The Cable Guy Invited Me to a Cookout and The Rest is History

Or, how my love of ‘The Sopranos’ led to a Comcastic romance

I left a job I loved because I wanted to find a husband.

Well. Kind of.

I was loving life in Tampa Bay, living near one of the world’s most beautiful beaches, hanging out with my sorority sisters and the Bucs players they dated. But that was at night and on the weekends. Well, some weekends. A lot of the time, I was at work. As a reporter for the St. Petersburg Times (Florida’s largest newspaper, now renamed the Tampa Bay Times), I covered city halls, and Florida state government and hurricanes and immigration and weird “Florida man” stuff.

I talked on the regular with Charlie Crist before he was governor, and learned firsthand that Gov. Jeb Bush is a lot taller than you think, and he always answers questions from the short reporter over to the side (me!) I even wrote a piece, “Siguiendo a Francisco,” about the area’s first immigrant from the city of Los Remedios in the Mexican state of Hidalgo, a guy named Francisco — a legend really. (Sidenote: Working on that piece with the imitable Latin American correspondent David Adams was and is a highlight of my journalistic career. )

Everything was going well, but I wanted a transfer to the downtown Tampa office. I also wanted to expand my dating options since my good Florida friends were either tying the knot, dating quarterbacks or having babies. At the same time, I got into a public disagreement with 50 Cent over something I wrote, and I also had a front-page story featuring a fun interview with then-Bucs coach Jon Gruden about his first-ever job shucking oysters at Hooters.

I had a strong body of work from Florida by then, as my gift was — is — finding stories no one else could, so The Boston Globe came calling. I was ready for a new work assignment and, as I told my boss, I was also in the market for new guys to date. When The Globe offered, this Chicagoan saw it as a sign to work in another big city, get back up north and find respite from ‘canes and alligators under my car in the parking lot. And, not for nothing, in the Bean — somewhere between Harvard and MIT and UMass — it was highly likely there might be eligible bachelors there too.

My apartment was on a hill in Dorchester. It was beautiful. A hundred years old, several bedrooms, vintage everything, wooden floors, crystal windows — a really top tier location. My landlords were awesome. And, not one palmetto bug or snake was in sight. The day that the moving trucks delivered my television, I was ecstatic! I needed to watch Lost and Heroes on regular TV. And when I could get cable installed, I could finally get back to watching Entourage, The Sopranos and The Wire.

The Comcast cable guy showed up exactly one day after I called for services. Quick fast. No wait!

He installed my cable, set up my bedroom and living room sets, showed me how to work the remotes and then offered to help me get the rest of the boxes out of my car. He was very helpful. Went above and beyond. Did I mention that he was beautiful? He was from Cabo Verde, a lovely volcanic archipelago off the coast of Senegal, where Portuguese slavers stopped off — hundreds of years ago — to get water and… other items. The nation became independent of Portugal in 1975. Our conversation was an education. Did I mention he was fine? He had plans and dreams to move up at Comcast cable. He talked about new technology that excited him. He thought it was dope I was starting to work at the city’s paper of record. He also thought I should come to his mom’s house the next day, a Saturday, to meet some people and to hang out and have a beer at a backyard party.

He wrote his name and number down on the Comcast installation receipt. He added the address, it was in a Boston neighborhood called Roslindale. He told me don’t get lost. This was before GPS was widely accessible, so I told him I had already purchased the Boston streets spiral map book , and we worked together to find the pages where line 25 met with letter R so that I could find the general vicinity of the address.

“Make sure you come.” He said.

“Ok,” I replied.

I called my best friend in Chicago. Was I just invited to a backyard barbecue by the cable guy? And he was hot? I mean. Maybe he’s an ax murderer but maybe not? Probably not? He’s sweet right? I should go right? It’s his mom’s house. Did I say how super cute he was? I’ve only been in Boston a week and I might get to meet a bunch of people. No. I have no idea how to get there but I have a map. What should I wear?

So on Saturday I watched a bit of cable, unpacked another box, found my cute backyard picnic outfit (I just came from Florida, so hot weather glam was my thing) and I got in my car and headed to the house.

It took me over an hour. Boston’s streets twist and turn and many of them bear the same name. How many Washingtons did I turn on? Plus the roundabouts nearly took me out.

Finally. I was there! The address scribbled on the receipt matched the address on the door, cars were parked up and down the street. I could hear a deejay out back. I saw people sitting on picnic benches, eating hot dogs. I checked my lipstick, adjusted my hair, went to the front door and knocked.

Someone’s auntie answered the door in an apron. She took one look at me and said “hi baby, come on in. And stop by the kitchen and grab the spaghetti and take it to the back.”

And she walked away.

