Go-backs were repeat trouble calls. Theoretically, they were scheduled when a technician failed to perform the job right the first time. In reality, customers tampering with the wiring or equipment caused most of the go-backs. Then there were customers whose cantankerous nature compelled them to complain about something, no matter how ridiculous. In general, the wealthier the neighborhood, the more unreasonable the complaints.
Denny spent a minute or so verbalizing his appreciation for Miles' performance. Berger had not even mentioned the low go-backs and probably wouldn't. He'd be too busy accentuating the negative. He hadn't actually threatened Miles with termination for a while, but he frequently threatened write-ups, and routes in the parts of town nobody wanted.
"Hey Denny, what are the odds of me coming over to Service?"
"Oh, now you ask," Denny said, and laughed. "Normally, with the economy the way it is, I would say slim-to-none. But I got a guy who expressed interest in transferring back to Install. If you're serious, I can see about having you two trade places."
"I'm serious," Miles said. He'd been a little more certain each day, and now there was little doubt he wanted out of Installs...and Berger's team...at almost any cost. Even if never-ending standby was the price.
The work that day wasn't too bad, at first. Miles had some easy upgrades, downgrades and disconnects. The job which would have been the day-wrecker cancelled on him for lack of payment.
The route snaked him in-and-out of the inner city. He had an upgrade in an apartment complex right around noon--activating an existing outlet. He would take jobs like that all day long.
Once he met the customer, and put his toner on the outlet, he went back outside to search the building for the tap. He spotted an MDU box underneath a second-floor balcony, and marched toward it. A large German Shepherd on the balcony saw him coming and went crazy, barking and snarling like he wanted to jump down and attack. An angry-looking black man with a beer in one hand, and no shirt, stared down at Miles but made no attempt to calm the dog. Miles stopped underneath the balcony and tried to open the box.
The lock on the box had been damaged by someone's attempt to break in, and was difficult to open. While he worked at it, the dog continued his tirade, muzzle against a gap in the planks so that his mouth was only perhaps four feet from Miles' ears. The loud, unceasing noise was unnerving, but Miles had to locate the outlet, and this was the nearest MDU box to the apartment he was working in.
"What the hell is goin' on?" shouted a voice from the balcony, during a lull in the snarling while the dog inhaled.
Miles got the box open, and examined the tangled mess of wires inside.
The bare-chested, beer-bellied black man leaned over the balcony rail, trying to see what Miles was doing. "I said what the hell is going on!"
"I'm not here to cut anybody off," Miles replied, but his words were drowned out by the dog's barking.
"What!" the man demanded.
Get your stupid dog to shut up, and maybe you can hear the answers to your questions.
"What!" the man shouted again. The dog didn't stop.
Miles wasn't going to try shouting over the dog to answer belligerent questions when it was none of the guy's business, anyway.
None of the wires toned out. Great, he thought, my eardrums are bleeding for nothing. He stuffed the jumble of wires back inside and closed the box. There was another MDU further down the side of the building. It made no sense that his apartment was wired to the farther tap, but he was glad to get away from the aggravating noise.
He heard a string of unflattering expletives hurled his way along with the dog's tireless rant. "Don't make me come down there! I'm talkin' to you, cracker!"
Miles stopped and turned to face the man on the balcony. He was supposed to ignore provocations, and certainly that was the smart thing to do, but now he was pissed. He arched his brows and grinned.
This infuriated the man, who cussed even louder.
"Have you got some business with me?" Miles asked, intentionally speaking in a normal voice, which was drowned out by the barking. If the man truly wanted a conversation, he would have to shut the dog up.
His own words indistinguishable now at this distance, the man finally shoved his dog inside and shut the door. "What did you say, honky?"
"I asked if you have some business with me," Miles said. His heart raced. He knew it wasn't wise to play this game. The guy might come down ready to use his fists, a knife or worse. Miles could be fired if this turned into a fight. But a whole lot of frustration had pent up over the last few weeks; he was only doing his job; and this guy was a jerk.
