Last week, I told you about the loss of my Internet and how, after a week of waiting, the technician from the satellite-dish company finally arrived to troubleshoot and hopefully restore it to working condition, mainly to save my hair…because I was tearing it out by the roots at that point
However,
I just had received a voice mail from my Internet provider saying their
technician wouldn’t be able to make it and the appointment would have to be
rescheduled. So who, I wondered, was this guy standing on my doorstep? Some
imposter trying to invade my home and steal my valuables, like my jewelry box
filled with treasured pieces from Walmart’s couture
collection?
So, as I
eyed him suspiciously, I asked who he was.
He told
me his name and said he actually worked for DirecTV, but he moonlighted for
other satellite-dish providers, and had received a call to head to my house
ASAP because it was an emergency.
It
sounded plausible to me. Plus that, I was desperate. I probably would have
allowed a guy wearing prison orange and carrying a toddler’s “my first
tool-kit” to enter my house at that moment if I thought he could get my Internet
working again.
The guy
came inside, took one look at my modem and said, “That’s so old, I don’t even
know how to check it out. The new ones, I just use an app and it tells me
what’s wrong. Yours isn’t even Wi-fi, which means I’ll have to check it out manually.”
He
emphasized the word “manually” as if he thought my modem contained some highly
infectious disease.
When he pulled
out his phone and called his supervisor for instructions, I began to sense I
might be in trouble.
He then used
my laptop to punch in a bunch of stuff, pull up a chart and study it. “You’re not getting a signal,” he said, frowning, as if he were telling me something I
didn’t already know. “Is there a way for me to get out back so I can check out the
dish?”
Actually,
there really wasn’t…because I hadn’t shoveled the snow away from any of the
gates leading out to the backyard. I’d already worked hard enough shoveling out the front, just so he
could get into my house. Then I remembered the big overhead door at the back of
the garage. My husband had insisted that the back door be as large as the front
ones so he could buy a riding mower, tractor, bulldozer, or whatever, and drive it right
out back into the yard. As far as I knew, the door had been used only once in
15 years.
So I led
the guy out back through the garage. He stood outside in shin-deep snow and with
his hands on his hips, gazed up at the satellite dish on the peak of the roof.
“No
place to safely set my ladder down so I can climb up there,” he said, casting
me a “why didn’t you shovel out every inch of snow surrounding your house, so
no matter where I chose to put my ladder, I would be safe?” kind of look.
But I
did recall the last time one of the technicians had been over and said he
wasn’t allowed to climb on the roof unless he had a partner with him, for
safety reasons. This guy, however, didn’t seem to care.
“I’ll
get the ladder and see what I can do,” he said.
I stood
there, praying he was insured. The roof still was buried under about eight inches
of snow. Not a great place for him to go for a stroll. And this guy wasn’t
exactly petite or possessed a svelte, gymnast’s sort of physique – more like a
linebacker’s.
He
returned with the ladder, put it up against the side of the house, and then set
foot on the first rung. The ladder wobbled.
“I’ll
hold it for you,” I immediately volunteered, mentally calculating when I’d last
paid my homeowner’s insurance-premium.
When I moved
in to hold the ladder and looked up, I was treated to a close-up view of a
full moon. I’m talking about what’s more commonly known as “plumber’s crack” or
“builder’s bum,” as his pants slid down to about mid-cheek as he climbed. I honestly had to
bite my lip to keep from laughing…and involuntarily shaking the ladder.
Once he
was up near the satellite dish, I noticed his legs were trembling…badly. It made
me hold my breath and pray…a lot. He managed to change the transceiver on the
front of the dish, then climbed back down. By then, I was pretty sure my hands
were permanently frozen to the aluminum on the ladder.
Then back
into the house we went to check the signal, of which there still was none.
He
scratched his chin and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Let me check the
cables,” he said.
At least
those were at the front of the house…where I had shoveled.
Unfortunately,
because I also have DirecTV, and a second satellite dish, there were cables
merging everywhere. I wasn’t too concerned, however, because hadn’t this guy just
said he worked for DirecTV? Certainly he’d know which cable was which, right?
Wrong.
As he
pulled and jiggled four different cables, he asked me to go back inside and
shout out to him when my TV went off.
Years
seemed to pass before the guy finally admitted defeat, said he couldn’t figure out
what was wrong and told me to call the company and request a new modem – a high-speed
one with built-in Wi-fi. He said they would send over another technician to
install it, and by then, the snow probably all would be melted, so things
would be easier for him.
The fact
he’d hinted that the spring thaw might arrive before the next technician did,
didn’t exactly fill me with a burst of confidence about getting my Internet restored anytime soon. I got the distinct
impression the modem wasn’t something the technicians routinely carried around
with them in their repair trucks – which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, especially
since this guy did bring a new transceiver with him. That would be like a
plumber showing up with something like a fancy new toilet, but no plunger or snake.
But none
of it really mattered anyway because the sad truth was I still was stuck with a
non-working Internet.
