It's all a plot!

That's right.  You heard it here first, folks.  It's all a plot by my television cable company to bilk more money out of poor unemployed me.

Here's the deal.  I went on vacation for ten days.  (Is it called vacation when you're unemployed?)  Anyway, I left town for ten whole days, and there was nobody at home to turn on my television set.

On day eleven, I arrived home, turned on the set, and the following message appeared:  “Your cable connection no longer functions.  Have a day.”

Have a day?  “You have a day!” I shrieked as I tried another Channel.  And another.  And another after that.  With the exception of Channel 38, all 150 stations displayed the same disturbing “Have a day” message.  What did it all mean?

For those of you who don't subscribe to the same cable service as me, let me explain that Channel 38 is The Learning Channel.  The Learning Channel informed me that if I bothered to flip through 150 Channels and read the same message 149 times, then I was in serious need of professional help.  And by the way, I needed to call the cable company pronto. 

Left with no other choice, I called the cable company and complained about the 150 messages.  After telling me that I obviously needed a life, they said that my cable box must have broken and I would need a new one. 

“The new one is really cool,” the cable representative assured me.  “You'll get over 200 Channels and improved reception.  This service will only cost you an extra $45.00 a month.”

“I don't want a brand new service!  I don't want fifty new Channels.  Give me my old service at my old price!”

Poor cable representative lady.  I wonder how much it will cost her to replace her eardrums.  Do they even make artificial eardrums?

“We can give you your old service at a new price,” she offered.  “For mere addition of $45.00 a month...”

“How come this happened while I was away?”  I demanded.  “It's a plot, isn't it?  You monitor the sets for usage and then you break the cable box when the set isn't used for a few days!”

“Of course we don't have any such plot,” she protested.

“ARGH!”

The cable lady and I went round and round in circles, and I even spoke to her manager and his manager and to his manager's manager.  The conversation got more and more convoluted until I couldn't stand it anymore. 

“Just send somebody!”

They promised that somebody would arrive at my house sometime between now and next Thursday.  This is one of those times when it pays not to have a job so you can sit home and wait for the cable people.

I hung up and dialed my friend Julie.

“It's a funny thing,” Julie remarked.  “I went away for a week last month, and when I got home, my cable box had broken.”

“It's a plot!” we both agreed.

Then I called up my friend Raymond and repeated my rant.  Raymond had a similar tale of woe.

“The same thing happened to me when I went away for two weeks.”

“It's a plot, I tell you!”

I asked Raymond how he liked his new cable box, and all he said was, “Remind me how big of a living room you've got.”

“Are you saying that it might not fit on top of my VCR?”

“I'm saying you might need to rent another place.”

If anybody else had given me that warning, I would have taken him very seriously.  But you can't trust anything Raymond says or does.  The last time I went to dinner with Raymond and a bunch of friends, we were having this nice normal meal when Raymond just erupted into these “Whoop” noises that sounded like a fire alarm.  Everybody in the restaurant immediately shut up and ran for the exit.  Except for our table, of course.  We burst into laughter as the food spurted out our noses.  Considering that the guest of honor at our table had just recovered from emergency heart surgery, we probably should have behaved in a more socially acceptable manner.  But Raymond always managed to lead us astray.

So where was I?  Oh yeah.  Don't trust anything Raymond does, and try not to lose your mind while waiting for the cable man.

Three days later the cable man arrived, complete with a cable box that easily outweighed me.

“This will give you better reception than you've ever had,” the man promised as he handed me a remote that looked like a control panel for a nuclear reactor.  I should know.  I grew up next door to a nuclear reactor that was a mere three minutes away from a meltdown.  But that's another story.  For now, it was my turn to be three minutes away from a meltdown.

When I asked for the instruction manual, he told me that it didn't come with one.  “Just turn to Channel 999,” he assured me.  “We run a continuous 'How to use your remote' program.”

“Why isn't it Channel 666?”  I deadpanned.

He didn't like my sense of humor, and I didn't like his bad breath so we were even.

The moment he left, I turned on my TV and tried my hand at my new remote.

“I hate you!”  I shook my fist at my new cable box. 

First of all, each time you switch a Channel, the stupid picture has to recompose itself.  For those of you who have never experienced this phenomenon, there's no way I can clearly describe it in words.  Suffice to say, during this recomposition stage, the sound goes off and the picture forms a series of blocks. 

