"Fuck you," he spat from behind between the battered winter storm windows of his aluminum screen door.

"Sir. It's not me. It's my company, my company's --," I said, the adrenaline coursing through my fingertips as they shook. I hate confrontations. I always have gone out of my way to avoid them.

"Fuck you. And fuck your company. I ain't givin you nuthin'. I paid my bill," Mr. Desord yelled. His booming voice echoed in my ears. Hearing the commotion, his kids scurried from all corners of the two-story rat trap to see the source of their father's latest aggravation.

"D-Dad..." the youngest one said.

"Git-Go. This don't concern you. Watch the T.V.," he said, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. They listened.

"You-you'll just have to take it up with customer service," I said as Mr. Desord turned back to me.

His gorilla hands and arms resumed their outstretched spots along the inner door frame as if they were responsible for holding everything in place.

"My work order here says: 'C.O.D. or terminate service immediately.' Whatsitgoingtobe?" I said, gasping for breath to calm myself.

"What?" he said. The word came out in one long, lingering, liverwurst breath.

I tried not to flinch.

Where is that fucking cop?

Dispatch told me the escort would be here ten minutes ago. Shit, I'm going to be late.

"What-is-it-going-to-be?" I repeated in a much calmer tone. I needed to hurry this along. It was my last job of the day and the bakery would be only open for another thirty minutes.

"You're not gonna touch my mother-fucking cable. How'm I suppose to watch the Packer game? I paid my bill. It's in the mail. I have no idea what you're talking 'bout," Mr. Desord said as he removed one hand from the door frame, took off his sweat stained John Deere cap, and ran his fingers through the tangles of his long dark hair. Even though it's the middle of winter, Mr. Desord is just wearing a cutoff t-shirt with Canadian geese in flight and jean shorts.

With these types the check is always in the mail. Their spouse is always already on their way to the office right now with money in hand.

"We bill a month ahead. You are three months behind in payment-that's why I'm here," I stated.

Mr. Desord stood cross-armed.

"I'll need you to give me your cable box and remote," I said, determined.

Then Mr. Desord took a step back, reached for the gouged pine door and slammed it. I backpedaled, retreating across the wood-worn porch. Its planks creaked and groaned good-byes as I stepped down on to the ice-strewn steps. The bottom two steps were immersed in snowdrifts. When my boot penetrated the surface it sunk until snow spilled into the top, chilling my ankle.

I exhaled exasperated, frozen thoughts as I scanned for my tardy police escort. Fuckinghell, where is he? Fuck, fuck, fuckiddity fuckit. Cable companies hire cops to tag along on disconnect jobs to intervene when customers like Mr. Desord here refuse to give up the equipment. Everyone who ends up with one of these disconnect jobs in their route has a story.

My buddy, Scott, had to disconnect a little old black lady's illegal tap into her upstairs neighbor's line. She pulled a shotgun on him, I ain't about to miss one a my shows, she said, its cobalt mouth ready to echo her sentiments. That's why we have the police escort.

Mine seems to be a no-show when I saw a black and white squad car fly down the street past me, it's blueberry and cherry lights on. I wave my arms, hoping he was looking for me. He keeps going amidst snow flurry.

Fuck. I can wait. I can wait. Fuck, Alyssa's going to be home. The bakery is going to close. Her cake. Her cake, I've gotta get there before they close so I can get her cake. She hates those grocery store bought ones. They always taste so freezer burned.

Today's Alyssa's birthday. We're both twenty-five now and I want to surprise her. She went all out for my birthday this year. Well, she tried. It was all planned out but the whole day I was running late to every one of my jobs. My last one turned out to be a massive beast-- a two man install where I had to replace the cable in every outlet of a two story house. Since I couldn't get a hold of anyone else I had to do it all myself. Took me nearly four goddamn hours. I got home at quarter after ten-a fourteen-hour day. Alyssa had drawn a bath and we ate take-out Chinese from the carton. Her greasy Lo-Mein lips brought the hairs on my neck to their feet as the day was forgotten.

Today I want to see her face when she walks in from work as I hold a white frosted cake and yell: "Surprise!"

I go around to the side of my work van and grab my tool belt, safety harness, and yellow hard helmet. I stick the helmet on over my stocking cap, and strap the harness and tool belt across my waist. I have to tighten the belt all the way; my baggy jeans sag under the added weight. I use a flat-tipped screwdriver to chip away ice from the restraining device that holds my twenty-eight foot extension ladder to the van's rack. I slam the ladder to knock the ice lose as fat flakes stick to my patchy beard. Lowering the ladder to the ground I drop my shoulder under it, steadying it, and begin my trek to the nearby telephone pole.

Placing the ladder on its feet, I shoot out the bottom rungs by hand and then make use of the rope and pulley system on it to extend it the final fifteen feet to the tap above. Making sure the ladder's toe claws are set into a snow mound I test my weight on it. I begin to slowly climb up.

In my time with this cable company, we've had three guys fall from poles. Sometimes it's being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes it's being too consumed with watching bikini clad sunbathers. This isn't a great job. If it was, I wouldn't be out here at half past five at night, freezing my ass off as I climb a pole. Smart people don't do this; they sit behind their desks. They drink a lot of coffee, and bitch about how the fluorescent lights above their cubicle are depressing them. You remember the things you survived more than the things you enjoyed.

At the top of the ladder I secure my harness around the pole and through the ladder. Alyssa hates to hear about any jobs where I've gotta climb poles. She made me promise over and over again to be careful, take it slow. Even tonight, I listen - even though I gotta get out of here fast. Her cake. Can't forget the cake. I find Mr. Desord's line and snip it with my cutters. Through a window I can see a bleary T.V. flicker in the infestation he calls a house.

I unbuckle my safety harness, as a brisk gust of wind picks up. I hold on tight and move my feet to brace myself, and my left foot loses it grip. I shudder as I continue to unbuckle the harness again and cautiously begin my descent. Suddenly, the ladder jerks right, left, and then right again towards the pole. I grab on tight and look down bewildered.

It's Mr. Desord. He's kicking and pushing the ladder.

"Sir-what the-- what are you doing?" I scream. Part of me pictures throwing tools at him and knocking him out like in some old Atari video game. I can see the cartoon stars springing from his head, and I wish that I had thought of it sooner. I drop my coaxial fitting crimper with the finesse of a free-falling elephant. It grazed his shoulder and Mr. Desord looked like he had just stepped into some wet shit that he realized wouldn't be easy to rid himself of. Words of reason are on the tip of my tongue. I take a breath as Mr. Desord slams his shoulder into the ladder again.

My left leg buckles. I can feel my grip loosening as my weight shifts backwards. I see the snow floating upward as I sense myself sinking downward towards the ground. I close my eyes and my arm gropes the whiteness.

Right now, Alyssa is walking in the door, calling my name as she sees the big banner and balloons.

I hit the sidewalk and cannot move. A foot is raised behind me and strikes me from behind. My head is filled with sirens as I hear him yell: "Surprise!"