"I wanna know what your white ass is doin' prowlin' around my house!" the man said.
"My white ass isn't doing anything to 'your house'," Miles said, still forcing the grin. "But if you suspect I'm doing something wrong, you're welcome to call your landlord, or the police."
"I don't need the police or the landlord to break my foot off in yo' ass!"
"I strongly advise you not to try that, sir."
Miles' customer came out her back door, and yelled at her neighbor to leave Miles alone. The man cussed some more, but made no move to come downstairs. Miles continued to the next MDU.
He found the wire he needed. There were no unused, undamaged ports on the tap, so he jumpered a splitter from the port already assigned to the apartment. He closed the box and went back inside.
His customer, an elderly Hispanic lady, apologized for the unpleasantness outside. She told him the pugnacious man on the balcony had been stealing cable, but recently had been caught and cut off. He was also jobless, and mad at the world.
When Miles was done, the lady asked him if he could fix her VCR in the living room. He wasn't required to do anything beyond what was on the work order, but he had a hard time ignoring the plight of the technically-challenged elderly. And her friendly demeanor compelled him all the more.
The machine was in sad shape. He suggested she might want to try a Digital Video Recorder, if she liked to schedule recordings in advance or watch one program while recording something different. Once he had explained what the DVR could do, she wanted it, and asked him if he had one in his van. He did have a spare, and stepped outside to fetch it.
I just made a sale, he realized. Theoretically, that should earn him another poker chip in Avcom's sales incentive program. In reality, only one in every dozen-or-so sales he made were properly processed and came back to him with a poker chip. Enough poker chips and the ardent salesperson won a vacation, a high-definition TV, or things like that. Being no salesman, and with most of his sales lost in the shuffle anyway, Miles figured out, shortly after the incentive program began, that he didn't have a chance at winning any prizes.
What the sale did win him, though, was a chance to talk with Shauna again.
He called Customer Service, and some creep answered the phone. But when he asked for Shauna, he got her.
At first she had trouble remembering who he was. It was only natural, with all the calls she probably took in a day. Still, he was disappointed. He wished he'd been as memorable to her as she was to him, hundreds of phone conversations or not. But he got her to laugh again, and that was every bit as pleasant the second time.
For hours after their conversation, the way she said "bye-bye" echoed in his mind. She said it while recovering from the end of her giggle fit, so it was almost breathless. It sounded especially sultry. Wow, did he love that woman's voice!
He finished his shift in time to make Frank's party that evening. Frank was a producer in Avcom's Marketing division. Most of the local Avcom commercials were edited by him. They met once when Frank's crew was shooting location footage at a residence, and experienced some equipment problems. Clutching at straws, Frank saw an Avcom van parked across the cul-de-sac and sought the technician on the desperate hope that he might have an idea how to get the camera working. Frank hit the jackpot that day, because the technician he found finishing up an install at the neighbor's ho
use was Miles. Miles fixed the problem, and the two of them hit it off as friends.
Frank threw parties almost monthly, and always invited Miles.
Frank answered the door himself, loud dance music and shouting voices pouring out into the street from behind him. He was buzzed, but not yet drunk, and pleased Miles had made it.
Frank was of average height, husky build, dark-haired, and dressed like a surfer. "Sha-na-na, Bowser!" he said, and they bumped fists. Frank often baffled people with his eccentric language, but didn't govern his speech or behavior according to societal norms or peer solidarity. He didn't have one conformist bone in his body, and Miles respected that.
"Let's get this party started," Miles said. "Where's the booze?"
"Fridge," Frank replied. "Kitchen table. Back patio. Coffee table. Bathrooms, too, I think. And the party never stopped, my friend."
Frank lived in a vintage ranch-style house in a young neighborhood where loud partying didn't seem to bother anyone. His furnishings were nice--picked out by one of his ex-girlfriends. He was a movie buff--posters and Hollywood memorabilia decorated his walls. Four other males were there, and seven females. Frank made serious efforts to ensure the ratio was always promising at his parties. And no married people were allowed.
