423

So way back in the day, we used to get paper printouts of our jobs, like, actual carbon-copy work orders with those perforated holes on the sides. Yes, I’m very old. (Okay, this was early in my career, so I’m not that old. Yet.)

Each work order had some vague label: “no picture,” “slow data,” “reception,” whatever. Not every job was a trouble call or install, you’d sometimes get oddball ones. Disconnect for non-pay, pick up equipment after cancellation, that kind of thing.

One in my stack stood out: “PICK UP EQUIPMENT - DECEASED.”

Uh. Alright. Address is an old folks’ home. Apartment number’s listed. Customer’s name. Serial numbers of the boxes to pick up.

I figure, best case, they’ve already pulled the gear and left it at the front desk. I REALLY don’t want to go in and start riffling around a dead guy’s apartment to take some cable boxes. Not cool.

So I head into the building, which is bustling with people waiting for shuttles, just hanging out. It’s quiet, but busy. I don’t want to cause a scene or disturb anyone.

So I do the respectful discreet thing - I walk up to the front desk, fold my work order over so it shows “DECEASED” - less information to absorb. I show it to the lady at the front desk and quietly say, “Hey, I’m here for Mr. Smith - just picking up some cable boxes. Do you happen to have them here?”

The woman at the desk glances at the paper and goes,

“Go on up.”

I pause.

“Uh… is anyone there? I mean…” (gestures discreetly at the DECEASED bit)

She waves me off.

“Yeah, yeah. Just go on up.”

Okay. Thanks for paying attention. I’m not about to explain the ethics of apartment looting in the lobby. Maybe I’ll run into a maintenance guy who can help.

So I head up to the fourth floor. 423.

The place is huge. Multiple towers. Random connector hallways. Layout makes no sense. The signage is awful.

On 4, I see:

402-411 ←
412-421 →

423? Nowhere. I walk the whole floor. Dead end both directions. I double-check the work order. Yup. 423. Double check the address, because weirder stuff has happened. Yep, I’m at the right place, 100%.

Okay, I’ve done this game before. Usually the apartment numbers are stacked, so I drop to 3 to scout the layout, thinking maybe I can work out where 323 is and triangulate vertically. Maybe the third floor has better signage.

Sure enough:

300-311 ←
312-323 →

Alright, that gives me hope. Maybe 423 does exist in this tower and just isn’t labeled. So I’m walking, studying the architecture, basically trying to reverse-engineer non-euclidean blueprints in my head. Of course, this attention to detail and deep thought does not go unnoticed.

Here she comes.
turn other way. leave now. gaze sharp like stick.
An older lady. Moving slow. Watching me like I’m casing the joint.

She hits me with the inevitable: “What room are you looking for?”

God damnit.

I can’t say a random number - that might be her unit, and everyone knows everyone here, so my chances aren’t good of spewing a random number to not cause chaos in this lady’s life. I can’t explain that she lives in an MC Escher drawing. So I just say:

“423.”

She frowns. “This is the third floor.”

“I know.” We pass each other. Her judgment delivered. My competence solidly questioned.

Anyway, I find 323. It does exist, and it should have been right where I was on four. Go back up. Nope. Still no 423. Nothing. No unlabeled door.

Time to go back to the front desk and try diplomacy again.

“Hey,” I ask the front desk lady, “are you sure there’s a 423? I’ve looked all over. Is it in this building?”

She looks at me like I’ve just asked her how to tell up from down. “Uh… yeah?”

“Do you happen to have any cable boxes? Black boxes? Maybe maintenance picked them up?”

She sighs. Calls maintenance. Explains, loudly, that some guy can’t find room four-twenty-three. With the tone that screams “this is the easiest thing in the world to do, I’ve seen pond scum find room 423. And this guy is dumber than that.” I’m standing right there. Thanks. Batting a thousand here on perceptions of competence.

Maintenance guy comes up, we head to the elevators. At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled on a sconce and 423 appeared. As I’m explaining the situation, he nods and goes: “Ohhh, Mr. Smith! Yeah, he passed. Mrs. Smith moved up to 504 a few months ago. We turned a few of those units on the end into a gym after that.”

…

Of course you did.

So now I’m in a pickle. I’m not gonna knock on a grieving widow’s door and be like “hey I’m here to repo your dead husband’s DVR.” Not a chance.

I could just do nothing, and let it be “not complete”. But I also don’t want to leave this work order open for someone else to rediscover this whole mess.

I get an idea. I call dispatch.

“Can you ping the equipment listed for 423?”

“Yeah, we can reach all of it.”

Perfect. That means she probably just moved it upstairs and it all still works.

“Alright… Do we have an account for 504?”

“Yep. Mrs. Smith. Basic cable. No equipment.”

“Cool. Transfer all that gear to her account. Cancel 423. No charge.”

“Okay… hang on… :keyboard noises:… All set. That cancelled this work order because there’s no equipment to pick up.”

Great, so I don’t even get credit for detangling this. Whatever. I could argue to turn it into a transfer, but that would mean I’d need a signature or a bunch of paperwork… And Mrs. Smith would probably be charged for nothing. Forget it. Get me out of here.

“Ok, thanks. All set then.”

Closure. Excellent. No confrontation. No awkward knock. No ghost boxes. Just a quiet system update and a very confused database brought back into alignment.

As I’m heading out, who do I run into in the lobby?

Yup. Third floor lady.

“Did you ever find the room you were looking for?”

Hey, she already thinks I’m missing some marbles, so let’s give her the real answer: “Kind of. Almost? Ultimately; yes. Thank you.”

And I walk out. Job complete. Boxes accounted for. Zero credit. Condolences to Mrs. Smith.