catch it. He can then stand outside the door and yell instructions at me while I install it myself.

OK, I can live with this. I’ve installed things. I may be a Boomer but I’m a silicon valley boomer so I know the difference between a cable and a cord and I vaguely remember how the whole male/female thing works. I can deal.

However, I also know this won’t actually work, because I have both a modem and a range extender, and they’d have to reprogram the range extender, and they can’t yell those instructions at me. They have to do wonky things with their fancy little hand-held computer thingamajigs.

SO I HAD A PLAN (and this is the part where “Charlie doesn’t listen” comes in).

I told Charlie to kind of stay out of sight when the cable guy showed up. Because when this tattered, teetering old broad answers the door with her cane in her hand, Cable Guy might feel pity. He might notice the lack of coughing and the general lack of a death-smell wafting off of me (I smell more like bitterness with a soupçon of amused ennui. And roses, if I’ve just showered). He might say “You know what, your cable box is just inside that door, I can probably come in and do this for you – we’ll just keep a nice social distance…k?” This happens. This is not fantasy. My newfound power in older age is almost more dizzying than that first power bestowed upon me at age 13. It was all those middle years that sucked.

But I know that if he sees a healthy MAN in the house, all of my carefully crafted aura of helplessness will disintegrate. The Y chromosome has a way of doing that. It’s a ruiner. It ruins. Seriously. It’s in all the history books. Look it up.

And don’t get all panty-wadded about my sexist manipulations. Until the pay-gap closes, we’re going to use what we have in our grab-bag of tools. It used to be my tits. Now it’s my decrepitude. Fuck you, Judgy McJudgerson. I’m just trying to survive like everyone else.

And stop giving me those squinty, suspicious eyes about trying to make the cable guy enter a home during a zombie apocalypse. I’m not trying to kill the guy. But… Netflix, man. I need Netflix. Oh yeah, and Charlie is working from home, and I guess that matters, too. Shut up.

Charlie is not stupid, mostly. He gets it. He, too, wants Netflix (and, I suppose, to log in to work). So he agrees. He understands the power of the helpless old lady, having witnessed it many times now.

A few hours later, I hear Charlie call out “The cable guy is here!!!”

I head outside to see Charlie standing outside talking to the cable guy (a healthy 10 feet away).

We’re talking a two hour gap between “stay out of sight” and the arrival of the Cable Guy. And there is his, laughing and chatting with the guy like he hasn’t had a sip of water in six months and this guy is made of liquid.

Needless to say, I still have my old modem. They can’t replace it without coming in. And they’re not coming in because there is not a helpless old lady trapped alone in a house without contact with the rest of the human race.

Sigh.

I guess my dance with the Tiger King will have to happen in the gaps between the wonky internet moments.

And I have books.

I’ll survive.