He had to wrap the wire around the outside of the house, moving his ladder several times to clip down the wire every thirty inches. It was time consuming, but he made it all look nice, and gave her the outlet where she wanted it. He installed a spare converter from his truck, switched the splitters around to get the signal within spec, then educated Mrs. Watson on the use of the converter and accompanying remote. All this guaranteed he would be late for the jobs in the next two timeframes, but finally he had signatures, payment, and was underway to the next job.
His next one wasn't much better: A supposed simple reconnect that was actually a completely unwired house. The desk jockeys who put installer routes together did this all the time. They knew damn well when a job was a new connect, because the address wouldn't be in the database. But entering the job correctly meant the computer would allot more time to complete it, and then they couldn't stack as much work on top of the technicians and make themselves look good by stuffing all the required labor into an eight-hour shift.
Typically, Miles worked through his lunch break every day in the vain attempt to catch up.
He ignored his growling stomach, his itchy, dirty, sticky discomfort, and the fatigue weighing him down, and attacked the unwired house with all the energy he had left, calling the lead tech on his Nextel to update him on his progress. Jason Rumkis, a newbie who apparently got the lead tech position based on something other than job competency, conducted a radio interrogation while Miles tried to work, voicing his bafflement at how Miles could have gotten so far behind. Not long after the end of that unpleasant conversation, the supervisor called and Miles had to answer all the same questions over again, while trying to work one-handed or with the Nextel wedged between his shoulder and ear. Once the grilling was finally over, he stretched his neck, throwing his full concentration and both hands into the work.
When the Nextel beeped again, he cursed, resisting the urge to smash it with his claw hammer. He didn't recognize the direct connect ID this time. He answered as calmly as he could manage.
"Is this Tech 7188?" asked a female voice. It wasn't any of the dispatchers he normally spoke with. This voice was soft and smooth, with no discernible accent.
"Yes it is," he said, leaving his shovel at the end of the trench-inprogress, walking to where the wall of the house cast a narrow haven of shade.
"This is Shauna from the Call Center," the feminine voice said. "I have a customer on the other line: a Mrs. Watson on Baylor Avenue?"
Miles rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. A CSR calling a tech about a job always meant the customer had a complaint. What could the woman be complaining about? He had gone over and above what the work order called for, to keep the promises made to her. "That's right. I was at that job for a few hours." His tone was defensive.
Her tone, however, was polite; not accusatory like the other CSRs he'd had the misfortune to speak with. "Mrs. Watson is claiming that you drilled a hole through her wall, after she asked you not to."
Miles cleared his throat. "The work order called for two new outlets to be built. She wanted them on interior walls. Once I was done with that, and trying to get the paperwork signed, she told me she'd been promised another outlet, with a digital converter. She wanted this one on an exterior wall. I explained that, to give her what she wanted, I'd have to drill a hole, and cable would be visible on the exterior wall. She said go for it, so I tried to make her happy. If she says she asked me not to, that's a lie."
"I'm looking at the work order now," the CSR said, and he heard the tapping of computer keys through the phone. "I'm sorry--what's your name?"
"Miles."
"That's much nicer than referring to you by a number. Well, you are absolutely correct, Miles: the work order said nothing about a third outlet and a set-top box."
Now he wondered if he would get in trouble for doing the extra work. Such initiative had always been encouraged in the past, but lately the rules changed seemingly every day.
"I can't get her to understand that an outlet on an outside wall means the wire has to come from outside," the CSR said. "Therefore there has to be a hole for the wire to come through. Channels can't just magically appear on her television without wire being run to it." "Well, actually, they can," Miles said. "It's called an antenna."
Her laughter exploded through the phone, high-pitched, spontaneous and genuine. After several moments, it sounded as if she was trying to speak, but the words were abortive. Just when Miles thought she was done, she wheezed and resumed laughing.
He hadn't thought it that funny, but Miles caught himself chuckling along with her. All the tension building up throughout the frustrating day slackened.