Two couples danced in the back yard, where the enormous speakers blasted across the swimming pool. Other people milled about in various places. Frank introduced Miles to the people he didn't know, then asked him to fill in at the barbecue grill while he went to play host for a while. More people showed up, but the maleto-female ratio remained good.
Miles had mixed emotions about being stuck on grilling duty while good-looking women flaunted their charms and cried out their mating calls. On the one hand, he felt the same desires any natural man did. But he also recognized that every major bad decision he'd made in life had somehow involved a woman. His ex-wife was the biggest, and most obvious, bad decision. He tried not to blame her for his occupational follies, but there was no question that her big mouth caused the friction between he and his boss at Microware. It was also her nagging insistence to accept the temporary position with a government contractor which ensured that he was out of town when Avcom hired its last batch of plant engineers.
She latched onto him in college like a flea to a dog. The sex wasn't great, but it was freely offered, every single night. That ended abruptly after the honeymoon. Unfortunately, sex was far from the only reason the two didn't belong together.
But being trapped in a sexless marriage for years influenced more regrettable decisions he made afterwards. He was so happy to finally experience good sex, and even love, he thought, that he involved himself with another woman he really shouldn't have. He knew about her kids going in, but stupidly ignored all the potential complications arising from that. What he didn't know going in was that she was still legally married to another man. Those complications proved impossible to ignore. After that he dated sporadically, but broke and ran whenever it looked like a "relationship" was developing.
One of the attitudes Frank and Miles shared was an animosity for the institution of marriage. Both came from divorced parents, and their disillusionment was only amplified by their own experiences.
The guests gorged on chicken, burgers, fries, chips and a variety of alcohol. Once the grill closed down, the party really got started. The kickoff of the evening, as it always was at Frank's house, was a double-feature on the big-screen TV. Miles' cinematic IQ had improved substantially since meeting Frank. Frank usually started with a good film, then followed up with something funny, stupid or just plain bad that his guests could make fun of as they grew more drunk and obnoxious.
Tonight the first movie was Forbidden Planet, and the second was Texas Across the River. Miles knew the drill, and grabbed his seat early on the end of the couch near the pretzel bowl. By the time the opening credits finished, most everyone had found seats and were respectfully quiet. Rita sat next to Miles.
Just my luck, he thought. All these nubile young wenches at the party, and I'll be sitting next to Frank's neighbor for the next few hours.
Rita was in her late 30s or early 40s, with bleach-streaked black hair in a bob. When Frank had first introduced them at a previous party, Rita wore a severe expression as if she disliked Miles immediately. Once they had left her en route to the next introduction, Miles had whispered, "Isn't she a little old for our crowd?"
"She's got a body that rocks for any age," Frank whispered back. "And I think she might be a freak."
Miles wasn't sure about all that. She dressed in baggy clothes which concealed whatever kind of body she did have. Her neck and arms had a red tone, with big freckles, like she probably absorbed too much sun for her complexion.
Her expression tonight had lightened up somewhat from before, and he admitted that she was attractive. She smiled a couple times, at Frank's witty remarks, and it improved her comeliness substantially.
About halfway through Forbidden Planet, she turned to Miles and said, "I've never seen this one before. It's actually pretty good."
"Even the special effects have aged gracefully," Miles agreed, and drained the rest of his cup. She could be friendly, after all.
"What are you drinking?" she asked.
Miles set the cup down next to the pretzel bowl. "Jack and Coke." On screen, the comedy relief character arranged for the robot to brew some intergalactic moonshine.
Rita stood, excused herself, and sidestepped across his vision until unhindered by furniture and human appendages, then disappeared. Miles glanced around the room, hoping a younger, friendlier girl would take Rita's abandoned seat, but they all appeared comfortably settled. After a few minutes, Rita returned with two cups. She set one down in front of Miles.
