I can’t tell you about a
specific day as a cable tech. I can’t tell you my first customer was a cat
hoarder. I can tell you the details, sure. That I smeared Vicks on my lip to
try to cover the stench of rugs and walls and upholstery soaked in cat piss. That
I wore booties, not to protect the carpets from the mud on my boots but to keep
the cat piss off my soles. I can tell you the problem with her cable service
was that her cats chewed through the wiring. That I had to move a mummified cat
behind the television to replace the jumper. That ammonia seeped into the
polyester fibers of my itchy blue uniform, clung to the sweat in my hair. That
the smell stuck to me through the next job.
But what was the next
job? This is the stuff I can’t remember — how a particular day unfolded. Maybe
the next job was the Great Falls, Virginia, housewife who answered the door in
some black skimpy thing I never really saw because I work very hard at eye contact
when faced with out-of-context nudity. She was expecting a man. I’m a 6-foot
lesbian. If I showed up at your door in a uniform with my hair cut in what’s
known to barbers as the International Lesbian Option No. 2, you might mistake
me for a man. Everyone does. She was rare in that she realized I’m a woman. We
laughed about it. She found a robe while I replaced her cable box. She asked if
I needed to use a bathroom, and I loved her.
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