"I'm s-sorry," she stammered, between giggles. "I g-guess I just ne-need-needed a good laugh!"
"So did I," Miles said. "Thanks. I hope Mrs. Forked Tongue didn't hear you, though."
"I've got her on hold," she said, finally getting the giggles under control.
"Well, anyway," Miles said, suddenly realizing that this CSR might be reprimanded if she didn't get back to business soon, "I did it all by-the-book. Feed-through bushing; silicone sealer; drip loop. I followed the lines of the siding. I think I did a pretty nice job..."
"There's little doubt in my mind you did, Miles," the woman said, traces of mirth still tickling her melodic voice. "In fact, you did more than what you had to. I appreciate you trying to take care of the customer."
This conversation turned out a lot different than what he expected. "Are you a CSR?"
"Yes I am."
"What's your name again?"
"Shauna."
"Okay Shauna. Do you have your own extension? I'd like to talk to you next time I have to call Customer Service."
"I don't. Sorry. But you can ask for me by name--there's only one Shauna here. Do you call Customer Service a lot?"
"Now and then. If I make a sale, or have to resolve a billing issue."
"Ask for me," she said. "If I can get free, I will. Now I'm going to notate this account, and you shouldn't have to worry about it. Okay?"
"Thanks, Shauna. I'm glad it was you that called."
"No problem, Miles. I hope you have a better day. Bye-bye."
He stared down at his Nextel for a moment. Then, smiling, he got back to work.
There was plenty more drama as the day went on. Miles' lead tech and supervisor made more unhelpful calls; other techs asked for help, or to borrow equipment; and customers did what cable subscribers do. But Miles kept remembering the sexy voice, and the infectious laugh, and focused on that.
Although Miles counted himself fortunate to have a steady job, he didn't find the day-to-day challenges of a cable installer important or fulfilling. So he daydreamed a lot during the work day. There was nothing in his existence at the moment as intriguing as Shauna in Customer Service, so he got through the rest of the shift by imagining what the woman behind the voice might be like--the "full package."
Shauna had asked for his name, and hadn't forgotten it over the course of three minutes. So she wasn't an airhead, or too full of herself to respect the individuality of another person. She had a sense of humor, and struck him as far more intelligent than the average CSR.
Dispatchers and PAC team members called techs "hon" or "sweetie" all the time. Terms of affection like that from strangers, or even casual acquaintances, struck Miles as condescending and phony. There wasn't anything phony or condescending about Shauna, so far as he could tell.
Her words played over in his mind, and he tried to paint a tentative mental image of her based on them. Certain things she said sounded almost British. Maybe it was a trace of "continental" accent, like Cary Grant, Myrna Loy and most of those old-time Hollywood stars.
Shauna's image took form, and it resembled a cross between Barbara Rush and Natalie Wood. He'd always liked brown eyes and dark hair, so wishful thinking must have pulled him in that direction.
The sad fact was, a voice so enchanting was just as likely to belong to
a 300-pound redhead with cystic acne. It just worked out that way. Mike Tyson and General George S. Patton had voices which couldn't do the men justice, while James Earl Jones and Bing Crosby had physical images which couldn't do their voices justice.
He remembered an old episode of Beavis and Butthead he saw at a customer's house while configuring software on the computer across the room from the big screen TV. The two snickering morons called a phone sex actress, and were excited by her bedroom voice. What they didn't guess was that she was an ugly whale in a dilapidated trailer with grubby illegitimate children crawling all around her.
Four hours past quitting time, he was finally done, with no more need of pathetic fantasies to coax him through the drudgery. After a drive across the county from his last jobsite, he backed the company van into his driveway. He collected his lunch bag, cooler, and spent drill batteries, then locked up the van, unlocked his front door and stepped wearily inside his one-story castle.
The place was a mess.
But it was his mess.
