The Cable Guy Chronicles

The summer between sophomore and junior year, I started an underground business. My parents thought I was spending my days at the library. In reality, I was the self-proclaimed Cable Guy of Northwood Hills.

It started when Mrs. Ramirez next door couldn't figure out why her TV kept pixelating right during her telenovelas. I fixed it in five minutes—loose HDMI cable, dusty port, boom done. She slipped me twenty bucks and told her whole bunco group. Suddenly, my phone was blowing up.

"Hey cable guy, my Netflix is buffering like crazy" became my most received text.

The best part? Buster, my ancient Golden Retriever, became my unofficial business partner. He'd lumber along to each job, flop onto whatever carpet was available, and somehow make everyone trust me more. Something about a kid with a dog just screams "I'm not gonna steal your grandma's jewelry."

I was running this operation like a mini-Mafia. Cash only, no receipts, word-of-mouth referrals only. I made three hundred bucks my first month. I was saving for something huge: my first car. Not a hand-me-down from my cousin, but something MINE.

Then came the job that almost ruined everything. The new kid, Devon, whose family had just moved into the biggest house on the block, hit me up on Instagram. His parents were out of town (classic), and the cable box was "totally fried, bro."

I should've known better.

Buster and I rolled up—okay, I walked, Buster waddled—and Devon let us in. The house was massive. Teenage paradise. There were like twelve people already there, music thumping, red cups everywhere.

"Yo cable guy!" Devon shouted. "Fix it and you can stay for the party."

I spotted the problem immediately: someone had kicked the coaxial cable loose during what looked like an epic dance battle. But as I knelt to reconnect it, something caught my eye through the sliding glass door.

The sun was setting, and Devon's parents were pulling into the driveway.

The cable could wait. I grabbed Buster, bailed out the back door, and started running. My legs were pumping, heart hammering, Buster surprisingly keeping pace beside me. We vaulted three fences before collapsing behind my own garage, both of us panting like we'd just escaped a bank heist.

I never got paid for that job. But Devon DM'd me the next day: "Dude, you saved my life. My parents bought the 'we were just watching Netflix' story. Cable's working again somehow. You're a wizard."

I blocked his number. Some gigs aren't worth the stress.

Buster and I stuck to the retirement communities after that. Less running, more predictable cable problems, and old ladies kept dog treats in their pockets. Plus, they paid in cash and never asked if I wanted a beer. Business model perfected.