423

Back in the day, I got paper printouts of my work for the day. Yes, actual carbon-copy work orders with those perforated holes on the sides.

Each work order had some vague category: “no picture,” “slow data,” “reception,” whatever. Sometimes you get slightly odder ones- “disconnect - non-pay”, “pick up equipment, cancel service”, that kind of thing.

One day, one paper in my stack stood out: “PICK UP EQUIPMENT - DECEASED.”

That was a new one, I’d been there years, and I’ve never seen that one before. The address is an old folk’s home, so I’m figuring “DECEASED” isn’t some beurecratic code word for account handling or a technical shorthand. Additionally, this looks just like any other job where you swing by, pick up some cable boxes, and move on. You normally need a signature from the person on the account to do this, so… Well, I’ll handle that later I guess.

It is kind of odd to specify ‘deceased’ in there, in my opinion. Call me a corporate bueracrat, but isn’t the reason for cancellation none of my business? What’s next - ‘pick up equipment - moving to hawaii’? ‘pick up equipment - incarceration’? I don’t need to know this. These are things I do not need to know to complete the job. Anyway, now I know, and I cannot un-know. All it does is give me a small amount of context that might be useful if anyone else in this chain cared, but for all experience stated, we will not place bets on that horse.

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. I’m pretty sure that’s how you get cursed or arrested. Or both, I guess. In my theoretical galactic handbook of operational compliance, “Don’t take stuff from dead people’s apartments” is one of the rules. I think that’s a rule. If it’s not, I’m certain we can all agree that it should be a rule. Naturally, there are exceptions if you know the person, or are close to them. These exceptions and lienencies are not afforded to the cable guy.

So I head into the building, which is bustling with people waiting for shuttles, just hanging out. It’s quiet. Oddly quiet, for how many people are shuffling around. Naturally, I don’t want to be the crude brute, “EY! SOMEONE DIE? I GOTTA GET THAT TV BOX!”. Obviously not my brand. Contextual sensitivity, situational awareness, you know. All that stuff.

So I do the respectful discreet thing - I walk up to the front desk, fold my work order over so it shows the name, and “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?” I tap on the paper, indicating the name, and the “DECEASED” in giant, bold, monospace dot matrix print.

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

“Go on up.”

I pause.

“Uh… is anyone there? I mean…” (gestures intesnely 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. Maybe there’s someone living there still? Maybe the surviving partner didn’t want the TV service? Is this all a clerical error for an account change and I’m going to callously bring up the late husband to an elderly widow? My mind is spinning with contextual oddities to prepare to navigate.

So I head up to the fourth floor. 423.

The place is huge. Multiple towers. Random connector hallways on certain floors. 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 →

Hey! 323! If I can find that, then I just go up from there… and in theory, I should be able to find it. Maybe this is the floor where there’s a connector. Maybe 423 exists in another tower, or… I don’t know. I really want to find 323. That will give me at least a clue. So I’m walking, studying the architecture, basically trying to reverse-engineer non-euclidean blueprints in my head. Perhaps I’m studying a bit too much, like I’ll discover the seam between the floral wallpaper and the chair rail down the entire hallway is where 423 will unfold from, like some kind of dimensional rift.

Does 423 even exist, in a real, physical sense? Is this a test?
How far will I go to complete this task? Will I desecrate the dead’s possessions?
Why is this hallway so god damn long? Will I harass the grieving?
Why did I take my full tool bag?
How truly committed to The Company am I? Is clerical necromancy a job?
Is that what I’m doing?

Better to be prepared, never leave the truck without the bag.
Is this hallway getting longer?

I swear I walked by that painting twice already. Maybe they’re all the same. That would be weird. Remember to forget to check on your way back.

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. Did I see what room she came from? No. Can I make a guess as to not her apartment? Does it matter? Can I just say it doesn’t matter? No, that’s a psychotic answer. Ignore her? Pretend I didn’t hear? I’m looking right at her, that won’t work. I’ve gotta say something, I’m standing here like a cow contemplating calculus.

it only 0.8 seconds. it ok, not look dumb yet. talk now tho.

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 thought it should have been on four. I think? I don’t remember. I have to double check, because I’ve gone this far, I can’t quit now.

Go back up. Nope. Still no 423. Nothing. No unlabeled door. There is a stairway, with badge access though. God damnit. Maybe it’s in there? I hope not, those are usually the mental health care areas, and that’s a whole pile of complexities there I don’t want to deal with right now, and definitely not for the amount of time I’ve budgeted for this simple “pick up equipment” job. I should have been done long ago.

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? I saw badge access up there, is it badge access only?”

She looks at me like I’ve just asked her how to tell up from down. “Uh… yeah 423 is here, just go up.”, rivaling the dismissive venom only matched by teenagers.

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

She sighs with a vitriol that could make steel melt. Calls maintenance. Explains, loudly, that some guy can’t find room four-twenty-three with the tone that makes it clear that her opinion of my intellectual capacity as a human being is slightly below pond scum. 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.

I’m not gonna knock on a grieving widow’s door and say “hey I’m here to repo your dead husband’s DVR.”

no do, everything work already! job done! leave now.

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. It’ll probably be me anyway.

So the maintenance guy says to go to 504, hits the 5th floor, and I get off the elevator. I thank him as the elevator doors close, and stand there for a moment. Apt. 504 stares back at me, like a hidden prize I never wanted.

What the hell am I even doing? This lady isn’t likely expecting me, and for all rational thought this might very well turn into an install, which I really REALLY do not have time for.

A TV from a few doors down turns on at nuclear blast volume levels.

I’ve come this far, but there’s nothing logically sane to do.

Maybe they just moved the gear upstairs when she moved? Presumably this would have been a troublecall if it’s not working.

I call dispatch.

Me: “Can you ping the equipment listed for 423?”

Dispatch: “Yep, all responding.”

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

Me: “Great. Do we have an account for 504?”

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

Me: “Cool. Transfer 423’s equipment to 504. Cancel 423. No charge, this looks like a clerical mixup.”

Dispatch: “Okay, hang on… :keyboard noises:… All set. Just so you know, that wound up cancelling your job for 423 because there’s nothing to do. 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.

Me: “That’s fine. Thanks for the assist.”

Closure. Excellent. No confrontation. No awkward knock. Relief, at last.

Just a quiet system update and a 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?”

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

She nods, slowly, cementing her assessment of my ineptitude. “Good.”

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