The furniture was all hand-me-downs or thrift store specials,
and none of it matched. Upholstery was torn in various places where screwdrivers or other forgotten sharp objects protruding from his back pocket had made their marks. Tables, couch cushions and the hardwood floor were littered with projects in various stages of incompletion--a computer tower here, a DVD burner there, fuel injectors, air conditioner compressors, alternators, video cameras and radio controlled aircraft. Books and magazines were almost as numerous and random, though food and dirty laundry were not left laying around.
Miles emptied his pockets on the coffee table, then stripped out of his stinky, filthy uniform as he moved through the living room. By the time he reached the hamper, he was naked. In went the clothes, then he stumbled toward the bathroom, started the shower and stepped in without waiting for the water to warm up. He couldn't wait to scrub the dried sweat and dirt from himself. Dirt never bothered him as a kid, but he was pushing thirty now and hated feeling grubby.
Once clean and dry, he slipped on some loose shorts and marched to the kitchen. He nuked a microwave dinner while surfing programs on TV. Finding nothing worthwhile currently playing on any of his 300-plus channels, he resumed watching a documentary about helicopters on the DVR. He pushed a car stereo deck across his table to make room for supper, then shoveled in mouthfuls of chicken and rigatoni while watching the show.
He finished supper before the documentary was over, so he plugged in the soldering iron and finished fixing the car stereo while watching how Bell Jetrangers were built. Afterwards, he found the latest issue of Popular Mechanics lying open on the bookshelf. He sat down to resume thumbing through it, and the phone rang.
"Hi, Miles. This is Art down at the Head End. Your Nextel was off. Hope you don't mind me calling you at home, and this late."
Miles leaned forward in his seat, heart thumping. "Not at all. It's not late for me, yet." He hadn't expected a personal call, especially so soon after the interview.
"You'll get an email in a day or two," Art said. "But I think that's lame. I wanted to tell you personally."
"I appreciate it, sir."
"Again, you did really well in the interview. I've actually gone through your resume a couple times. You're qualified, Miles, and I'd love to give you the position."
"But somebody else is more qualified," Miles said, recognizing the consolation in Art's tone.
"That's not exactly it."
"What is it?" Miles wondered if Berger had sabotaged him.
"Let's just say, with the economy the way it is, upper management gets involved in all these inside hires," Art said. "They've gone back and forth numerous times on this, and finally decided somebody else moving up would serve the company better." This last statement sounded so mechanical, a robot might have spoken it.
If the person promoted wasn't more qualified, then what had tipped the scales against Miles? Past experience made him suspect the other candidate was older, or had a family to support. Upper management usually considered such people more dependable.
"I'll keep your information on file in case something changes," Art said. "But for now, I'm sorry, but we can't do it."
"Well, thanks for the call, anyway."
"Sure. And keep up the good work. I hear good things about you from Berger, and Denny still wants you on his team."
They said their goodbyes and hung up. Miles sighed.
His supervisor, Matt Berger, was a jerk; but evidently he was happy with Miles' work, judging by what Art just said--and the last few quarterly evaluations. Still, Berger had no clue how to lead, other than slinging threats. He never went to bat for his techs--in fact, he was often the mastermind behind their suffering.
Denny was a supervisor of Service Techs--the troubleshooters. He had been Miles' supervisor before Berger took over, and asked Miles to come with him when he moved from Installs to Service. Miles had balked after getting called out on standby at three a.m. one weekend to help a Service Tech. That tech told him some frightening stories, and claimed he'd been on standby for months at a time, and that it was almost impossible to meet the job quota.
Miles could still transfer to Service, if Denny still needed him, maintaining the same pay rate. He was starting to doubt it could be worse than installing for Berger.
None of this would have been an issue, had Miles been hired as a plant engineer right out of college, as one of his classmates had years ago. But his timing was lousy, as usual, and the decisions he'd made in life hadn't helped.
So here he was, an hourly-wage cable guy with an engineering degree that, apparently, was useless; a thirtieth birthday approaching and no higher rungs on the corporate ladder in sight.