So…. Because I felt like she wasn’t an ax murderer, I followed her. And she wagged a finger at me to close the door. So I closed the door. And then I walked to the kitchen. Aunties and grannies were bustling around icing cakes, mixing salads, chopping fruits and there was a guy at the kitchen table mixing lots of alcohol into a red Kool-aid punch.

“Who’s that?” asked Kool-Aid Guy.

“Talk to her after she take this food outside,” Apron Auntie responded, before saying to me: “Now go. The boys will be hungry.”

Ah! I thought. I’m a step closer to meeting the cable man! And he has a nice family that’s a lot like mine. He must have told them I was coming.

I took that dish outside and set it on a long table and looked around. I didn’t see my guy. So I grabbed a pop and sat on a tree trunk. It was a large yard. Groups of people gathered here and there. I pulled out the receipt again and called Cable Guy. The number didn’t go through. I hung up and tried again.

Beep beep beep. This number is out of service.

Dang.

I sat for another awkward 10 minutes pondering what to do next when a guy wearing a Patriots hat walked over to me and asked how I was, and how did I get the thumbs up to carry the all-important favorite dish out to the food table because not everybody is allowed in that kitchen. I told him that I rang the doorbell and I’m pretty embarrassed to say, but I didn’t even know the woman who instructed me to carry the food outside. The cable guy invited me and said it was his house, but I don’t see him.

“The cable guy?” Patriots Hat Guy asked. “What’s his name? Also, let me get you a beer. I’ll keep company until he shows up. He shouldn’t be late. Not when he invited you. Plus, you’re too pretty to be sitting here alone.”

I declined the beer and provided a name.

“Hmm. Don’t know him. Lemme go ask my frat. I’ll be right back.”

Turns out I was at a fraternity alumni party, with a bunch of members of Kappa Alpha Psi which also is my dad’s fraternity. At the time, my pops was leaving his position as polemarch of the Chicago chapter. This gave me and Patriots Hat Guy something to talk about besides my obvious address faux pas, because it soon became clear to me that I was at the wrong house.

About five other fraternity members walked over to me. They peppered me with questions.

“Describe him. How tall was he? Did he tell you his nickname? Or just his government name? Was he in college? Can you show us the receipt with the address? Between the five of us here we know damn near everybody in the Bean.”

So I showed them. And sure enough, this was the right address. But no one knew who the cable guy was. Cable guy’s phone number didn’t work for them either.

“Ooooookaaaaay then!” I announced. “Thanks for helping me solve the mystery. I’ll be seeing myself out of the backyard now!”

I hustled toward the street but Patriots Hat Guy stopped me and asked me to stay long enough to have a plate, and he asked if I was in a sorority.

“Yes. I’m a Delta.”

“Great,” he said. “My best friend is your soror. She’s almost here. Just hang tight.”

So I hung out for a little while longer but I couldn’t hang tight. I couldn’t eat their food. I couldn’t just.. barge into someone’s party invited by an unknown guest that no one knew. I even met the house owner — it was his birthday party that day — and he asked his family about any relatives who work for Comcast. Nope. Nada.

I gave Birthday Guy the wine that I brought as a house gift, but I was ultra embarrassed, tired, hot and hungry. It was time to go. I started walking to my car and Patriots Hat Guy offered to escort me back to Dorchester so I wouldn’t get lost. I declined that too, because, well, ax murderers. And also, I had my spiral map!

Patriots Hat Guy asked for my phone number so he could connect me with his friends who were my sorority. I was skeptical but I went ahead and wrote it down on a scrap of paper. Then, at my car door, he called his best friend and put me on the phone with her. I chatted with her. She was so nice! I took her number down. And I left.

A day later, I met up with that best friend and the rest of ladies in the Boston Alumnae Chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority Incorporated. We became fast friends. They welcomed me as a sister.

A week later, I met that guy — Patriots Hat Guy — for lunch at the mall. We had oysters. I talked about Gruden. He talked about Belichick.

And now, years later, me and that guy are celebrating our 15th wedding anniversary.

At our reception, we walked in as a triumphant Patriots soundtrack played. We toasted each other. We toasted the Kappas and the Deltas. And then we toasted the Comcast Cable Guy who provided an address to a location where I met the man who would become my husband, the father of my children and an indispensable part of my life.

I’ve often wondered what became of that cable guy. I tried to find him once and Comcast’s PR team told me the employee number on the receipt was not assigned to anyone. He was a Keyser Söze as far as they were concerned. They weren’t sure who, exactly, installed my cable.

A while ago, I talked to my old editor in Florida about this. The one whom I told I needed to go up north for new opportunities and to find a man.

He said only one thing: “Looks like you found an angel.”