The TV

Excuse the formatting. I can't figure out the whole indenting thing here...!



THE TV


It’s too quiet. I have no TV. Well I have one, a new one to replace the one that broke, the one that's gone. But it’s in my car. Which does me no good. It’s been in there for a week. I’m lonely without my TV. There’s no noise. And nothing to distract me from myself.

When I was young, I had always been able to count on the TV to be home and provide me company when no one else was there. Now what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t even read without the TV on. I found myself calling people. Drinking wine. Taking baths and going to bed early. It was starting to depress me. People at work talked about American Idol, The Bachelor or Survivor and I couldn't join in. I felt out of it. Even though I didn't really like the shows, I did like being able to flip over to them and watch people get eliminated.

The first day without the TV was the hardest. Then I immersed myself in finding a replacement. I joined Consumer Reports. I researched the best TV for my needs. I read all the ads and found the best price for the model and make I wanted. Fry's has free delivery, Sears has a $20 rebate and Good Guys lets you buy one with no interest and no payments for 60 days. And it's open twenty-four hours. I didn't want to settle on just any old model, so it was taking me longer than expected. Until one night, faced with being home alone, I threw all my research to the wind, went to Good Guys and just bought one. Only at that moment, it didn't occur to me that instant credit approval and an instant purchase didn't equal instant gratification. At least not for something that weighs 105 pounds. For that you needed someone who weighed nearly twice that much to carry it upstairs for you. I was at a loss.

"Well, you could have it delivered tomorrow," the salesman suggested.
I could! I could have it delivered tomorrow, I think. I'm euphoric until I learn the delivery hours are 11:00am to 4:00pm. My face falls.
"What's wrong?" the salesman asks.
"I work during the day," I say.
"Don’t you have someone who can let the delivery men in?"
"No," I say, "I don't."
"No husband or boyfriend?" he asks.
"No."
"No roommate?"
"No."
"No neighbor?"
"No."
"No friend?"
"No."
"Then do you want to take it with you?" he asks.
I guess so," I say, "I mean, it does me no good sitting here."

So I took the TV home in my car. And now it does me no good sitting there. Not to mention, the salesman single-handedly made me feel the loneliest I've felt in years. That was until I tried to get someone to help me get the TV out of my car. That’s when I realized that all my single friends are busy. Dating. Working. Watching TV. My married girlfriends? Also busy. Taking care of husbands and babies and painting their white picket fences. Everyone else seems to be screening their calls. At least until the TV situation is dealt with.

I’m tempted to get an extra long extension cord and run it out into my garage, open the back of the car and set up a lawn chair in the alley. Instead, I go out and just look at it. Look at my TV. As if willing it to move itself upstairs would magically make it happen. Like that brother and sister who could move objects with their thoughts in "Escape to Witch Mountain."
As I'm standing there, giving it my all, Rodney, one of my neighbors pulls into his garage.

"How's it going?" he asks, getting out of his car.
"Oh, you know," I say.
"What are you looking at?" He hits his alarm.
"My TV."
"Doesn't it help if it's inside to do that?" he asks.
"Usually. But it's not as easy as it looks," I say, closing my garage door and heading back towards my apartment.
"How so?"
"Well you usually need help getting it there," I say, letting a sigh escape.
"Oh. Do you want some help?"
"That would be great!" I try to hide my enthusiasm but it's hard. I'm getting kind of desperate.
"Give me a second," he says, opening the door to his place "I just need to put on some tennis shoes."
"Take your time," I say happily.

I wait on his front mat. Smile through the screen door at his girlfriend- Jamie I think her name is - who's sitting on the couch watching TV. Access Hollywood. I can hear it. I like being able to hear it.

"What are you doing, honey?" she asks Rodney.
"I'm going to go help her move her TV," he answers.
"What?" she asks.
"She needs help getting her TV out of her car," he says again.
"You’re going to help her move a TV and you wouldn’t even help me do the dishes?" She stands up, as if to emphasize just how upset she is. But the tension in her voice, the volume of it more than does the trick. It drowns out what's happening with Jessica Simpson. And from the swell of the music, it sounds important.

"Jamie. Really," he says, opening the screen door and heading out. I step back to make room for him on the mat.
"What Jamie really? You’ll help some random single girl but you won’t help your own girlfriend?"
Random single girl? I think. Thinking then of the times I was friendly to her, wishing I could take them back.
Rodney stands on the mat a moment, holding the screen door open, seemingly thinking about what to do next.
"You know what? Forget it," he says finally," I won't help her."
He steps back inside and lets the screen door slam behind him.
"Good," she says and sits back down. Uses the remote to turn the volume up on the TV. I'm momentarily distracted, momentarily soothed by the noise until -
"Oh. So now you're happy?" Rodney says and opens the screen door again, "You know what? I am going to help her after all."
"Oh, no you're not," she says, lowering the volume as he steps out onto the mat.
"It’s not that important," I say, even though neither one of them is listening to me. And even though to me, it is important. Very important. I decide not to think about it. To listen to Nancy O'Dell instead. Although it would be a lot easier if Jamie would turn the volume up. I'm about to say something to that effect, but then the commercial break comes and I notice they’re quiet.

