THE SMASHED TELEVISION
by Hayden Dent
The remote sat on the flimsy brown card
table laughing at me, taunting me. “Mary, when is someone going to come
fix the remote on this TV,” I asked. “Mary… Mary,” I called. She had
left the room, as she is apt to do when I start talking to her. I think
she gets annoyed with me sometimes. Mary is a rather short, plump woman
in her early 40s with large glasses and a hairdo that went out of style
ten years ago. “Mary … Mary,” I called as I got a glimpse of her
walking past the doorway. “I heard you, Mr. Flint. I heard you the
first time. I called maintenance and they said they would get by this
afternoon,” she answered from across the room. The remote and its slave
the television exchanged knowing glances and smirked.
“But, it’s morning
now! What am I supposed to do about the TV until then?” I don’t
usually watch much television it depresses me. But, up here, watching
television is about the only form of entertainment.
“You are either
going to have to try to fix it yourself or you are going to have to wait
until this afternoon, is all I know to tell you,” Mary shot back.
She’s lying. No
one is coming to fix the remote on the TV, she is just hoping I will
give up and go back to my room. “Mary, come fix it for me. You know
they are all in conspiracy against me since I smashed the one at home.”
I said. Nurse Mary raised her eyebrow and gave me a sidelong glance.
She then hurried over to the nurses’ station across the hall and began
writing vigorously on a piece of paper secured to a yellow file folder.
As I surmise it,
it is televisions that got me in this place. Televisions and their
co-conspirators, satellites, VCR’s, computers and cell phones. They are
working together to drive us all insane. I am on to them and they know
it. Computers are taking over the world. They are talking to each
other, gathering information, sharing information and they are using
television to subliminally hypnotize people into believing nothing is
happening. At least…. that’s what I tell Dr. Pleasant. He likes to
hear things like that. Dr. Pleasant is a nice young man with brown wavy
hair going bald at the temples and is the hospital’s resident
psychologist. When I tell him these things he sits up straight in his
chair and gets this serious far away look on his face as if he were
putting together pieces of a puzzle. He then scribbles a note on his
yellow pad and asks me to go on.
My wife, Doris,
made an appointment for me with Dr. Pleasant after I threw a hammer
through our television. I threw it like one of those Indians throws a
tomahawk at a fleeing cowboy in one of those Western movies they used to
play on Sunday afternoon. The throw was a beaut, smashed the set with
one shot. Doris said that she
had had enough and made the appointment. She said I needed to talk to
somebody.
* * *
I retired ten
years ago after working for thirty-five years in acquisitions at the
public library. I was not head librarian when I retired. They began to
introduce computers into the library and I refused to get involved with
them. When Louis Sessoms retired as Director of the library, his job
went to a younger man that had gone to college and knew all about
computers. My position on computers was that anyone who wanted a book
at the library could look in the card catalog.
When I was growing
up there were no computers and there was no television. There was no
electricity for that matter. I was born in the 20’s and grew up
during the depression. I have lived in this same small rural community
in Claiborne County
all of my life. My family didn’t get electrical service until I was
fourteen years old. That was back in the day when you knew everyone in
town, their mothers and their fathers, their aunts and uncles, and
everybody else in their family, and they knew you. You knew where you
fit in. Life was simple.
Anyway, the events
leading up to my being here are not earth shattering, television
shattering maybe, but not earth shattering. A shelf in the spare
bedroom closet was broken and I got up that morning determined to repair
it. I got in my truck and headed for our local Super Big-Mart to get
some screws and brackets to fix the shelf and some paint to finish up
the job. A couple of years ago a home repair project would have been an
excuse to visit my friend Fred Hollingsworth at Claiborne Hardware, but
they went out of business a year or so after Builders Depot located a
store a few miles away in Fayette.
People joke about
having their employer mail their paychecks directly to Big-Mart, the
home of low prices and endless selection. It is the dream of an
Arkansas discounter which is at this very moment muscling manufacturers
and gobbling up towns and cities all over America. Their business is to
push every other business in town to the margins in the name of
efficiency and low prices to the joy and relief of the appreciative
townspeople and to the consternation of the town’s business community.
The truth is…..I hate Big-Mart. But, you can’t beat-em though. No sir,
you can’t beat-em. They really do have the best selection and lowest
prices in town. Of course, now they have the only selection and the
only prices in town on most things. But, be that as it may, only a fool
argues with good selection, low prices, and efficiency. No, I learned
long ago to keep my strange thoughts to myself and my mouth shut about
such matters.
As I pulled up to
the parking lot, which is the size of three or four football fields, I
saw that all of the spaces in the first half of the lot were packed with
cars. After walking what seemed like a half mile I finally made it to
the front door of the giant gray and blue box.
I walked what
seemed like another half-mile drifting through the vastness of shelves
and corridors until I finally reached the hardware section of the
store. After locating the screws and brackets on aisle 112 and paint on
aisle 71, I headed for the exit.
Upon reaching the
front of the store I picked a line and there I stood with my two or
three little items, waiting. After what seemed an eternity, I finally
reached the cashier. She was an elderly woman whom I vaguely recognized
from my years at the library. It was the first time I had seen her
there. I never seem to get the same cashier twice no matter how many
times I visit that store. She scanned my three items and the total came
to $7.78. I pulled out my checkbook and began writing a check.
After I had
finished writing the check, I handed it to the cashier. “Sir, I am
going to need to see some identification” she said in a routine, matter
of fact, but kindly manner. That was when I realized that I had left my
wallet with my driver’s license on the dresser at home
“I left my wallet
at home” I finally admitted after double-checking all my pockets and the
pockets of my maroon jacket. I felt like a child having to admit to the
teacher that I didn’t have my homework.
