So my old pal Jimmy Eldridge, living alone and already at fair remove from the best of health, went ahead and fell down enough times to frighten his kids. They moved him to an old folks home.
Jimmy loves life at the Daliston Home on Scott Street. The people are great, the food is good, he’s happy as a clam.
He was looking forward to being able to hook up his cable TV so he could start watching ballgames again. The TV at his house over on South Spring Street had sprung a leak or blew a fuse or whatever it was the cable company didn’t think was sufficient reason to drive all the way to Ukiah to fix, which they proved repeatedly as the weeks dragged by
Daughter Lisa, who doesn’t live in Los Angeles but says she does because no one knows where Redondo Beach is, came to Ukiah to assist in her dad’s transition. She was put in charge of TV hookup duties. (Good luck, Lisa.)
Persuading cable TV to visit Ukiah to help with Jimmy’s woes on Scott Street would be no easier than when he was on Spring Street. But Lisa is that rare bird in the big flock of the rest of us who enjoys sinking her talons into the thin skin of whoever answers the 1-800 number she calls.
She launched a series of calls to unsuspecting receptionists, inquiring politely (for the first eight or ten seconds, anyway) about dad’s service. When receptionists say “Please Hold” it wounds you and me, but Lisa loves a challenge and after being on hold three hours remains undaunted, eager to continue locking horns and trading punches with the most experienced and creative of cable TV’s battalions of thwarters.
She is beyond tenacious. They brought in Relief Representatives to spell their wearied first responders, assured Lisa everything was all better and offered free upgrades. They promised to send a technician up to Ukiah in early 2026. And on and on.
And on. When I went over to greet Jimmy in his new home just around the corner from mine, Lisa was still grappling with her worthy opponents who continued to dodge, dissemble and deny resuming Jimmy’s TV service. They reluctantly agreed to instead send Lisa a snazzy canvas tote bag with ADELPHIA in fancy script.
Ever the problem solver, I suggested to Jimmy we go to my house tomorrow to watch the Giants play the Milwaukee Brewers. He lit up. It was all set. I’d grill something or other and we’d have front row box seats.
Less than 24 hours later Lisa and Jimmy were headed to the house. I had the charcoal going so I put on the sausages, turned on the ballgame, and was suddenly informed my cable TV subscription does not include the sports package, meaning it had dried up overnight and blown away.
They came through the door. I nodded at the screen. No TV. No game. I looked at Lisa and we exchanged puzzled looks before turning our collective gaze toward Jimmy, happily seated in the big recliner.
1) When Jimmy lived on Spring Street his TV went bonkers.
2) When Jimmy moved to Scott Street the TV didn’t work.
3) When Jimmy came to my house the TV committed suicide.
He was 0 for 3.
“I’m a jinx,” he grinned.
“A Mighty One Is He,” we murmured and agreed if Jimmy were to shuffle down the street televisions would blink off, one after another, until he got to the city limits.
Meanwhile, the semi-blank screen encouraged me to restart my cable relationship via a modest payment using the credit card of my choice. At Lisa’s urging I phoned, knowing my call to the 1-800 number would be very important to them.
This led to an hour talking to someone with a fair grasp of the English language. Lisa, who couldn’t help hearing the speaker phone conversation, kept making helpful suggestions like “Tell them your brother is a Hell’s Angel” and “Tell them you’re coming to Bangalore to set fire to Time-Warner headquarters.”
Finally the skies parted, the clouds lifted, they acknowledged the problem was theirs, the TV came on and it was the fourth inning. All was well.
Except for the lunch part. Remember those sausages? They’d been gently warming all afternoon at about 340 degrees. (No threat of trichinosis.) I put ‘em in buns and coated ‘em in ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, gravy, whipped cream and a little more ketchup.
My guests lied politely about the robust charcoal flavor tinged with subtle hints of Italian sausage, then busied themselves with coleslaw and potato chips.
From that point there was no end to the good news: A ninth inning comeback by the Giants and a final score of SF 4, Milwaukee 3.
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