Late Edition
By Claire Suddath
Today, I thought I would explain the true meaning of life.
Unfortunately, I don't have time for that. My Internet is down and I've spent hours, days, the best years of my life, on the phone with my Internet Service Provider—Comcast "our products don't work, but we have a monopoly, so who cares?" Cable—which has ultimately concluded that it doesn't know what to do.
The problem is simple. Comcast installed my Internet on Monday; on Tuesday, it broke. My computer, an Apple laptop, can connect to the Internet everywhere except my apartment. Clearly, Comcast messed up. And they have admitted that. But they still don't know how to fix it.
So far, I've logged about eight hours on the phone with Comcast's tech support, a process so lovely, so enjoyable that I can only compare it to a cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter's day—right after you realize that someone (probably Comcast) has laced it with strychnine.
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The first phone call to tech support wasn't so bad. The employee walked me through a bunch of procedures that we both thought would fix the problem. "Don't worry," he told me. "We'll have everything running in no time. First, turn the computer off. Now turn the computer on. Now turn the computer and the modem off. Turn them back on. Turn them off, unplug all of the cords, and wait five minutes. Plug them in and turn them back on. Leave the computer on but turn off the modem. Now turn everything off, run into the kitchen and microwave a burrito." At this point, I became suspicious about my support technician's ability to solve the problem. The burrito was tasty, but my Internet still wasn't working and Comcast agreed to send someone to the apartment.
The repairman said that he would show up any time between noon and four, or eleven and six—really, just some time this year. I left work early and waited for him, peering out the window, wondering if he would stand me up. Maybe he doesn't want to fix my Internet anymore, I thought, maybe he just said he would fix it so he and his other repairman buddies could laugh at me. "She really thought you'd go to her house?" they ask, whacking their foreheads in disbelief. "What a loser."
At 3:30 p.m., a Comcast van finally pulled into my driveway and my heart leapt. He really came! And on time, too! I will live in darkness no more! I'll be able to check my email and watch Homestarunnner videos, just like everyone else. I will be a normal girl once again.
Or so I thought. The repairman sent to my house was unable to fix my Internet. He unplugged everything, plugged it back in and ate a burrito, but nothing happened. So he called a buddy back at Comcast.
"Did you eat the burrito?" the buddy asked.
"I even microwaved it," said my repairman.
"Chicken or beef?"
"Beef."
"And it still didn't work?" The buddy paused. "Beats me."
After an hour and a half of tasty burrito goodness, my repairman gave up and left. He had led me on for so long, telling me not to worry, he'd have it fixed in no time, and now he was leaving. I couldn't believe I trusted him. I couldn't believe I let myself believe that he was the answer to my Internet needs. I put so much into our relationship, turning on the desk lamp so he could see what he was doing, even offering him something to drink. And now he was standing before me, shrugging his shoulders and saying, "It's just not working out." He even suggested I call Apple, my computer company, for advice. Right, like that's going to make my Internet come back. I might as well call the president of Westinghouse the next time a lightbulb blows.
Hours of crying and a pint of rocky-road ice cream later, I took his advice anyway. "Comcast installed my Internet and told me that it would work, but then it didn't," I sobbed. "What should I do?" My Apple technician listened to me ramble on for a while, injecting "Aww, that's sad" and "Comcast is a jerk" into the conversation for moral support. But when I asked for some advice, he was just as bad.
"Try turning off your computer," Apple said.
"I did that already."
"What about the burrito?"
"Both chicken and beef."
At that point, Apple admitted that he didn't know what do to either.
"Reinstall your operating system," he said. "It'll take a few hours. Call us when you're better." So much for friends who care.
In the end, I was alone. I had to solve my Internet problem on my own. My friends suggested that I shop around, check out some other Internet Service Providers, see what they had to offer in terms of prices and product quality, then reevaluate my relationship with Comcast. But the customer scene is so scary. I'd found a cable service and now I wanted to settle down. Comcast wasn't perfect, but they did offer me three free months of digital cable television, and what other company in Nashville can do that?
So I bought and installed a wireless router. Now Comcast and I speak through a different computer port, with the help of a router, and we seem to be getting along just fine. We have our occasional issues—yesterday the Internet didn't work because Comcast's entire network all over Nashville was down—and I can't say that I don't sometimes wish a competitor or the government would squash Comcast under its heel like a cockroach. But I've learned to live with it. Comcast apologized for their shortfalls. And in the end, I forgave them. Because life isn't about your connection speed or how much bandwidth you have. It's about something much more important. Something beautiful. And that something is—
Oops. I've run out of space.