You think you're safe when the sound starts again and the picture looks normal, but oh no.  Then all this stuff has to appear across the middle of the screen.  On the left hand side there's a message that says “Buy Product X.”  On the right hand side, you see what Channel and what program you're watching.  The message disappears after 25 seconds, but try missing 25 seconds of Silence of the Lambs and you can get quite aggravated.

So there I am, flicking through stations and recomposing every minute and watching “Buy my nose hair clipper” ads as they hide the image of the television program.  I wondered how my blood pressure was doing.

“Okay, you win!” I shrieked as I punched in 999.  The screen went blank.

“Curse you!”  I jumped up and down and bared my teeth.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” my blank TV screen announced.  “We do apologize, but today's showing of  'How to use your remote' will not be seen today.”

“Typical,” I groused as I punched in another Channel. 

Nothing happened.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

“Okay, you've had your three chances!” I crowed. 

Without hesitating, I lobbed the remote across my living room.  As I had figured, the device crashed into a sculpture of a squirrel, a masterpiece I had created in the third grade and have been abusing ever since.

“And now for our program.  George Today.”

“UGH!”  I slapped my hands in front of my eyes, but not quick enough to miss the “Buy our heavenly soap and smell like an angel” ad that flashed across the screen.

“Please, please, please tell me that this isn't going to be the life story of George Bush, Senior or Junior.  And not George Washington.  Every single year my elementary school took us to Valley Forge.  How many times can you look at the life-sized representation of George Washington's white horse?”

“Let me tell ya about Heaven,” a voice sang from my TV.

“Hey!”  I perked up.  “Could that be...”

I gaped at my television.  “When was this made?” I wondered.  There was George Harrison, looking like he did around 1967, with a shaggy Beatle haircut and a droopy mustache.  He wore a flowing white shirt, white pants, and white sandals.  George sat crossed legged as he strummed a white guitar.

“Can't wait to meet ya in Heaven...”  George grinned as he sang.

“What?  When did you write this?” I demanded of the television image.  Immediately, not to mention simultaneously, I jumped on the Internet, grabbed my CD collection, and got on the phone to my Beatle pal, Cheryl. 

“Cheryl!” I screamed all the way to Las Vegas.  “Cheryl, when did George write a song about Heaven?  Not the ‘breath away from Heaven,’ but the ‘let me tell ya about the topic’?  Are you watching this?”

“What are you talking about?” Cheryl screamed back.  I cheered silently as I heard her booting up her PC.  Ha, got your attention, didn't I?

“Channel 999!” I shrieked.  “It's called George Today.  Which 'Today' do they mean, anyway?  I don't have this on any of my CDs.  Why isn't it showing up in any of my Internet searches?”

“Channel 999?  There's no such thing out here.  What other Channel could it be?”

“I don't know!”  I shrieked.  “Try anything.  Try finding the station that tells you how to use your remote.  Try 666.  Try anything, and call me back!!!!!”

“Okay, but...”

“Sorry Cheryl, no time to waste.”  I slammed the phone down, and then dialed Julie, the most normal person I know.  I always call Julie whenever I need a sanity check.  Not to mention that she lives in my home town, so it's likely that she has the same Channel 999.

“Julie, quick, turn on Channel 999!”

“Who is this?”

“Julie, just do it!”

“But the stove just caught fire and...”

“It's a George Emergency!”  I exploded.  “The fire can wait.”

Although she's more into The Boss than George, Julie knows that a full-blown George Emergency means that she must drop everything immediately, even if the house is on fire.  As it was when I called. 

I heard Julie stumbling about her apartment and cursing and she searched for her remote.  Then I heard her stumbling and cursing again as she tried to remember where she had thrown the telephone.

“Okay, I'm watching Channel 999.”

“Describe to me exactly what you see.”

“I see a woman showing how to order a pay per view porn station.  What does that have to do with George?”

“Julie, you're obviously not on Channel 999.  Check again.”

I never before realized just how many curse words Julie knew as she once again stumbled to and fro in her apartment.  “I am watching Channel 999.  And the fire is spreading across my counter top.  I'm hanging up now.”

“Julie!!!!!!”

Darn.  Time to bite the bullet and call Raymond, my completely unreliable, unpredictable, and un George loving friend.  Well, this was an emergency.  When did George ever dance around with Linda McCartney?  But that's what he was doing up on my television screen!

While Julie was the type of person who could handle me calling up and starting a conversation in the middle, Raymond needed you to stay calm and gently guide him to where you wanted to go.  And believe me, I was having an awfully hard time staying calm as I watched George play a harp.  Did I miss something in my Beatle education?