"Brought you a refill," she said.
Miles stared in surprise at the drink, then at Rita. "Thanks. You didn't have to."
She shrugged and smiled. "You're not drinking your share. You've got to be primed for the next movie."
"You sound like a veteran of Frank's parties."
"I've been here for the last five," she said, pulling a cigarette and lighter out of her purse.
"Wow. I only remember you at two."
She nodded. "Frank says you work late a lot." She glanced around the room, sighed and put her cigarette away.
Miles nodded toward the sliding glass door and the pool patio beyond. "Your seat is probably safe if you want to sneak out for a minute."
"I don't want to miss any of the movie," she said.
They watched the rest of the film in relative silence. There was applause afterwards--a common ritual at these events.
Clutching her purse, Rita went to the glass doors and paused.
Miles stood and stretched in place. "Finally," he said, "you get your nicotine fix."
"Can you bring me a Kamikaze?" she asked. "I'll be right out here." She opened the door and stepped outside.
Miles did owe her one. He went to the kitchen, asked Frank how to mix a Kamikaze, and decided he might as well pour himself another Jack and Coke since he was playing bartender.
"I got it," Frank said, nudging Miles aside to mix Rita's drink himself. Then he lowered his voice conspiratorially to say, "What's up, Miles? Is my neighbor all up on your nuts over there?"
"I don't think so," Miles said, tasting his drink . "But she is being civil. When you first introduced her, I thought she wanted to spit on me or something."
"She strikes a lot of people that way," Frank said. "I think it's a defensive mechanism. She's not bad at all once you break the ice."
When he delivered her drink, it seemed the ice was broken. She made purposeful eye contact and touched his arm a lot while she spoke. She was divorced, with two grown kids now out on their own. She worked from home in her empty nest--medical billing or something like that.
They went back inside in time for the second movie, and regained their previous seats. Rita continued the occasional touching, whenever something funny took place,
on screen or off. Most of the entertainment took place off screen now, as the drunkenness infected the group as a whole. Like the dizzy blonde who tripped over the coffee table, overturning the bowl while attempting to break her fall, sending pretzels flying all over the room.
When the movie was done, the music resumed and most everyone still sober enough to walk migrated to the patio. As much as Miles enjoyed Frank's double features, he'd been looking forward to this all day. The air was finally cool outside, and even though he took a shower earlier, he wanted to immerse himself in water. He stripped down to his swimming trunks and slid into the pool.
The water was right around room temperature, and felt great. He fantasized about doing this when he crawled through attics.
He heard water splashing and opened his eyes. Other guests were following his lead.
Rita stood by the poolside with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She studied Miles with a smoldering look. "It's dangerous to get in the water when you've been drinking."
Miles shrugged. "So live dangerously." His feet were touching the bottom, and he had no intention of actually swimming, so drowning was a remote prospect.
"How's the water?" Rita asked.
"Not too hot; not too cold."
She put out her cigarette and set her drink on the patio table. She unbuttoned her pants and let them fall. Now she had Miles' attention, and everyone else's. She removed her blue vest and blouse.
As she pranced to the edge of the pool in her two-piece black bikini, it was obvious to everyone that she was not only in great shape for forty, she was in great shape for thirty or twenty, even. She dipped one leg into the water, down to her shapely calf, and hummed sensuously. "Mmm, this water is just right."
She lowered the rest of her fantastic body into the water. Miles noticed her hard nipples denting the fabric of her bikini top even before her firm, round breasts got wet.
Rita grimaced. "I forgot my drink." She smiled seductively at Miles. "Would you get it for me?"
The woman was radiating pheromones or something--the air was charged with sex. Buzzed from the alcohol and drunk on a hormone rush, Miles felt compelled to do as she asked. But first, he had to adjust himself. His erection pointed downward, which was painful, and would be conspicuous if he got out of the water. He reached down and pulled it upward into a less painful and hopefully less obvious position.
Overcoming Page 4