"At least I have my castle," he told himself, and set the magazine down. It was time for bed.
He dreamed of a mysterious woman with a sexy voice, but never could make out her face. He visualized the woman's silhouette, and the back of her head once. But whenever he came close to glimpsing the whole package, she floated away and vanished like smoke, only to speak to him again from behind some visual barrier. He must have chased her voice for half the night without satisfaction.
Miles arrived at work a half-hour early the next morning, and set about reorganizing his van. He glanced toward the main building, periodically, wondering if Shauna was seated in the call center that very moment.
Parking lots surrounded Avcom's Broadcast Lane office. Towers and huge satellite dishes poked up from the neatly manicured grass patches interspersed with masses of gray asphalt and concrete. Techs parked in the northwestern lot, farthest from the main building. Miles' van was backed into the space near the chain link fence surrounding the north tower. It was a pleasant morning, with blue skies and a cool breeze.
Miles could still remember the sound of Shauna's laughter. Their conversation had been the high point of his day. When he lay down to sleep, it seemed the only event that had made the day worthwhile.
How pathetic was that?
He wanted to walk into the call center and find her, just to confirm whether or not she was a 300-pound redhead with cystic acne. If she was, maybe he'd be able to quit thinking about her.
Tyrell Jones nosed into the parking spot next to him, hip-hop pounding from his radio. He dropped from the passenger seat of his work van and strolled over. "Bowser! Whazzup, man?"
"Hey, compadre," Miles greeted. They bumped fists.
"Yo, Miles, you gotta teach me this internet thing."
Tyrell was a little pudgy, but exuded energy most of the time. With a natural dark complexion, working several hours outdoors every day had baked his skin somewhere between dark brown and truly black.
"What are you having trouble with?" Miles asked.
"First off, when the lights on the modem show block synch, but the damn computer won't pull an I.P."
Miles closed his stock drawers, straightened and stretched. "What time is it?"
Tyrell checked his watch. "W
e got about fifteen minutes. Your Nextel has a time display, man."
Miles closed and locked his doors. "I don't turn that thing on until I absolutely have to. Let's walk and talk."
They strolled toward the warehouse while Miles explained some of the software and hardware issues that could prevent a PC from getting online. Tyrell repeated some of it back to him, to confirm he had understood the information.
"Man, how come Avcom never taught me that stuff?" Tyrell griped. "They should have a class or something."
Miles nodded. "You're right. It's crazy that they send techs out to do these jobs unprepared for commonplace issues."
Tyrell nodded, distracted. His gaze swung around to another work van coasting by. Now he stopped and spun to face it, cupping hands around his mouth.
"Yo, Tre'! Hold up!" he called, then took off back the way they had come.
"Guess I'll talk to you later, then," Miles said, stopping to watch Tyrell jogging toward where Tre' Townsend was parking his van.
When Tre' dropped to the asphalt, he and Tyrell went through an intricate handshake. The words "my brother" floated back toward Miles from their conversation a couple times.
Miles liked Tyrell. He was a good tech; an intelligent young man; and an entertaining clown when he wanted to be. What Miles didn't like was how Tyrell brushed him off whenever other black folks came within a hundred yards.
Miles shook his head, exhaled heavily, and entered the warehouse.
3
On the way to her mother's house, Shauna called Clarence back. She reminded him, again, of the importance of giving her more warning for a date. He was persistent, though. They compromised on dinner for Friday evening.
Katina and Mum greeted Shauna at the door. Warm hugs went to and from each of them.
"I can't stay long," Shauna said. "I've still got some course work to get done tonight."
"Nonsense, Baby," her mother said, pulling her inside by the wrist. "You sit down and eat with us. Let us look at you for a while before you go."
Her parents' house was the most comfortable place on earth to Shauna. It was all earth tones, soft fabrics and religious axioms. Resigned to staying for supper, Shauna chatted with Katina while touring Mum's well-maintained potted plants, breathing in the fragrances which seemed both familiar and exotic.
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