My dad’s explaining over the phone that I’m looking for a black ceramic terminal on the floor joist in my basement. These are not words that I like. What is a terminal? Why are these wires not the colors that they should be? Why didn’t they finish the wiring in this house when they renovated it?
He’s explaining that if I can find the old wiring and the new wiring, I can strip the insulation and attatch the wires to the terminal and connect my own phone line! And finally have the internet somewhere other than on Milie’s windowsill (where we can faintly see someone else’s unsecured wireless; better at night).
Although I sort of appreciate the way Dad tells me this as though it is entirely within the realm of possibility, I am skeptical.
I shouldn’t have to wire this house that I’m renting, that is being overtaken by flies, I’m unemployed and can’t surf the internet want-ads, and I wish that my dentist hadn’t gotten anywhere near me with his stupid novocaine and his stupid fillings that increasingly cause me so much pain that I can’t finish a bowl of Cheerios.
So I go into a rage. An abstract, objectless rage.
And Milie and I finally get to the business of ripping the dead weeds out of our back patio. I fling things. And sweep with vigor. We discover a telephone box.
So 24 hours later, we’ve got the modem plugged directly into the box outside where the line from the telephone pole drops down. The wire snakes in through the kitchen window. It’ll work for now. Until we destroy it from closing and locking the window at night. So begins the process of dealing with the landlord’s maintenance man about what should already be done.
Also, the walls and ceiling are stained with fly guts. Milie says she enjoys that this is what I’m doing with my life right now. Killing flies. Well, that makes one of us.
Though seriously, food is so imoprtant to my wellbeing. I could deal with anything if it weren’t for the fact that I give up halfway through most meals because bread crust is no longer a soft food. Forget crackers. Or chips and salsa. Flies wouldn’t bother me so much if I weren’t imagining festering abscesses growing in the middle of my fillings out of the reach of Listerine. While I’m uninsured and can’t do anything about it but be hungry. And grumpy.