“Can’t you take
the check? I shop here all the time, I am a good customer”
“Sorry sir, store
policy. We can’t accept a check without proper ID.”
“Don’t you
remember me? I worked at the public library for thirty-five years, I
retired a few years ago”.
“You look a little
familiar, but I can’t accept the check if you don’t have ID, I’m sorry”
“Can you call a
manager? I’m telling you, I shop here all the time. It’s a seven
dollar check.”
“CSM to register
seventeen” she called. The man behind me waited a few seconds and
mumbled “Forget it” and pushed past me and toward the exit leaving his
basket. If eyes were pistols I would have been dead by then. The three
customers behind him were staring holes in the side of my face. I tried
not to look at them. Finally, a pimply faced kid with a full head of
shaggy brown hair no more than twenty-one years old slid up to the
cashier from the other side of the register.
“What?”
“This customer
wants to pay with a check, but he left his wallet with his ID at home”
the cashier told him.
“No ID, no takey
checky” said the Customer Service Manager looking at me. This was
obviously an easy decision for him. Right by the book.
“That’s it?” I
said.
“That’s it.” “I’m
sorry, sir.”
Thoroughly
humiliated I turned and walked out of the store. What did they think I
had done, taken up a career as a check forger as a second career? At my
age?
When I drove up in
the driveway, I saw Doris’ car was there and I knew she was home. I
knew I would get the “What? You didn’t get the brackets to fix the
shelf?” in that high disbelieving, that is the most absurd thing she has
ever heard voice of hers. And when I told her I had left my wallet at
home she would shake her head in disbelief. Hoping to avoid that, I
went to the tool shed and rooted through shelves and toolboxes until I
found some screws that I thought might fit and an old rusty bracket,
grabbed the hammer and went inside to fix the shelf.
As I walked
through the door, the phone began to ring. I went over to the recliner,
put the hammer, screws and bracket on the side table, sat down and
picked up the receiver. There was silence. Then a voice came on the
line. “Mr. Bent, this is Jim Mixon from Interstate Bank I was just
calling to verify some information so that we can send you a Visa card
with a low introductory interest rate of 7.9 percent and a $5,000 credit
limit.” The name is Flint, F-L-I-N-T, I yelled and slammed down the
phone. Telemarketers! You can’t even get any peace at home anymore.
I felt my heart
racing. If I don’t calm down, I am going to have a heart attack I
thought. I decided to relax by watching TV before starting my project.
The remotes, as in two, one for the satellite and the other for the TV
were, of course, nowhere to be found. They were probably under the
recliner, having slipped between the cushion and the armrest. After
getting down on my hands and knees I found them just where I thought
they would be. I settled back down into my chair and hit the “on”
button on the TV remote. The television gave a clinking noise and came
to life. The picture was all static. I then pressed a button on the
satellite remote. Nothing happened. I pressed another, and another,
and another. Nothing happened.
Not wanting to get
the “look” from Doris, who was somewhere in the back of the house, I
decided I would solve the problem myself this time. An 800 number was
on the back of the satellite remote. I decided to call the satellite
company. I pressed the numbers on the telephone and the phone began to
ring then stopped. A pleasant voice said “You have reached Satellite
One, if you know your party’s extension please dial it now.” She then
paused. Great, another machine, I thought. “Please listen to our menu
as it has changed.” Press one for billing, press two for sales, press
three for technical support.” I pressed three. “Please enter your
account number.” I didn’t know what my account number was, so I didn’t
do anything. After about five minutes of listening to music and
advertisements, a woman’s voice came on the phone.
Good afternoon,
this is Erica, may I have your account number please.”
“My television
won’t work and I think it has something to do with the satellite remote,
I think I’m not hitting the right button, can you help me?”
“Sir, do you have
your account number?”
“No mam, I don’t
keep those numbers handy. All I want is some help with my remote
control, my TV won’t work,” I said.
“I am sorry sir, I
will have to have your account number before I can help you with that
question.”
“That is what I am
trying to tell you, I don’t have my account number, I throw all the
papers having to do with my bills away after paying them each month. I
don’t have the number.”
“I am sorry sir,
if you don’t have your account number I can’t help you. Maybe you can
call back when you locate the number.”
“Yeah, and maybe
you can kiss my ass.” I shot back and banged the phone down.
I had had enough!
My hand instantly went to the hammer and I threw it at the television as
hard as I could, smashing a large hole in the picture tube. It made an
exploding sound and glass flew all over the carpet. I had finally
struck back. My heart wasn’t racing anymore.
Doris ran into the
room and screamed when she saw the gaping hole in the television. “What
happened?” she yelled. “I threw the hammer through the TV set,” I said
calmly. “You what” she screamed incredulously as she gave me the
“look”. Then she proceeded to tell me that we didn’t have the money for
a new television set and that I must be insane. She said I haven’t been
acting right for a long time and she was tired of it. And if I wouldn’t
talk to her about it then I would have to go see a doctor.
I couldn’t talk to
Doris about this or anything
else anymore. She wouldn’t understand. We have been married so long it
is like she knows everything I know, even before I think it. It is like
she is already inside my head thinking what I should be thinking and if
I come to any conclusion other than hers based on the raw materials that
she knows I have she gets agitated and tells me to just “deal with
it”.
What made me throw
the hammer through the television, you ask? I don’t know why I threw
that hammer. I guess I am just tired of being a number in somebody’s
computer. I want to be a human being again.