Last week a box arrived from Xfinity, my cable company. I knew that it was coming as a young man that I spoke to on the phone about an unrelated manner a few days before told me that I was due for an up-grade of equipment and that he would put said equipment in the mail. I suggested that he back up a bit as I had a couple of questions first; a. was this equipment going to cost me any more that I was currently paying b. was I able to install it myself. He cheerily responded that it would not cost me any thing and that indeed, I could exchange the old cable box for the new one.
When the box arrived, I sat it in the corner of my bedroom for a few days gathering the courage to open it. With much trepidation, on the third day, I opened the box. Although other written materials were in the container, the boldly printed instruction card on the top had a “I, 2, 3” set of directions. The first line read, “If you have a coaxial cable …”. That was it. I closed the box for another three days. That evening in the elevator, I asked a pretty young Indian woman if she knew how to set of a cable box. (Ok. So I impulsively acted on a stereotype). Many of the young Indian men and women in my building, work for Comcast. The young woman and I exchanged apartment numbers and she said that she would ask her husband to contact me.
I waited a day or so, but no one contacted me about assembling the gizmo that sat staring at me the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. Nearly a week passed before I opened the box again and read past the first line. At the end of the instruction card, I began to think that I could remove the old cable box and install the new one.
In twenty minutes I had removed the old and put in the new. I pressed the “on” button and was met with the notice, “Not connected to cable”. Just what I expected from my non techy hands. After two phone calls in which two different technicians had me repeat all of the steps that I had taken independently, the company decided to send in a “cable guy”. Two days later, at 7 o’clock on a Saturday morning, Gustaph arrived.
The pleasant young man unplugged one cable, then plugged it back in. Before he removed the second cable, he uttered an immortal, “AH”. Next, from his tool kit, he pulled out an identical cable, removed the one that I had connected and put in the one from the tool kit. Then he said, (music to my ears) “They sent you the wrong cable. The cables look alike.”
There are few times in one’s life when not being wrong feels so much better than being right. This was one of them