“Hi Raymond.”

I squinted at my television.  Is that Brian Epstein in the background?  I wracked my brain as I tried to think up an excuse to get Raymond to turn to Channel 999.

“Watcha doing, today, Raymond?”

“I'm supposed to be out on a date,” Raymond confided.  “But I can't decide whether I want to go.”

“Who is she?” 

“I don't know.  I called an ad in the newspaper.  She sounded okay in the ad, but I didn't like what she had to say over the phone.”

On my television screen, George stopped strumming and grinned at the camera.  “Tell him to take a chance!”

“What?!!!!!” I shrieked.

“You don't need to shout,” Raymond shouted.  “Who are you shouting to?”

“My TV,” I whispered.  “My TV just talked to me.”

“Oh,” Raymond whispered back.  “What did you TV say?”

“Maybe you should turn on Channel 999 and see if your TV talks to you.”

“Only if it will tell me what to do about this date.”

I gulped as George looked into the camera.  Was he watching me, or was that one really weird coincidence?

“Ah, Raymond, just tell me what you see on your television.”

“Okay, my television is on,” Raymond announced.  “I don't believe it!”  Raymond yelped.  “You'll never guess who's on TV!”

Sweat broke out across my forehead.  “Who?”

“This guy who used to go to my high school.  He's showing how to use your remote control.  How did you know my friend was on TV?”

I sank into my chair.  On screen, George shrugged and said, “Sorry, I'm new at this.  Anyway, tell your friend to go on the date.  It's not nice to leave a lady waiting.”

“Go on your date, Raymond,” I whispered.  “It's better than watching your high school chum's program.”

“Okay, I'll let you know how it goes.”

I hung up the phone and stared at George.  He winked.

What a stupid time for me to faint.

I don't know how long I slept, but I awoke to the sounds of a woman urging me to try pressing the Control Button now.

“Where's George?”  I demanded.  “And for that matter, where's my remote?”

As the smiling hostess drooled over the new cable box features, I picked my broken squirrel off the floor, retrieved my remote, and faced the telly.

“Fine.  If you won't tell me what happened to George, I'll just have to zap you!”

And with that, I zipped on over to Channel 666.

I growled as Channel 666 took its sweet time recompositioning itself.  “Our devil's food cake is so delicious that you won't feel any guilt when we tell you how many calories are in it.”

The blankety blank ad was so long that it covered over the message that told me what program I was watching.

By the time I finished cursing the new cable box, the ad had disappeared and I could see entire image on the screen.  The man in black pointed an accusing finger at me.

“Hey you!  Yeah, you, little miss no life.  What are you doing home watching telly?  Why don't you go out on the town with your friend, Raymond?  He stood up his date, you know.  I think he'd much rather do something with you.  Give him a call, then.”

My voice trembled.  “I think Raymond would rather....”

“Get off your duff and give him a call!  Then look me up and tell me how it goes.”

I gulped.  “Okay, John.  Thanks for the advice.  Um, do you happen to know where George went?”

Lennon snorted.  “He went to the movies with Mo.  He's always doing that.  You'd think he'd find a more productive way to spend his time.”

I blinked.  “Do you have movies there?  For that matter, are you and George in the same place, if you know what I mean?”

John rolled his eyes.  “Quit wasting time!  Call Raymond before he finds something else to do.”

And with that, my screen went blank. 

Right.  I listened for the satisfying crash of the remote hitting the ceramic squirrel.  Then I picked up my phone and dialed Cheryl's area code.

“Hey!”  Lennon's voice shot out of my phone.  “You'll be talking all night long with her and missing your big chance.”

“Right!”  I hung up and dialed again.

“Hi Raymond.  Rumor has it that you cancelled your date.”

“Yeah, I'm going over to Julie's.  She wants me to help her throw stuff out the window before the firemen get there.”

“Oh.  Sounds, like, uh an interesting plan.  I'll come help, too.”

“Thanks, but make sure that you don't bring your friend George along.”

“George who?”

“How should I know, he's your friend!  Julie said George caused the fire to get out of hand.”

I nodded.  “In a warped sort of way, I suppose that it's true.  Hey Raymond, if you're not doing anything after the fire, you want to go for a bite?”

“And a movie,” Raymond added. 

My television flashed on just long enough for George and John to give me the thumbs up.

Lisha Goldberg is a freelance writer and editor. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.