I waited all day for AT&T to come install a phone jack. The apartment was rehabbed almost a decade ago and the phone connections were walled over. AT&T had already been out to look things over but the first guy they sent was inexperienced and tentative. Today promised to be different. An hour and a half on the late side of the four hour service window, the door buzzed. I put my running shoes and pants on to answer the bell. The tech meant business; he was wearing his phone business belt and heavy black phone shoes. I showed him my phone jack-less apartment, the basement phone box, the thick strand of phone lines snaked up into the ceiling, and told him of my conversation with Jim, of the grey ponytail. Jim lives directly above me and has a phone line. In fact, Jim has AT&T DSL, which may in fact, be the DSL that allows me to write this post. I told AT&T on the phone and now in person that I thought the first guy had been tentative. The tech promised today would be different, no problems. We may need to go in there, he said, and motioned at the locked boiler room. There are always solutions, he said, and left the basement. I stayed and removed the screws to the lock on the boiler room door. The next time I saw him his truck was parked at the far end of the block, and he was up on the ladder, inspecting phone lines and phone boxes up there. He looked so small. He got into his truck and drove towards me. Its no good, he said. The thick line that runs from the pole to my building has about twenty five phone lines in it, and there’s a problem with my line. It may be cut or old. We need a line specialist out here, he told me. I nodded and with total determination reiterated my pledge to make phone internet happen here, no matter what, however long it takes, because I will not do business with the cable company that shall remain nameless. And in the meantime I have free internet.
I have been making circular paths around the neighborhood, like an animal in new territory. The sign pictured above is from a huge pool hall around the corner, called the Golden Cue. The other side of the sign says, “We Have Smooth Shafts and Clean Balls.” I ate at a taqueria where all the menu items have soccer names. I was alone, and the waitress presented me with chips and salsa. The salsa was salty and had little pink bits in it. I will take a torta, I demanded, with whatever that is in that salsa. Well, those turned out to be little pieces of pigs. It was an animal salsa, and soon, before I even knew it, I was eating an animal torta. Sliced ham and chorizo, grilled pineapple and avocado. With a belly full of dead animal, I tried on stained denim jackets at Village Discount. Later, I went joyriding and sucked down my second Shamrock Shake in twenty four hours.
oh, no. go, bear, but not toward piggies with hungry eyes.