Rodney's eyes are locked on Jamie's and hers on his. It's a stand-off.
Too loudly some elderly man hawks diapers for incontinence. I start to back away. Think of how that man is really someone's brother or husband or father. And how embarrassing that must be for him. To loudly share such information.
When Rodney and Jamie start fighting again, I'm already safely esconced in my far too quiet apartment, alone- which I find welcoming for the first time in a very long time.
But it doesn't last.

I think "I just need something to look at" - but the magazines are old and the mail is all junk. So I turn on the stereo. But the music just merges together. I decide to do my dishes. I only have two coffee cups and a wine glass to wash before I’m done. I spot the to go container sitting on my counter. I pick it up and toss what’s left into the kitchen sink. I watch as the remains of a chinese chicken salad begin to be swallowed up by the drain. I turn on the garbage disposal. It makes noise, I realize. Angry noise. And I like it. So I go to the refrigerator and look inside for any fruit, any vegetables that have gone bad to toss down the hole. After I offer up a tomato, some wilted lettuce and a squash, the disposal makes a crunching noise, then a sad whir and finally, stops completely.
I'm back to the quiet. Again.

I turn on the stereo. Then think I should call my landlord to fix the disposal. He can't hear me. Because "my music is too loud," he says, "I didn't know you listen to your music so loud."
"I don't," I say and turn it down to appease him. He tells me a plumber will be by tomorrow morning to fix the problem. I tell him that I have to be at work at nine am and it's not that big of a deal. It can wait. He says no problem and he'll make sure the guys get there before I have to leave. I turn the music back up, relieved. Still wishing that I could see repeats and hear commercial interruptions.

Then, the phone rings. Worried it might be my landlord again, I turn the stereo off completely.
"Where are you?"
It's my friend Steve.
"Home," I say, "You just called me."
"Oh, yeah. Well, it's so quiet," he says.
"I know. I don't have a TV."
"Everybody has a TV."
Well, not everyone, it occurs to me. I once went on a date with a guy who took the insides out of an old TV set and used it to hold fruit. To me it was almost sacrilege. That was our only date. He had nothing to talk about and always seemed to want me to be the entertainment.
Well, I have a TV," I say to Steve, "but it's in my car."
"What's it doing there?" he asks.
"Long story, "I say. Even though it's not. "But I need help getting it into my place."
"Well why didn't you say so? I'll be over in fifteen minutes."
I hang up, stumped. That was easy. How was that so easy? There has to be a catch. There's always a catch. But no, fifteen minutes later there's a knock on my door. I open it to Steve.

"Hey, how's it going?" he asks, walking past me, looking around, pacing.
His eyes are wild. If he wasn't in AA, I'd think that he'd been using. Something.
"Why are you acting so strange?" I ask him.
"No reason," he says.
"Well, there has to be some reason," I say, "this isn't how you normally act."
"Well, it's just that ever since that party we went to, I can't stop thinking about you."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I just think about you. Your body. And being with you. And you know."
No. No, I don't. I'm wearing tattered sweats. I feel like I'm dressed all wrong for this kind of attention. I'm dressed for TV. And I'm dressed that way for a reason.
"Can I kiss you?" he says.
"What?"
"Can I kiss you? Maybe if I kiss you I'll get it out of my system. Get you out of my system."

I look at him a moment. Think that maybe if I humor him, he'll remember why he came over in the first place. Doesn't he notice the quiet? Doesn’t he miss the TV?
Okay," I say finally, thinking kissing is harmless.
He goes in. He's all tongue, darting against my lips, and my teeth and he's down my throat. It's not even remotely enjoyable. And not something I want to do again. Which is kind of a shame, because he's really cute. I had completely forgotten about that part. Just like I had forgotten about what it was like to be kissed. I pull away, worried I might get impulsive and settle, just like I did with the TV. And look where that got me.
"Better?" I ask.
"No," he says, truly pained, "Now it's even worse."
I look at him and sigh.
"Steve, we've known each other for seven years," I say, "What happened? Why now?"
"I don't know," he says, "I just want to sleep with you so bad I can't stand it. That's all I keep thinking about."
"Come on. Be serious," I say.
"I am. I can't help it," he looks at me pleading, "Let's just have sex."
"Jesus Christ," I say, because I don't know what to do just yet.

