The man stealing my internet stood in my hallway, screaming that my Wi-Fi had just cost him five hundred dollars.
It all started with a simple knock, a neighbor needing to check a few emails. My small act of kindness became his permanent, all-access pass to my data plan, turning our home into a digital dead zone. He wasn’t just a guest; he was a bandwidth vampire sucking my livelihood dry through the wall.
I tried everything to avoid a fight, even paying more for a faster connection just to satisfy his insatiable greed. His response was to take more, then have the audacity to file a customer service complaint directly to my face.
He thought a confrontation was the only way to settle things, but he never realized the war wouldn’t be won with a screaming match, but with a few clever keystrokes and a new network name broadcast for the entire building to read.
The Uninvited Guest: The Spinning Pinwheel of Doom
The rainbow pinwheel spun with the lazy, taunting rhythm of a hypnotist’s watch. On my screen, a half-finished logo for a new line of artisanal dog treats—a project with a tight deadline and a client who communicated exclusively in frantic, all-caps emails—was held hostage. Uploading: 4% complete. For the last ten minutes.
“This is impossible,” I muttered, leaning back in my squeaky office chair. The friction of my jeans against the cheap pleather was the only sound in the room besides the hum of my laptop’s overworked fan.
Mark poked his head into my small home office, which was really just a glorified closet off the living room. “Everything okay, honey?”
“The internet is being a slug again. I’m going to miss this deadline. Peterson will have a full-blown aneurysm and probably send it to me via courier.”
He came in and put a hand on my shoulder, his familiar weight a small comfort. “Did you try turning it off and on again?”
I shot him a look that I hoped conveyed both my love and my profound desire for him to never utter that phrase again. He was an accountant. To him, technology was a magical box that either worked or it didn’t. To me, a freelance graphic designer, it was the fragile, temperamental pipeline through which my entire livelihood flowed.
“Yes, Mark. I have performed the sacred ritual. Twice.”
Our fourteen-year-old daughter, Lily, yelled from the couch. “Mom, Netflix is buffering! It’s been on the red N for like, five minutes! My life is over!”
“Your life is not over,” I called back, my voice tight. “It’s just on pause, like the rest of us.”
A sharp, insistent knock echoed from our front door. It was too early for deliveries. I sighed, disentangling myself from my desk. Maybe it was the universe, here to personally apologize for the shoddy bandwidth.
I opened the door to Mr. Henderson from 4B. He was a man who seemed permanently clad in sweatpants and a thin veneer of desperation. He held up his phone, screen dark. “Hey, Sarah. Sorry to bother you. My internet’s totally out. Spectrum is useless. Any chance I could, you know, hop on your Wi-Fi for a bit? Just need to check a few work emails.”
He looked harmless enough. Annoying, but harmless. We’d all been there, cursed by the local cable monopoly. Being a good neighbor was part of the unspoken contract of apartment living.
“Sure, Bill,” I said, forcing a smile. “No problem.” I rattled off the ridiculously long, secure password Mark had set up.
He typed it in, a look of intense concentration on his face. “Got it. You’re a lifesaver. Seriously.”
I closed the door, feeling a small, unearned flicker of magnanimity. See? A good person. Helping my neighbor. The spinning pinwheel on my screen finally ticked over to 5%.
The Price of Generosity
The next evening, another knock. It was Henderson again, this time holding a small, grease-stained paper bag.
“Just wanted to say thanks again,” he said, thrusting the bag at me. “Brought you something.”
I took it. It was surprisingly light. Inside were two donuts, the kind from the 24-hour place down the street that always tasted faintly of old frying oil. One was plain, the other covered in sad, waxy-looking sprinkles.
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that, Bill.”
“Nah, it’s the least I can do. That connection was a lifesaver yesterday. Finished up a big project.” He smiled, a thin, pleased expression. “Anyway, have a good one.”
He was gone before I could say anything else. I stood in the doorway holding the bag of mediocre donuts, a weird feeling settling in my gut. It was a nice gesture, I guess. But it also felt…transactional. Like I hadn’t done him a favor, I’d provided a service, and this was my payment.
“Who was that?” Mark asked, walking up behind me.
“Henderson. He brought us donuts to thank us for the Wi-Fi password.”
Mark peered into the bag. “Huh. Well, that was neighborly of him.” He pulled out the plain one and took a bite. “Tastes like regret,” he mumbled through the mouthful of stale cake.
I put the other donut on the counter, where it would sit until one of us felt guilty enough to throw it away. I went back to my office and sat down. The internet was still sluggish. Not as bad as yesterday, but my email was taking its sweet time syncing, and web pages loaded with a noticeable hesitation.
I chalked it up to peak hours. Everyone in the building was probably home from work, streaming and scrolling. That had to be it. Henderson was just checking his email, he’d said. A few emails wouldn’t grind our entire digital life to a halt.
It was fine. Everything was fine. I was just being paranoid.
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