Cable Kings and Things That Unspool

The **cable** company van smelled like stale coffee and Ryan's dad's cologne as we pulled up to Mrs. Henderson's house — our first "real job," capital R, capital J. She'd posted on the neighborhood Facebook page about her internet being slower than dial-up circa 2003, and somehow we'd volunteered to fix it.

"You got this, bro," Ryan said, though he looked like he was about to throw up. "Just don't touch anything red." Helpful. Thanks, genius.

Mrs. Henderson's **dog**, a golden retriever named Buster who looked like he'd been through literally everything, immediately decided I was his new best friend. He followed me everywhere, including into the cramped space under her desk where I was trying not to electrocute myself.

"Is it fixed yet?" Mrs. Henderson called from somewhere. "I need to finish my crossword!"

"Almost!" I yelled back. What I meant was: I have absolutely zero clue what I'm doing. The **water** bottle in my backpack had leaked somehow — everything inside was damp, my phone screen was foggy, and now my hands were slippery with condensation as I fumbled with the tangled wires.

That's when I saw it. Through the sliding glass doors, a flash of rust-orange in the backyard. A **fox**. Actual wildlife, just vibing in the suburbs like it paid property taxes. It stood there watching me through the glass, head tilted like *you really doing this right now?* and I swear it was judging my cable management skills.

"Yo, there's literally a fox outside," I whispered to Ryan, crawling backward from under the desk. Buster started barking his head off, the fox darted away, and somehow in the chaos, I knocked over Mrs. Henderson's prized fern.

But the internet? It worked. Speed test showed 150 Mbps down, somehow. Mrs. Henderson paid us twenty dollars each and gave us homemade cookies. We walked home damp, covered in dog hair, with dirt on our knees and cookie crumbs in our pockets.

"Worst job ever," Ryan said.

"Literally the worst," I agreed. But we both knew we'd be back next weekend. Some stuff just unspools like that — you plan to be cool and professional and instead you're just some sixteen-year-old having a moment with a fox and a fern and realizing adulthood is mostly just faking it till you make it, one messy cable at a time.