In the
blink of an eye, the guy was gone. He left the heavy overhead back-door in the
garage wide open, as well as the front door to my house. He left my sofa, which
contains two one-ton recliners, pulled away from the wall (the cable comes up
from the basement through a hole cut in the floor behind the sofa, for reasons
I’ve yet to figure out). He left tracks of wet snow, mud and road salt all over
my floors and carpet, and even behind the sofa.
The guy obviously intended to give me a hernia.
I
restored the house and garage to some semblance of order before I picked up the
phone and called the satellite/Internet provider. To be honest, I’d rather have
been getting my armpits waxed than making that phone call because I already
knew what to expect…endless time spent listening to recorded music that sounded
like something kindergarten students had learned to play on toy pianos, and then
finally speaking to a technical-support person with such a heavy accent, I’d be lucky to
decipher every fourth or fifth word.
I was
right.
The guy
who answered won the award for having the thickest Indian accent yet. Not only
couldn’t I understand him, he seemed to have as much trouble understanding me.
When he asked me to verify my phone number, he couldn’t comprehend what “zero”
meant. So I tried just saying the letter O. That didn’t work either.
Finally,
I just blurted out, “I need to order a new high-speed modem with built-in Wi-fi.”
He took
a moment to look at my file, then said, “First, you have to cancel your appointment
with us.”
I
thought I’d misunderstood him, so I asked him to repeat it. He said the same
thing.
“Um, I
don’t have an appointment with you,” I said.
“Yes,
this morning. You have to cancel it.”
“But I
already had the appointment. The technician was here all morning and just
left a few minutes ago.”
“No, no
one reported to us that they went to your house.”
“Then
how would I know I’m supposed to order a new modem?”
Once
again, I wondered exactly who the guy was who’d come to my house.
“You
must cancel the appointment,” the man on the phone once again emphasized.
By then,
I was so confused, I felt as if I’d just entered the Twilight Zone.
“I don’t
understand,” was all I said. Because, well, I didn’t.
He
repeated the statement for the umpteenth time, his voice growing louder and with
more emphatic enunciation (as if that would help). Clearly he was becoming
irritated.
“I’m sorry, but I'm still confused,” I said. “You're not making any sense to me.”
My
response was a dial tone.
It
dawned on me he must have decided I had violated the company’s zero-tolerance
policy regarding any rudeness toward its employees, which gave him the
authority to end our call as abruptly as he saw fit. At that point, I was happy
my two dogs were the only witnesses to the colorful language I was muttering.
Had I
been a drinking woman, I’d have taken a big swig of something 100-proof to
gather some liquid courage before I called the company again. Never had I
dreaded anything more...especially if I ended up being connected to the same technical-support guy.
To my
relief, a woman answered, and her accent was mild. She explained to me that
canceling the appointment was just a formality so I wouldn’t be charged the $95
for the service call, mainly because the technician had failed to solve the
problem with my Internet.
Sounded
good to me. Now why couldn’t the guy who’d just hung on me have explained it
that way?
She also
said she would order the new modem for me.
“When
will the technician be over to install it?” I asked.
“No one
will be over to install it,” she said. “It will be delivered to you with
instructions so you can install it yourself.”
“Me? You want me to do it? Are you sure?”
“Yes, Ma'am.
But first, you have to switch over to our higher-priced monthly package. Your
new modem will require the updated package. And once you switch, none of your
previous discounts will apply any longer.”
My mouth
fell open. Three weeks earlier, I’d just negotiated with them to reduce my
monthly bill from $86 to $60, while also allowing me 20-percent more gigabytes
per month. And I was very proud of myself for that accomplishment. Now all of it was gone? I
hadn’t even seen the lower price on my bill yet, it still was so fresh.
“That’s
not fair,” I said, making sure my tone remained calm and even. “You promised me
a loyalty discount and now you’re taking it away just because a piece of your
equipment failed? I’m being punished for something beyond my control?”
Silence
followed, which made me think I’d done it again. I’d, heaven forbid, spoken
rudely to an employee.
But then
she responded.
“I will
approve another discount for you,” she said. “Call me back after you successfully have installed the modem and then I will activate the lower price. Until then,
however, you still will have to pay the regular rate.”
I didn’t
like the sound of that, especially the "successfully" installed part, considering my past experience with anything electronic. “How long will it take to receive the modem?” I dared
to ask.
“A week
to 10 days.”
I had to
clench every muscle in my body to prevent myself from saying something that
might cause her to hang up on me, such as “How would YOU like to wait another
week to 10 days for YOUR Internet service to return? And I’m not going to pay
you a cent! I haven’t had any service since February, so what are you charging
me for? Air?” But I kept silent.
And it
nearly killed me.
So I
have no choice now, other than to impatiently sit here and wait for the new modem to
arrive. And all the while, I’ll be wondering just how badly I’m going to mess
up the installation…and who will discover my body, tangled in a mass of cords
and cables, lying on the floor...behind the sofa.
Next week, I’ll continue this saga...I hope!
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