I think about how long it's been. I think about how I haven't shaved. Anywhere. Then about how few guy friends I have left because of things like this. Times like this. First there was Gary, then Karl, Matt, and finally Dave. All strong guys who would have been very helpful right about now. And they're nowhere to be found. So I think I shouldn't do anything with him. Even though I wouldn't mind waking up next to someone for a change. Dating someone for a change. Then I remember that Steve doesn't want that. It isn't about that with him. He just wants sex. And I want companionship that lasts. I want a TV.
"Steve, go," I say.
"Come on..."
"I'm serious," I say.
"Okay, I'll go. But only if you'll please just think about it," he says.
"Sure. Sure I will," nudging him out the door.
"I'm serious," he says.
"I know."
"Promise?"
"I promise," I say, locking the deadbolt behind him.
"Don't forget," he says from outside the door.
I won't," I call back from inside, as I sink into the couch and stare at the hole where my TV belongs.
Great, I think. Now not only do I have to figure out how to get the TV out of my car, I also have to figure out what I’m going to do about Steve.


"I wish I could help you," my friend Jennifer says the next night when I tell her what's happened.
"Don't worry about it," I say. Her back is out, so she's housebound. That's why she actually called me back. She can't move anything. Including herself.
"Do you want to come over to my place and watch TV on the big screen?" Jennifer asks.
"I can't. I'm waiting for Husband-for-Hire," I say, "you know, to help me move the TV."
"How cute that you named him that," she says.
"I didn't. That's the name of the company," I say.
"Sure it is," Jennifer says.
"It's true. His real name is Hans or Franz or something like that," I tell her, "He's supposed to help me hang things. At least that's what I told him. But I really want to see if I can get him to help me move the TV."
I didn't want to tell him about my true objective, about the TV because I thought it might jinx it. That he might not show up. I look at my watch. He was supposed to be here forty-five minutes ago. I get off the phone with Jennifer to call him and find out where he is.
He answers on the third ring.

"Oh, sorry," he says, "I had another job and it looks like I'm going to be working later than I expected."
"Oh," I say, not understanding why he didn't call.
"I suppose I could come by tomorrow," he says.
"I want it done today, " I say. You said you'd do it today."
"I know, I'm sorry. I didn't know this other job was going to take so long," he says.
"I just don't understand why you didn't call earlier," I say, "I've been sitting here waiting for you."
"I'm sorry. I just forgot," he explains again, "Don't be mad."
But I am. I am mad. If you can't count on a Husband-for-Hire, who can you count on? I tell him to forget it. I'll figure something else out. I refuse to pay him for disappointment when I can get it for free.


In the morning, I decide to give up. I decide to return the TV. I don't want it in my car anymore. It's like living with someone you broke up with - someone you can't have. It's too painful. And I'm just not that strong. It's driving me over the edge.
There's a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" I ask. Even though it's morning, I'm worried it might be Steve.
"Plumber," a male voice says through the door.
"Oh."
I unlock the deadbolt and let him.
"How are you?" he asks.
"Terrible," I say, already processing my loss, "I have no TV."
"Oh. Well, you know Good Guys lets you buy one with no interest and no payments for 60 days."
"I know, " I say, "That's where I got mine."
"Oh," he looks confused, "Then what's wrong?"
"It’s in my car."
"Oh. Well why don’t you get a friend to help you move it?"
"There’s no one," I say. I’ve tried. Believe me."
"We’ve all been there," he says, lugging his tools into the kitchen.

It takes him and the other plumber, a small guy who shows up a little later, awhile to extricate the squash from the blades of the disposal. Next they pull out an orange, at least a mangled part of one. They hold it up, but don't say a word, rather confer for a moment before the big one makes a statement of it: We’ll help you get the TV out of your car.
I stare at him in disbelief.
"You will? Are you sure?"
I’m so grateful I don’t know what to do with myself.
"It’s in my garage. It’s just downstairs."

I practically vault out of the apartment and down the stairs. The two of them follow me as I open the door to the garage. Then I see it. The garage door is halfway open. The light inside, blinking. I slowly make my way inside. The window in the back of the car is shattered and the TV, gone.

"Man, sorry about that," the small one says. The late one.
"It's not your fault," I say, then "Hey, at least now it's out of my car, right?"
I force a laugh.
"It's good you have a sense of humor about it," the big one says.
"Yeah, well it's not like I have much of a choice."

The next morning as I'm heading to work, I see my neighbor Rodney's girlfriend moving a bunch of stuff out of their apartment. She struggles with a table trying to get it through the front door. But it's stuck. I'm about to walk past her, out of spite, but she looks up. She looks sad.
Before I can stop myself, I’m putting down my purse and offering, "Do you want some help with that?"

"Sure. That would be great," she says, letting a sigh escape.
I grab the outside edge and together we maneuver it through the doorway.
"Moving sucks," I say.
"Yeah, it does."
"Where are you guys moving to?" I ask, as we continue down the walk, towards the street.
"Not him. Me," she says.
"Oh," I say.

I help her lift the table into the trunk of her car and then I turn to leave.
"Thanks," she calls after me.
But I don't say anything to her, I just keep walking, thankful that she'll be gone. I think then that Good Guys is open. That I should go get another TV. And with her gone, Rodney's girlfriend gone, I think, suddenly excited-- I'll bet I could get him to help me move it. I bet he'd pick up the other end.